Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
“Jag didn’t do this.” My throat seals around a lump. “He’s violent, obsessive, and possessive as hell. But he didn’t take Dove.”
Monty nods, like he’s been waiting for me to get here.
“Jag knows his enemies.” He straightens and shuffles through the papers on the coffee table. “He would’ve been prepared for this, maybe even saw them coming.”
“His computer lair.” I wipe my face with my sleeve, heart squeezing painfully. “I asked him about it once, asked how he hacked private cameras and where he kept all his equipment. All he said was blue princess.”
“Dove?”
“I guess? Knowing Jag, he would’ve installed more cameras, hidden cameras that feed into a hidden location.”
“The team did a camera sweep in both shops and didn’t find anything.”
“Let’s do another one.” I stand. “Maybe they missed something.”
An hour later, I stand in the tattoo shop, refusing to let myself think about what happened here.
Instead, I focus on the ceilings, corners, and angles Jag might’ve used.
Monty and Carl set up at the front counter, flanked by two of their best tech guys. Ex-NSA or some high-speed shit.
Theo, the tech with wire-frame glasses and zero personality, powers on his equipment as he explains RF spectrum analysis and frequency anomalies. The taller, meaner-looking tech, Ross, waves a sleek black scanner across the ceiling.
I leave them to their toys and run my hand along the drywall, tracing the edges of the fresh panels Jag installed. He built this room just for me.
Or did he build it to hide recording equipment that no one would find?
“No standard camera signatures so far.” Ross moves deeper into the shop.
“Considering we still haven’t cracked Jag’s firewall,” Theo says, “I doubt any of our equipment will detect his.”
“Jag doesn’t use standard.” Carl types on his laptop. “That means we’re not looking for what’s common. We’re looking for what’s off.”
“Off how?” I ask.
“Wrong paint match. A seam that runs too clean. A screw that isn’t factory issue.” Carl looks up from his screen. “If there’s a camera in here, it’s probably watching us.”
I hadn’t considered that.
For half a second, I imagine finding the lens, staring straight into it, and telling him to bring her back.
Then the thought evaporates.
If there is a hidden camera, Jag isn’t watching it.
Because he can’t.
I skim my hands along every inch of the newly constructed walls three times before I feel it. A slight dip under my fingertips. Too smooth. Too intentional. My brows draw tight.
“Here.” I rise on my toes and tap the spot. “Get a light on this.”
Theo steps in with a penlight, sweeping the beam across the seam where the wall meets the ceiling.
There’s a barely visible irregularity. A circle the size of a quarter that doesn’t match the rest of the surface. Not paint. Not putty.
“What is it?” Monty appears at my side.
“Sheetrock flaw?” Carl inches closer.
“No. That’s a cover. Look.” Theo removes a small tool and cuts around the dimple. “Camera lens is behind it. Wireless.”
“Hello, Satan’s Ring cam.” My heart pounds. “Can you trace it? Where does the feed go?”
Theo and Ross pull out more gear. Laptops open, signal intercepts, decrypt attempts… Nothing.
“This thing’s locked down tighter than a bank vault.” Ross switches to a different computer. “Encrypted at a level I haven’t seen outside black ops. No wonder it didn’t trigger our equipment.”
“We can’t trace the feed.” Theo’s brow creases. “Wherever it’s going, it’s not a commercial endpoint. No pings. No reflection.”
“Figure it out.” Monty crosses his arms.
“It’s not going to a cloud.” Theo pauses. “It’s going to a physical system. Closed loop. Somewhere nearby.”
“Blue princess,” I mutter under my breath.
They all look at me.
“That’s what he called it.” I shrug. “His setup. His lair. That’s where the feed’s going.”
Carl nods. “Where—?”
“Hold up. There’s a dead-end road…” Monty removes his phone, and his thumbs fly over the screen. “A couple of blocks from here.” He angles the display toward us, showing a zoomed-in map. “Princess Way.”
“There’s a fucking street called Princess Way? And I’m just now hearing about it?” I’m already moving, heading toward the door.
Monty and Carl flank me as I cut through the streets. Following Monty’s directions, I turn right, then left, and two blocks later, I stop at the entrance of a dead-end road.
Princess Way.
How many times have I passed this street? It’s so unremarkable I never gave it a thought.
It consists of four beat-up houses that slump into waist-high grass. Old chairs and busted appliances rot on the porches, and mailboxes tilt at crooked angles.
One house is straight-up rotting, the windows smashed, and the front door hanging off the hinges. But it’s the backyard that grabs me.
Tucked into the overgrowth, as if trying to disappear, sits a concrete shed.
Dead freight piles up around it. Cracked plastic bins, broken shelving, and splintered pallets lean against the ugly, unassuming cement-block walls with weathered, faded paint.