Chapter 3
Ronan
Iknew we were too late the moment I saw the restraints.
The transport yard was quiet in the way only abandoned places ever are—dust settling, engines cold, the air still carrying the ghost of urgency. Tunisia’s coast stretched dark beyond the fence, salt and diesel heavy in my lungs.
River signaled all clear. Cyclone moved to the server shack, fingers already flying. Gideon and Faron spread out, weapons ready.
I went straight to the truck.
Rear doors. Military-grade locks. Fresh scuff marks in the dirt where boots had dragged something—or someone—up the ramp.
I climbed inside.
My chest locked tight.
The cage was empty.
Not dismantled. Not cleaned.
Just… vacant.
Leather restraints hung from the walls, one strap torn clean through. Scratches scored the metal floor—deep, frantic marks that hadn’t been there long. A discarded blanket lay in the corner, thin and worn, still holding the faint shape of a body.
Recent.
Hours. Maybe less.
I crouched, running my fingers over the floor. Sweat. Salt. Blood—dry, but not old.
She’d been here.
“Ronan,” River said quietly from the doorway. “Cyclone’s pulling logs.”
I didn’t look up. My focus tunneled, every instinct screaming truth louder than reason ever could.
“She was in this truck,” I said. Not a guess. A fact.
River’s silence confirmed it.
Cyclone appeared seconds later, jaw tight. “Convoy logs show a delayed transfer. Prisoner designation L-H47 rerouted.”
My pulse spiked. “Say that again.”
“L-H. Female asset. Classified high value.” He swallowed. “Transfer timestamp puts departure at approximately… four hours ago.”
Four hours.
The walls seemed to press in around me.
I stood slowly, forcing my breathing under control. Panic was useless. Rage was earned—but later.
“Where’d they take her?” I asked.
Cyclone shook his head. “Airstrip wasn’t here. Secondary handoff point. Whoever planned this didn’t leave digital footprints—just enough to confirm a woman existed.”
I stepped back into the open air, the night wind cutting across my skin. Lightning flashed far out over the water.
Lena Hart had been here.
Alive.
Fighting.
I know it was her.
Close enough that if we’d moved faster—if I’d trusted instinct instead of intel—I might’ve seen her. Heard her. Pulled her out.
River joined me. “You didn’t fail.”
“I don’t measure failure by intention,” I replied. “Only results.”
He studied my face carefully. “This just confirmed what you already believed.”
I nodded once. “She’s alive.”
And someone was afraid of us finding her.
That made Lena more dangerous than any weapon Hydra—or The Ascendancy—had ever built.
I turned back to the truck one last time.
A single object lay half-hidden beneath the blanket.
I reached for it.
A strip of fabric—dark blue, torn clean at one edge. Not prison-issued. Personal.
I wrapped it around my fist slowly.
“She left this on purpose,” I said.
River’s brow creased. “You sure?”
I looked at the torn strap, the broken restraint, the scratches that angled toward the rear door.
“She was measuring time,” I said. “Strength. Distance.”
I straightened, resolve settling into my bones like steel.
“She’s planning her escape.”
And the men who thought moving her would protect them?
They had just shortened their own lives.
I keyed my comm. “Delta Five, Golden Team—update your maps. Expand the grid. I want every airstrip, private landing zone, and convoy route within eight hundred miles.”
Cyclone exhaled sharply. “That’s a lot of ground.”
“So is the world,” I answered. “And she’s somewhere on it.”
I closed my eyes for half a second—just long enough to picture her running.
Hold on, Lena.
I missed you this time.
I won’t miss you again.