I lunged forward as the second man raised a heavy wrench. I blocked the swing with my forearm, feeling a sharp flare of pain, and drove my fist directly into his throat. He dropped to the floor, gasping for air.
“Corbin!” the choking man wheezed.
Corbin appeared in the doorway. He was in his mid-thirties, wearing a dirty flannel shirt, panic already flaring wildly behind his dark eyes. He saw my vest. He saw his men on the floor. He saw the empty hole beneath the floorboards.
He immediately turned and bolted.
I tore after him, sprinting through the front door and launching myself off the wooden porch.
“Stop!” I roared.
Corbin hit the wet grass and sprinted toward the abandoned lumber yard. I chased him down, my heavy boots tearing up the mud, my lungs burning in the damp night air.
He scrambled over a rusted chain-link fence, tearing his shirt on the metal. I vaulted over it a second later, landing hard on the gravel. Corbin stumbled, regained his footing, and suddenly spun around.
He yanked a long, serrated hunting knife from his waistband.
He slashed wildly at my chest. I twisted, but the blade caught my left forearm, slicing through the thick leather and biting deeply into my skin. Hot blood immediately soaked my sleeve.
I ignored the agonizing burn, stepped inside his guard, and slammed my forehead directly into the bridge of his nose.
Bone crunched. Corbin screamed and dropped the knife.
I tackled him hard to the dirt, pinning his arms under my knees. I wrapped my hand around his throat and squeezed until his eyes bulged.
“You laid your hands on that little girl,” I growled, my face inches from his. “Tell me where Jenna is.”
Corbin spat a mouthful of blood onto my vest and started laughing.
It was a wet, ugly, rattling sound that chilled me deeper than the cold wind.
“You think you’re a hero?” he choked out. “You’re entirely too late.”
I tightened my grip. “Where is she?”
Corbin’s broken smile stretched wider. “You really think Jenna hiding a box changes anything? She should have just stayed quiet.”
Faint police sirens began to wail in the far distance. Becca must have made the call after all.
Corbin heard them too. His expression shifted into something far worse than arrogance. It was pure, horrifying certainty.
“Go ahead and kill me, biker,” Corbin whispered. “But you better check the hospital.”
Everything inside my chest stopped dead.
For one terrifying second, I couldn't pull air into my lungs.
I released his throat, scrambled off him, and sprinted back toward the driveway before the flashing blue lights even appeared on the main road.
Miller was already waiting by the idling motorcycles. Boone had shoved the box into the truck and was dragging one of the unconscious men out onto the lawn for the cops to find.
I threw my leg over my bike, ignoring the blood running down my arm and soaking into my glove.
“Hospital!” I shouted over the engine roar. “Now!”
We tore out of the neighborhood, blowing past the arriving squad cars, pushing the bikes to a dangerous speed.
I pulled my phone from my pocket with my bloody hand and hit Becca’s number. She answered on the first ring, sounding breathless and frantic.
“Elias?”
“Where is Maya?” I demanded, the wind roaring in my ears.
There was a terrible, suffocating silence on the line.
Then Becca’s voice broke into a sob. “She’s gone.”
The highway suddenly felt like it was tilting sideways. “What the hell do you mean she’s gone?”
“I stepped out to call the state investigator,” Becca cried. “The desk nurse said a woman in blue scrubs took Maya in a wheelchair three minutes ago. They thought she was scheduled for x-ray transport.”
My tires slipped on a patch of wet asphalt, but I wrestled the bike steady. “Lock down every exit! Don’t let a single vehicle out of that lot. Check the security feeds.”