Page 76 of Defending What's Mine

Blue-white strobes ricochet off corrugated steel as tactical lights sweep the cold-storage bay. My bootfalls echo in the vast emptiness while deputies fan across the cavern, weapons drawn, breath fogging under overhead sodium lamps.

Container C7 looms ahead—the one Wade swore held “the collateral.” We breach in textbook formation: bolt cutters, pry bar, door kicks open. My pulse jackhammers. I expect her voice, a cry, anything.

Nothing. Inside is nothing but a bare metal floor, and the stench of bleach. No ropes, no blankets, not a single trace of Charlotte or Melanie. A hollow ache punches through my ribs.

“Clear!” a deputy calls. The word clangs around like an accusation.

I stride deeper, light raking every corner, refusing to believe the emptiness. Knuckles brush riveted seams, seeking warmth that isn’t there. It’s an icebox of lies—Wade’s last bargaining chip already melted away.

Dean enters behind me, tablet glowing blue on his palm. “Thermal’s flat. No residual heat signatures.”

I yank the radio mic. “Unit Three, check the outer lot for tire impressions. Anything fresh, I want photos and casts.” Static hisses back, negative.

Dean exhales, removing his headset. “They never intended to keep them here. Wade was a breadcrumb.”

I slam the container door, and the clang vibrates up my arm. “How far ahead are we playing catch-up? They scrubbed two hours of camera feed, cloned the server, cut every angle.”

He nods, jaw tight. “Professional tier. Cartel logistics or high-end traffickers.”

My stomach knots—I’ve walked those corridors in other countries, but this is home turf. Charlotte. Focus.

“What else do we have?” I ask, forcing the tactical overlay back into place.

Dean scrolls. “Melanie’s Benz left her garage at 01:58. Plate registered on traffic cam at Bayside Bridge, heading west—then disappears. Likely swapped to a trailer or container.”

“So they’re mobile.” I picture a semi rolling through dawn traffic, two terrified women hidden behind freight walls.

“State police issued BOLO on every dark-grey tractor-trailer inside a hundred-mile radius,” Dean continues. “We tapped DHS for plate recognition at port entries.”

It feels paper-thin. Each minute stretches the grid larger, the probability smaller. I rub grit from my eyes, exhaustion threatening to blur critical edges.

Dean’s tone softens. “We won’t quit, Ash. I’ve got the US Marshals on standby, highway patrol stacking checkpoints. Someone will crack.”

Someone. But until then Charlotte is out there counting hours, maybe convincing herself I’m not coming. The weight of that thought nearly staggers me.

I pull out my phone anyway, thumb hovering over her last text—Tomorrow.At this rate tomorrow feels like a cruel joke. Signal bars taunt me, full strength but utterly useless.

“Dean,” I say quietly. “We need fresh intel—off-book. Any local informants touched by cartel shipping? Even rumors.”

He nods once, already typing. “I’ll tap friends in Saint Pierce Port Authority. And there’s a DEA liaison in Magnolia Ridge who owes me.”

My fists clench and release. Anger threatens to blind, but I force it back. Rage without direction is a muzzle flash in the dark.

Outside, sirens fade as units clear the scene. The evening air tastes of diesel and sea salt. I stare across the rows of silent containers—so many blind corners, any one of them capable of swallowing hope.

A deputy approaches. “No fresh tracks, sir. Lot’s been swept clean.”

Figures. Professionals erase footprints.

I thank him out of habit, but the hollow drumming in my chest grows louder. I replay every precaution I took, every contingency. Somehow they still threaded the needle. Charlotte trusted me to keep her safe. I failed.

Dean steps beside me, his voice low. “I know that look. Don’t spiral.”

I breathe in four counts, hold for four, and then release. “Give me something concrete.”

“We have cell activity.” He taps the screen. “A burner pinged near Yven City, same tower sequence as the prepaid Wade called. It lit up for two minutes at 06:10, then went dark.”

A spark, small but real. “Pull cameras within that radius. Gas stations, ATMs, storefronts.”

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