Page 77 of Defending What's Mine

“Already queued. We’ll run facial recog once footage is in.”

Finally, a direction. I pivot toward the truck. “Let’s move. I’m not waiting for the desk-jockey loop.”

Dean grabs my elbow. “Asher. We charge in blind, we risk losing them. We need pattern analysis—routes, timing, driver rest windows.”

I close my eyes, forcing logic over raw instinct. He’s right. Charging every lead solo will burn time, not save it.

“Okay,” I breathe. “We go to Ops, collate everything.”

Dean releases my arm, relieved. “Good. And Asher?”

I meet his gaze—firm, unflinching.

“We’ll bring her back.”

The promise hangs between us, and it’s the only lifeline keeping despair from swallowing me. I grip it like steel as we climb into the truck and speed toward the command post, knowing I won’t stop until Charlotte is safe in my arms again. No matter how many dead ends I have to tear down to reach her.

37

Charlotte

I feel the shift before I see it. The container doors open with a grinding metallic groan, cold morning air rushing in, stinging my face. Men move into the shadows where Melanie and I huddle against the far wall. Their voices are clipped, speaking quickly in Spanish and low English.

One of them gestures for us to stand. Another holds out a hand—not gentle, but not rough either. A silent command:Get up. Now.

My legs tremble as I push to standing, my body stiff from hours on the cold floor. Melanie follows suit, clutching my arm, her eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears. Neither of us speak as they guide us forward, the air thick with unspoken fear.

We exit into dim gray light. A sprawling, quiet dock yawns before us. Shipping containers stack like looming sentries in every direction. In the distance, a sleek yacht rocks gently against the water, lines already cast loose. I swallow hard.

This is bad.

The further we go out to sea, the harder it will be to track us. To find us. To rescue us.

A man I recognize as Diego stands near the dock’s edge, shaking hands with an older, well-dressed man—tailored suit, gold watch glinting in the dull morning sun. I can’t hear their words, but the smug tilt of Diego’s mouth says enough. This is a transaction. We are commodities.

My stomach turns. Melanie squeezes my arm tighter.

“They’re putting us onthat?” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

I nod once, throat too tight to speak. I glance around. There’s no visible cameras, no police, no Asher storming in like I wish he would. The sickening realization sinks deeper… no one knows where we are.

I fight the desperate urge to scream, to run, knowing both would be futile. There’s nowhere to go. The water will be our prison soon enough.

We’re led aboard the yacht, its pristine white deck gleaming, the air heavy with the scent of diesel and salt. The engines purr, already primed to slip away from shore.

Below deck, they guide us to a small cabin. Not locked, not chained, but escape isn’t needed when there’s nowhere to run.

The door clicks shut behind us.

Melanie crumples onto the narrow bunk, drawing her knees to her chest. I sink beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. The fear in her eyes is mirrored in my own.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, voice breaking. “I should have known. I should never have trusted him.”

“Shh.” I press my forehead to hers, voice trembling. “This isn’t your fault, Mel. They played you. They planned this. We’re going to be okay.”

But the words feel empty, even to me.

I glance around the cabin, taking in the wood paneling, no windows, and bolted furniture. We’re below the waterline now. I can feel the gentle roll of waves beneath us. My heart pounds painfully.

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