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)
“No luck on the camera here or at the mechanic shop?” My pulse races.
“No. Those were destroyed and can’t be recovered.” Wilson switches to another screen. “We have plate hits pending, cell pings moving, and guard rotations mapped down to minutes.”
“Is the city still locked down? All exits blocked?” I look at Monty, knowing he doesn’t have that much power.
“Not the way it needs to be. I can’t shut down Sitka like a private island, and I won’t interfere with an active police investigation.” He sighs. “But I’m leaning on permits, port authority cooperation, and private security checkpoints on the main arteries. Anything commercial or chartered is slowed, logged, and flagged. I have eyes on all of it.”
“So civilian traffic still moves.” My stomach sinks. “Commercial flights, public ferries, fishing vessels…”
“Yes.” A muscle ticks in his jaw. “I can’t stop the world, Wolf. But if someone tries to disappear from Sitka, they’ll leave a trail. And we’re watching it.”
Wilson nods beside him. “We’re correlating departures with your timelines.”
“This is as tight as it gets.” Monty meets my eyes. “Without crossing lines that don’t come back clean.”
I hear what he’s not saying. He’ll stay clean where it counts and dirty where it can’t be traced. Every asset he owns will face outward, and anywhere the rules stop watching, he’ll step over them. If someone sneezes in Sitka tonight, he’ll know which direction it blows.
“Okay. How do I help?” I hold out my arms. “Tell me where you need me.”
Wilson’s people make room for me at the table and start assigning tasks, splitting teams, and cross-checking assumptions. Leo slides a coffee toward me and takes an empty chair, waiting for his assignment.
If Jag did this, we’ll find the fracture point. If it’s his enemies, we’ll follow the blast radius. If this is something else entirely, it won’t stay hidden long.
I’ll personally make whoever did this answer for Declan, and I won’t stop until Dove is back in my arms, alive and safe.
Whoever did this just activated every tool my family owns and every piece of restraint I have left.
Now we hunt.
The hunt is nothing like the ones in Hoss. Hunting in the Arctic meant movement, cold air, cramping muscles, and tracks in the snow that told me when I was close and when it was over.
This hunt is the opposite.
It’s staring at screens instead of the ground, waiting for information that never reveals its tracks, and sitting still until my bones ache. There’s no scent, nothing tangible to chase. Just long, grinding days stacked on days with nothing to show for it except new folders, new maps, and new theories that collapse under their own logic.
I spend most of my time in Monty’s den, a room built of power, dark wood, and screens lining the walls.
Monty doesn’t leave my side, his presence steady and terrifyingly focused, pulling strings, burning through favors, and organizing alliances. Everything he did when Frankie was missing.
He’s doing all the same shit for Dove.
Private bush planes scour Alaska. Coast Guard District 17 sweeps the shoreline. The ABI keeps every department talking, and private investigators fan out across the country, running facial recognition through public cameras, transit hubs, gas stations, grocery stores, anywhere Dove’s face might appear.
Every morning starts the same. No sightings. No hits. No breakthroughs. No proof Dove Rath is alive or dead. No proof Jag Rath took her. No proof he didn’t.
The Raths evaporated in open air. In daylight. Not a single camera in Sitka caught their exits. The few witnesses didn’t see more than a blur.
Declan is dead. The guards are dead. All stabbed silently and up close.
I keep circling that part.
How did one man get the jump on four trained, armed guards?
How did he escape his room without alerting them?
Why kill Declan, an innocent bystander, who had nothing to do with any of this?
Every answer spawns worse questions.
And denial.
Logic lines Jag up dead center. Clean escape. Decoy. Timing too precise to be luck. When we lay it all out on a board, he’s the only piece that fits without forcing it.
But my gut won’t cooperate. As monstrous as Jag can be, he has rules.
In all of Dove’s stories, Jag’s violence had a line. He took out her abusers, molesters, and rapists. Not once did she tell me a story where he killed someone who didn’t deserve it.
Declan doesn’t fit. He was harmless and kind. He didn’t hurt anyone. Didn’t threaten anyone. He wasn’t in Jag’s way.
Jag doesn’t kill innocent people.
Either everything I think I know about him is wrong, or an enemy grabbed both of them.
That thought scares me more than believing Jag did it.
My heartbeat hurts. Every thump feels personal. I lie awake listening to it, half-expecting it to give up before I do.
I can tell Monty’s worried about me. Every time his eyes land on me, he chews the inside of his cheek as if my appearance makes him uneasy. Maybe it’s the heavy eyeliner packed under my eyes. Or all the black layers I wear even when the house is warm. I want distance. I want to look like someone nobody should try to comfort.