Page 90 of Embrace Me Forever

I sigh joyously. I’d bought her so many clothes and things in navy blue. “She’s asking about me. Reply that I’m coming for her and find out where she is.”

Thomas sends another message, followed by a query that’s beyond my understanding. “She doesn’t know where she is,” he informs me after a pause.

“Damn. Can you pinpoint the location of that ping?” I press, hoping for a breakthrough.

“It’s scrambled, but I can try something.” Thomas opens another application. Moments later he reports, “It’s coming from Driftwood. That’s all I can decipher.”

“Driftwood? That place is a ghost town!” Clay exclaims, squinting at the map displayed on the screen.

“Yeah, about a hundred and fifty miles out,” Thomas confirms. “Hold on, she just sent something else. USMNP. Ring any bells?”

Rob leans forward, peering at the code. “That’s a port code.”

“Nailed it!” Thomas shouts triumphantly. “It’s Maravino Point. Basically, Driftwood’s forgotten backyard.”

Resolved, I announce, “I’m heading there!”

“It’d be faster by boat,” Rob suggests with a knowing grin.

“Then let me use the P, Rob,” I say, hinting at the Peregrine, Rob’s record-breaking hyper-speed vessel. Bertram won’t anticipate a rapid and stealthy approach from the water.

“You don’t know how to drive that beast,” Rob protests.

“But I do!” Clayton interjects. “I’m coming with you, ready or not.”

Rob adds, “It’ll be a bit snug for both of you and a tad slower with extra weight, but still ten times faster than anything else on the water or land.”

I accept Clay’s company as Thomas interrupts, “Guys, we’ve lost her.”

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Clayton pilots the Peregrine northward along the Pacific coast, the vessel cutting through the water with the speed of a fighter jet. It’s the swift offense we need, yet my thoughts are tangled with worries since Georgia-May’s communications ceased. Was she discovered? Or did she simply decide to play it safe?

In what feels like mere moments, the Peregrine slips silently into Maravino Point dock, our lights extinguished. The desolate port greets us, its cranes towering like idle giants, their arms suspended above the waves. Surrounding warehouses, their gaping windows like empty skulls. Old containers scattered across the yard add to the ghostly scene.

Guns in hand, we ascend to the port, our movements quieter than the tide lapping the piers.

“I almost forgot you’re a lefty,” Clayton notes, observing how my fist clenches around the Glock’s handle.

The last time we were armed and in action was during Isabelle’s rescue, a mission that now feels like a lifetime ago.

Once we’re on solid ground, Clayton and I survey the expanse. Our first point of investigation is the container yard nearby.

“Georgia-May must have glimpsed the port code somewhere. She wouldn’t be held in one of these abandoned tin castles,” I murmur to Clay as we move stealthily among them. Our flashlight beams catch only peeling paint and rusted metal—no sign of life, and the numbers we find are ordinary identifiers, none matching the code Georgia-May transmitted.

Clay’s gaze sweeps the dim landscape. “We should cover more ground—split up,” he suggests, and I agree.

Time stretches thin as I head west while Clay takes the opposite direction. We keep our communication lines open, our radios crackling discreetly in the silent air. Each space I check is in the same conditions, their vast openings revealing nothing but emptiness—poor shelters for anyone, let alone for concealing sophisticated tech.

We reconvene at the crumbling remnants of what might have once been an office—possibly the old port authority. Clay’s jaw is clenched, frustration etched across his features.

I call HQ. “Thomas, has she sent anything more?”

“No, the messages have stopped since she sent the port code, and I can’t get through to her.”

I end the call, pivoting away from Clayton. “Fuck!” I sigh to myself.

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