Page 58 of Defending What's Mine

“He kidnapped Charlotte,” I say flatly, leaning in slightly, holding her gaze. “Which makes you either complicit or dangerously oblivious.”

Her eyes widen briefly, pupils dilating. There’s surprise behind her pupils. “Kidnapped? Are you mad? Wade would never?—”

I interrupt calmly, “Except he already has. He’s taken her somewhere. I know your financial situation. I know about yourson’s debt and the investors breathing down his neck. So let’s not waste time. Where’s he hiding her?”

She leans back, arms folding defensively. “I have no idea about any of this. My son may have his troubles, but he’s not a criminal.”

“Mrs. Sinclair, your son crossed that line hours ago,” I say quietly, watching every subtle muscle shift in her face. “Charlotte’s life is on the line. If you know something, now’s the time.”

For a brief moment, uncertainty flickers across her face. Then it hardens into defiance. “I don’t know. And I refuse to believe this.”

Frustration spikes, but I keep my expression neutral. No cracks in control. Not now.

My phone buzzes sharply on the table, Dean’s name flashing urgently on the screen. “Stay here,” I command, standing swiftly and stepping to the far end of the room. I answer immediately, voice low. “Dean.”

“We traced Charlotte’s phone to the maintenance alley. The signal’s dead now. Security cams confirm a black panel van, heading east out of the service entrance at approximately 12:31 p.m.”

“Destination?” I ask sharply, pulse kicking up a notch.

“High probability Sinclair family lake house,” Dean replies, voice clipped and business-like. “Sheriff’s department dispatched units, ETA twenty minutes.”

I check my watch, every second gnawing at me like a blade. “That’s too long. I’m moving now. Send the address.”

“Already texted it. Asher—” Dean pauses briefly, his tone shifting. “You good?”

I hesitate a fraction too long before answering. “Just get me intel. We’ll deal with feelings later.”

“Got it.” Dean hangs up without another word. Efficient, clean. Exactly how we operate. Exactly what I need right now.

Returning to Nancy, I give one final attempt. “The lake house,” I say, watching her carefully. “Your family property. That’s where he’s taken her, isn’t it?”

She blinks, eyes darting briefly before regaining composure. “I…I wouldn’t know. Maybe. It’s private and remote. Wade goes there occasionally.”

That’s enough confirmation for me. “Thank you, Mrs. Sinclair. Stay here with resort security until I return.”

I’m already moving, striding out the door and barking orders at the two security officers outside. “Keep her here, under guard, and keep communication lines open.”

They nod sharply, responding without hesitation. My voice commands obedience but beneath that authority is a single driving force.Charlotte.

I rush to my suite, grabbing my emergency duffel bag. Inside it has my kevlar vest, Glock 19 loaded, extra magazines, tactical knife, GPS beacon. In less than two minutes, I’m in the resort parking garage, getting into my truck. Every second lost feels like betrayal.

On the road, adrenaline sharpens my senses. The roads blur past, and I’m methodically analyzing approach scenarios. My mind generates tactical outlines in rapid-fire sequence: entrypoints, egress routes, possible surveillance, threat assessment. Sinclair’s irrational, borderline desperate. The cartel investors he’s indebted to are ruthless. Variables are bad. Survival rates plummet with each passing minute.

Yet Charlotte’s eyes haunt me. The way she laughed when I teased her, the warmth of her hand in mine, the electrifying sensation of that kiss we shared at the gala. It’s all sharper now, etched with painful clarity.

I curse under my breath. Love is a liability. But god help me, I’ve fallen. Hard. Which means nothing else matters but bringing her home. Alive.

Dean checks in again via bluetooth. “Hey, proceed with caution, Asher.”

“Always do,” I respond, calm masking urgency. “Update me if intel shifts.”

“Copy that.”

As I approach the lake, dense forest crowds the winding road. It’s quiet here, isolated, a perfect place for sinister secrets. My truck crawls silently the final quarter mile. Stealth mode engaged. I pull off the main road, camouflaging the vehicle among pines, then slip into tactical gear. I tug my vest snugly, my Glock chambered with the safety off.

I proceed through thickening brush on foot, my senses hyper-alert. The lake house emerges through trees ahead. It’s secluded, luxurious, utterly silent. A panel van parked out front matches the surveillance footage.

Bingo.

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