Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
I rake a hand through my hair, scanning the perimeter out of instinct. There’s two security officers stationed by the door, exits clear, a staff liaison nervously hovering near a coffee station. I’ve memorized every escape route from this building, every blind spot in their security feed. Yet Charlotte slipped right through, grabbed by Sinclair before I even registered the threat.
Anger twists inside me, bitter and acidic, but beneath that anger is something sharper. It’s fear. Not the professional kind I’m trained to manage. The raw, desperate fear that comes from knowing the woman I care about—the woman I’m falling dangerously in love with—is out there, at the mercy of a man who’d do anything to win.
I shove that thought aside. Focus. Distractions now could be lethal.
“Sir?” a security officer approaches, eyes wide and voice hesitant. “We’ve brought in Mrs. Sinclair for questioning. She’s…not happy.”
I nod once, checking my phone. There’s still no text from Dean. “Bring her in.”
Moments later, Nancy Sinclair strides through the door, all Chanel and indignation, head held high. Her sharp gaze locks onto me immediately, lip curling slightly. “This is outrageous. You have no authority—”
“Sit.” My tone cuts through her protest. Cold, direct, non-negotiable. She hesitates, then sits stiffly, eyes narrowed to icy slits. I signal security to step outside, closing the door behind them. Privacy secured.
“Where’s your son, Nancy?”
She scoffs, smoothing her designer blouse. “I have no idea. I’m not his keeper.”
“He kidnapped Charlotte,” I say flatly, leaning in slightly, holding her gaze. “Which makes you either complicit or dangerously oblivious.”
Her eyes widen briefly, pupils dilating. There’s surprise behind her pupils. “Kidnapped? Are you mad? Wade would never—”
I interrupt calmly, “Except he already has. He’s taken her somewhere. I know your financial situation. I know about your son’s debt and the investors breathing down his neck. So let’s not waste time. Where’s he hiding her?”
She leans back, arms folding defensively. “I have no idea about any of this. My son may have his troubles, but he’s not a criminal.”
“Mrs. Sinclair, your son crossed that line hours ago,” I say quietly, watching every subtle muscle shift in her face. “Charlotte’s life is on the line. If you know something, now’s the time.”
For a brief moment, uncertainty flickers across her face. Then it hardens into defiance. “I don’t know. And I refuse to believe this.”
Frustration spikes, but I keep my expression neutral. No cracks in control. Not now.
My phone buzzes sharply on the table, Dean’s name flashing urgently on the screen. “Stay here,” I command, standing swiftly and stepping to the far end of the room. I answer immediately, voice low. “Dean.”
“We traced Charlotte’s phone to the maintenance alley. The signal’s dead now. Security cams confirm a black panel van, heading east out of the service entrance at approximately 12:31 p.m.”
“Destination?” I ask sharply, pulse kicking up a notch.
“High probability Sinclair family lake house,” Dean replies, voice clipped and business-like. “Sheriff’s department dispatched units, ETA twenty minutes.”
I check my watch, every second gnawing at me like a blade. “That’s too long. I’m moving now. Send the address.”
“Already texted it. Asher—” Dean pauses briefly, his tone shifting. “You good?”
I hesitate a fraction too long before answering. “Just get me intel. We’ll deal with feelings later.”
“Got it.” Dean hangs up without another word. Efficient, clean. Exactly how we operate. Exactly what I need right now.
Returning to Nancy, I give one final attempt. “The lake house,” I say, watching her carefully. “Your family property. That’s where he’s taken her, isn’t it?”
She blinks, eyes darting briefly before regaining composure. “I…I wouldn’t know. Maybe. It’s private and remote. Wade goes there occasionally.”
That’s enough confirmation for me. “Thank you, Mrs. Sinclair. Stay here with resort security until I return.”
I’m already moving, striding out the door and barking orders at the two security officers outside. “Keep her here, under guard, and keep communication lines open.”
They nod sharply, responding without hesitation. My voice commands obedience but beneath that authority is a single driving force. Charlotte.
I rush to my suite, grabbing my emergency duffel bag. Inside it has my kevlar vest, Glock 19 loaded, extra magazines, tactical knife, GPS beacon. In less than two minutes, I’m in the resort parking garage, getting into my truck. Every second lost feels like betrayal.
On the road, adrenaline sharpens my senses. The roads blur past, and I’m methodically analyzing approach scenarios. My mind generates tactical outlines in rapid-fire sequence: entry points, egress routes, possible surveillance, threat assessment. Sinclair’s irrational, borderline desperate. The cartel investors he’s indebted to are ruthless. Variables are bad. Survival rates plummet with each passing minute.
Yet Charlotte’s eyes haunt me. The way she laughed when I teased her, the warmth of her hand in mine, the electrifying sensation of that kiss we shared at the gala. It’s all sharper now, etched with painful clarity.
I curse under my breath. Love is a liability. But god help me, I’ve fallen. Hard. Which means nothing else matters but bringing her home. Alive.