Page 66 of Silence and Surrender

The rage that had been frozen started to thaw. “Her expertise.”

“They’re using her skills,” Stryker confirmed. “We’ve identified a potential buyer, a European collector with ties to the black market. Our sources say he specializes in acquiring people with unique talents.”

“How do we find him?”

Gun shots behind us. Stryker quickly took down two guards in pursuit.

“We have contacts working on it,” Cooper said as we reached a waiting vehicle. “But it’s gonna take time. These networks are compartmentalized, cautious. They move merchandise frequently.”

Merchandise. The word made me sick. But it was how they saw her. How they’d use her.

“I don’t care what I have to do,” I said as we tore away from the facility, tires squealing. “I’m going to find her.”

The next week passed in a blur of intel gathering, contact meetings, and preparation. Stryker offered up his loft in London, and Cooper and I set up a makeshift command center there.

My body recovered from the container, but my mind remained focused on a single purpose: finding Isabella. Every night I dreamed of her face in that shipping yard, terrified as they dragged me away.

The days were torture. Every hour that passed meant another hour she spent in captivity. I’d learned enough about trafficking networks to understand what happened to the women they took. The thought of Isabella—my brilliant, vibrant Isabella—being drugged, handled, violated...it tore me apart from the inside. I stopped sleeping more than two or three hours at a stretch. Couldn’t stomach food. My body started to wasted away while my mind fractured with horrific possibilities.

“You need to rest,” Cooper told me on the fifth day, finding me still awake at 3:00 a.m., reviewing security footage from suspected trafficking routes.

“I’ll rest when we find her,” I replied, not looking up from the screens.

“You’re no good to her burned out.”

I finally turned to face him. “Do you know what they do to women like her? Educated, beautiful women?”

Cooper’s eyes darkened. “I’ve seen it firsthand.”

“Then you know why I can’t rest.” I turned back to the screens, the images blurring as exhaustion and fear battled within me. “Every minute we waste, they’re breaking her down. Conditioning her. Making her forget who she is.”

“Colton—”

“What if they’re touching her?” The words came out raw, the question that haunted my every moment finally spoken aloud. “What if they’re passing her around like property? What if by the time we find her, she’s...” I couldn’t finish the sentence, the possibilities too monstrous to voice.

Cooper’s hand landed on my shoulder. “We’ll find her.”

“In what condition?” My voice broke. “What will be left of her by then?”

The question hung in the air between us, unanswerable and terrifying. I turned back to the screens, scanning faces, locations, searching for any trace of her. The woman I loved was out there somewhere, being treated like merchandise, possibly being violated in ways I couldn’t let myself fully imagine without losing my mind completely.

I thought about her eyes, how they lit up when she talked about art. Her hands, so delicate and sure when examining brushstrokes. Her laugh, the warm and genuine one that few people besides me heard. How much of that would remain after days of captivity? After being drugged and handled and god knows what else?

The rage that built inside me during that week was cold and focused. It crystalized around a single purpose—find Isabella, and destroy anyone who had touched her. The corporate lawyer I’d once been would have been shocked by the thoughts that now occupied my mind. The violence I was not only capable of but eager to inflict.

At night, when exhaustion finally won, my dreams were filled with her screams. I’d wake gasping, sheets soaked with sweat, her name on my lips. Sometimes I thought I heard her calling for me, begging me to find her, to save her before there was nothing left to save.

I knew the statistics. Knew what happened to trafficked women. Knew that with each passing day, the chances of finding her whole—physically and mentally—diminished. The knowledge ate at me like acid, burning away everything except determination and rage.

By the sixth day, I’d stopped speaking unless necessary. Cooper watched me with concern but wisely kept his distance. I’d become something dangerous, something feral. Training with weapons became my only outlet. I pushed myself harder each day, preparing for what I’d need to do when we found her. Because we would find her. The alternative was unthinkable.

On the seventh day, I found myself standing in the bathroom, staring at my reflection. I barely recognized the man looking back at me—hollow-eyed, unshaven, something wild in his eyes. I’d lost weight. Gained muscle. Lost something indefinable that separated civilized men from predators.

When Cooper burst into the loft with news on the twelfth day, I was a coiled spring ready to release.

“We’ve got something,” he said, spreading documents across the table. “One of our sources infiltrated an authentication session in Prague. She was there, confirming a supposed Degas for a private buyer.”

“Condition?” I demanded, scanning the grainy surveillance photo that showed Isabella standing next to an older man, examining a painting.

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