Page 13 of Rescuing Ember

“…Wolfe won’t be happy with this one…”

“…auction’s in three days, though…”

“She’s dead weight… not much to look at, street rat in rags…”

There’s a pause, then another voice, more uncertain. “We could clean her up. There might be more to her than dirt and wild eyes. Could fetch a decent price.”

“She’s not worth the trouble,” someone else mutters. “Easier to just get rid of her.”

The first voice chuckles darkly. “Nah, let’s see what Wolfe says. He’s got a nose for these things. Might surprise us.”

Soft Eyes appears later, this time with meager rations: stale bread and lukewarm soup. I take it without a word, their conversation still ringing in my ears. As he slides the tray under my door, I catch his eye.

“Please,” I whisper. “Help us.”

He glances around nervously. “Keep your head down,” he murmurs. “Don’t draw attention. It’ll be over soon.”

“What will be over?” I press. “What’s going to happen to us?”

But he’s already moving away, shoulders hunched.

I turn my attention to Aria. She hasn’t touched her food.

“Aria,” I call softly. “You need to eat. Keep your strength up.”

She stares blankly at the wall.

I close my eyes, fighting back tears of frustration. We’re running out of time.

Wolfe.

The name alone sends a chill down my spine. I’ve heard of him before—a bloodthirsty street thug who leads the Night Pack. They rule the underworld with ruthless violence.

You don’t cross paths with the Night Pack unless you’re looking for trouble, and even then, you’re lucky to come out alive. An auction. The other captives. It all starts to make horrifying sense.

I stepped into some pretty scary shit.

FIVE

Blaze

DigitalBreadcrumbs

The jet’sengines roar to life, vibrating through the soles of my boots. I strap myself into the plush leather seat, the material cool against my palms. Around me, Guardian HRS’s mobile command center hums with activity. Screens flicker to life, flooding the cabin with a pale blue glow that dances across intent faces. The air crackles with tension and the faint scent of ozone from overworked electronics. Those mingle with the lingering aroma of high-end coffee.

“Alright, people,” Jenny’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp as a whip. “Let’s get up to speed.”

I lean forward, eyes scanning the largest display. A map of New York City glows, pulsing with potential leads and dead ends. My fingers itch to do something, anything, to close the gap between us and our targets.

Mitzy’s fingers fly in a blur across her keyboard; the rapid-fire clicks a counterpoint to the jet’s engine noise. Her face, bathed in the light of multiple monitors, is a mask of concentration. “I’ve got eyes on the van up until 42nd and 8th,” she says, not looking up. “Then it’s like it vanished into thin air.”

“Traffic cams?” I ask, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it anyway.

She shakes her head and her psychedelic hair shimmers in the light. “Whoever these guys are, they’re good. They stuck to blind spots, avoided major intersections. I’m piecing together scraps from ATM cameras, store security feeds, anything I can get my hands on.”

Mac leans back in his chair, the metal creaking under his bulk. His muscled arms cross over his chest, biceps straining against the fabric of his tactical shirt. “I’ve got feelers out on the street,” he says. “If the Night Pack’s involved, someone’s bound to have heard something.”

Jenny nods, her dark eyes intense. “Good. We need every angle covered. Blaze, what’s your take?”

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