Chapter 54
I don’t have faith. I have family, and my family doesn’t solve problems politely.
Jag and Dove aren’t coming back through warrants, missing-persons flyers, badges, or agencies. They’ll be found the Strakh way, by breaking laws, spilling blood, and destroying everyone and everything in our path.
Perks of being born into the Russian mob.
The instant we watch Jag sacrifice himself on the camera feed, Monty makes the call.
The Ghost lives alone in the cabin we gave him in Hoss, the one soaked in ruined childhoods. Yeah. That one. We would burn it to the ground before ever choosing to live there again.
But for a retired Russian executioner? It’s prime real estate. A secluded place to rot on his terms and be left alone.
No one outside our inner circle knows that cabin exists.
When Monty makes the call, he doesn’t beg. Doesn’t explain. He doesn’t need to. Twenty-four hours later, a helicopter thunders in, rotors chopping the night apart. It lands on the island’s helicopter pad, lights cutting through the dark.
I stand outside as it arrives, barely holding myself together. I haven’t slept right in days. Every time I close my eyes, my brain fills in what might be happening to Jag and Dove.
Stress has been riding shotgun so long it’s part of my spine now. I’m running on fumes and fury, hollowed out and overcharged. One wrong breath will either knock me flat or send me straight through a wall.
I just need to keep it together a little longer.
Monty hovers beside me as the helicopter door slides open.
The Ghost steps out first.
Oliver Popov looks exactly as I remember him, his eyes dead-calm, and his coat tailored for a five-star dinner rather than murder. No hurry in his gait. No nerves. Just that same controlled stillness he exuded the night I met him in Hoss. The night we butchered the doctor.
Then a second man exits the helicopter.
He looks like he belongs in the background. Lean build, early thirties, shaved sides with dark hair on top. Plain black hoodie. Plain boots. No jewelry. No phone in his hands.
His eyes never stop moving. Not darting. More like counting exits, cameras, and heartbeats at the same time.
“This is Mikhail. Not his real name. Don’t ask for it.” Oliver meets my gaze.
I know that look. It says ethical lines will be erased and worse men than him will bleed before this is over.
Which is why Theo, Ross, and the rest of Monty’s security team aren’t here. Oliver only trusts his mobsters.
Like Mikhail. Best criminal hacker in the world, according to Oliver. I have my doubts. No one is better than Jag, according to Dove.
Mikhail nods at Monty. Then at me.
“You are Wolf,” he says in a thick Russian accent. No question in it.
“Tell me you’ll find them.” I search his dark gaze. “Don’t waste our time.”
“You’re emotional.”
“I’m motivated.” I curl my lips, baring my teeth.
“Good. That accelerates decisions.”
I hope he’s good enough to slip inside Jag’s systems without breaking them. Good enough to find the trail Jag buried. Good enough to give us something to chase before time runs out.
Before the rotor wash settles, Mikhail is already walking, carrying nothing but a single hard case.
We lead him to the guest house.
Jag’s computer equipment scatters the living room and kitchen table. Servers, drives, monitors, and backups stacked on backups. Oliver ordered everything hauled here to prevent Jag’s attackers from destroying it.
This gear isn’t just hardware. It’s the trail. It’s how we figure out who snatched them and why.
Mikhail doesn’t waste time. He unzips his case, pulls on gloves, and goes to work. No yanking cables or rushed reconnects. He photographs every port, labels nothing, and keeps it all in his head.
Thirty minutes later, Jag’s systems hum back to life. Screens flare. Code loads. Cameras come online, and the guest house fills with the whir of computers thinking hard.
“How long?” I lean against the wall, arms crossed so tightly my shoulders ache. It’s the only way to keep my hands from shaking.
Mikhail tilts his head, considering. “If they are still alive? Hours. If they are moving? Longer. If they think they can’t be found?” A thin smile. “They are wrong.”
Alive.
The word hits and keeps hitting. What does alive look like for them? Jag breathing somewhere in the dark? Dove fighting for her life? Both counting on me to show up a week ago?
I lock my jaw until it hurts. I don’t let myself ask the questions scratching at my throat. Moved where? Hurt how bad? How much time have I already wasted?
Everything inside me is screaming. I keep my back to the wall, breathing shallow and controlled, when all I want to do is strap on every knife I own and start hunting.
Oliver stands beside Monty, hands clasped behind him, his demeanor radiating respect and old history, blood-deep and unspoken.
“Tell me everything.” He turns to Monty and me.
We give him the rundown, the footage, the decoy, the blind spots, Jag on his knees, and the name Adrian Crowe.
Oliver listens without interrupting. When we’re done, he exhales through his nose.
“Adrian Crowe.” A curl of contempt touches his lips. “He recruits through retreats and talent programs. Targets underage girls, invites them into his exclusive world, and tells them they’re chosen.” His eyes flick to mine. “These girls are isolated. No family or anchors.”
My jaw grinds. I feel it creeping up my spine, that familiar burn.
“He trades in psychological debt and dependency.” Oliver frowns. “The illusion of consent.”
Underage girls.
Children.
No consent there.
“He sells them.” I swallow hard, the room tilting with the sick memories of my own childhood. “He traffics them.”
“Yes. But he keeps his hands clean, hiding behind lawyers, donations, and compromised officials. His public image is armor, protecting what he really is. A trafficker. A collector of victims.”
I see it then, all of it clicking into place so fast I feel nauseous.
Dove being dragged into white rooms and soft voices and hands that pretend they’re helping. Dove being told she chose this. Dove being erased carefully, methodically, until no one knows where to look.
“That’s why Jag surrendered.” I push off the wall and pace. “He knew. He fucking knew what Crowe would do to her.”
Monty’s hand comes up, gripping my arm, hard and grounding and necessary.
I can barely breathe.
“This isn’t ransom.” Acid rises in my throat. “It’s inventory. He intends to traffic her.”
“No. It is more complicated.” Mikhail doesn’t look up. “I found a file on Crowe. Jag Rath has been stalking him for… Twenty years.”
“What?” I shift closer and squint at the screen over Mikhail’s shoulder, my pulse climbing.
Folders nest inside folders. Time-stamped photos. Crowe stepping out of private jets. Crowe laughing at galas. Crowe shaking hands with men who dominate headlines. Shipping manifests. Flight numbers. Guest lists.
Jag collected twenty years of this shit? That’s not curiosity. It’s obsession.
What’s his infatuation with Adrian Crowe?
Mikhail scrolls sideways, pages down, and opens a directory. Jag’s personal notes.
My chest constricts as I scan years’ worth of records, bank accounts, surveillance, and history. Jag meticulously documented patterns, faces, and aliases, tracking Crowe like prey.
“Why?” I rub my neck. “Does he want the billionaire’s money?”
“This is not about money.” Mikhail flips through digital memos, scanning, searching.
“Then what?”
He leans closer to the screen and opens a file named First Meeting with Adrian Crowe - California Tavern. It’s an audio file dated seventeen years ago.
Mikhail hits play.
Static. Old static. Sounds like a cheap recorder or a phone hidden in a pocket. Noise muffles in the background, glasses clinking and someone coughing off-mic. The recording is messy, handheld, and outdated.
A young, raspy male voice comes through. “Why are you following me, Crowe?”
“That’s Jag.” My pulse surges as I find Monty’s eyes. “I’m certain it’s him.”
Seventeen years ago… That would make Jag twenty-three and Dove fifteen. I wonder if this meeting happened before or after the night she ran from him at the drug dealer’s house?
A chair scrapes through the recording.
“I have a business proposal,” Adrian Crowe says, his tone cold and incisive.
“Rot in hell.” Jag makes a disgusted sound. “I know what you did to Celeste Rath.”
Celeste.
Dove’s mother.
My stomach drops.
Is Adrian Crowe connected to her murder?
The tavern noise swells, muddying Adrian’s response. “Celeste isn’t her real name, but you already know that.”
“Yeah,” Jag snaps. “I also know you found her through your talent agency, groomed her, flew her out, locked her on your island with your sick perversions and your cameras, and got her pregnant.” A pause. “Then you sold her to one of your rich, child-raping friends.”
Ice clinks. A slow exhale.
“Why would I sell a pregnant woman?” Adrian asks dryly.
“You didn’t know she was pregnant. And she wasn’t a woman.” Rage seethes through Jag’s voice. “She was fifteen. A goddamn child.”
“Watch your mouth.”
“You should’ve watched your paperwork. She ran, changed names, married my father at a legal, consensual age, and raised your kid without you finding her.”
A chair creaks, and Adrian laughs. “Except I did find her, didn’t I? I found all of you. Tell me, how’s life on the streets?”
Something slams hard, and glass shatters. Jag’s breathing turns rough and loud, all restraint gone, a deep animal sound grinding through clenched teeth. Then a violent scrape, table legs dragged, a body shoved forward, and the mic crackles.
“You’re smarter than this,” Adrian says, his voice closer now. “If you hurt me, my guards will kill you. Who will protect Dove then, hmm?”
Crowd noise spikes. Voices overlap, and Jag’s fury cuts through it all. Ragged breaths, a strangled snarl, the sound of a man holding himself one second away from murder.
Then fabric rustles, and a final, brutal exhale.