Page 80 of Defending What's Mine

I move methodically, sweeping the area. Every detail counts. Near a power junction box, I find it—a scrap of red silk ribbon.

My chest tightens. Charlotte was wearing a red scarf two nights ago—looped through her ponytail. Coincidence? I don’t believe in those.

I bag it, snap photos, send them straight to Dean.

She was here.

My phone buzzes. Dean’s voice is taut. “No flight logs. No land routes. If they’re moving her, it’s on water.”

I already know that. I can feel it in my gut. They’re running out to sea. Once they’re in international waters, we lose jurisdiction. Unless we intercept fast.

“Passenger list?” I ask.

“No manifest. Dockhand noted a man in a nice suit boarding.”

“And Charlotte and Melanie?”

“Probably hidden below deck.”

“Got an ID on the man?”

“We’re thinking Felix Castillo.”

Fuck me.

I force down the spike of fury threatening to choke me. Think tactically. Stay sharp.

Back at the command post,Dean and I pore over every frame of drone footage, every satellite ping. The Coast Guard hasmobilized. FAA granted temporary drone clearance. Homeland is involved now.

But it’s not enough. Not fast enough.

I pace behind the screens, scanning each incoming data stream. “Think like them,” I mutter. “Fast yacht, no ransom demands. Why?”

Dean meets my eyes. “Castillo has buyers offshore. Private clients. Charlotte and Melanie are valuable commodities now.”

My fists curl. I want to punch a hole through the wall. Instead, I force the rage down.

“Then we find them before they cross that line.”

Dean nods grimly. “We’re trying.”

Trying. It’s not enough. I want results. I’m going completely out of my mind right now. I want to go on a murdering spree to ensure Charlotte is never taken from me ever again.

I pull out my phone, stare at the last message Charlotte sent.Tomorrow.

I close my eyes. Whisper to her.I’m coming.

Dean’s tablet pings. He clicks fast. “Ash—new hit.”

I’m beside him instantly. “Where?”

“NOAA weather drone caught a heat signature. It’s a small fast mover, seventy nautical miles out from Dry Tortugas. Matches yacht profile.”

“Course?”

“Southeast—Bahamas corridor.”

My pulse kicks into overdrive. International waters in six hours, max.

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