My left forearm throbbed violently where Corbin’s knife had carved through my flesh. The makeshift bandage was already soaked through, dripping warm blood onto my jeans, but I barely felt the pain. The only thing registering in my mind was the image on that security monitor: a five-year-old girl clutching a stuffed bear, being loaded into a van by a man with a snake tattooed on his neck.
Boone was standing by his idling truck, the heavy plastic evidence box resting on the tailgate.
“We got a location?” Boone asked, his deep voice cutting through the rumble of the engines.
“The old iron freight yard off Route 9,” I said, marching straight to my bike. “They’re moving her right now.”
Miller jogged up beside me, holding the spiral notebook open. “Elias, wait. The local cops are going to pull the hospital footage in less than ten minutes. We should leave this to the state investigators. We have the ledger. We have the photos.”
I stopped and glared at him. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the crumpled drawing I had found at Corbin’s house. I shoved it against Miller’s chest.
“Look at the drawing, Miller. What is on the monster’s chest?”
Miller shined a small penlight on the crayon drawing. “A star.”
“Exactly,” I spat. “A jagged star. Who wears a star in this county? The Sheriff’s deputies. Corbin ran this operation for a year, and every time Becca called in a welfare check, the local police found absolutely nothing. They are protecting Corbin. If we call local dispatch to that freight yard, the cops will just help them load the truck.”
Miller looked at the drawing, his jaw tightening. He didn't argue again.
I threw my leg over my motorcycle. “Let’s move.”
We tore out of the hospital parking lot, leaving the flashing lights of the arriving squad cars far behind us. The sky was bleeding from black to a bruised, sullen purple. A light, freezing drizzle had begun to fall, making the empty highway slick and treacherous.
As I pushed my bike to eighty miles an hour, my mind raced through the evidence we had pulled from the floorboards.
None of it was making sense.
The ledger showed over two hundred thousand dollars deposited directly into offshore accounts under Jenna’s name. Corbin had laughed in my face, claiming Jenna took the money. On the security tape, Jenna had willingly walked Maya out of the hospital, bypassing security, and handed her over to the cartel enforcer with the snake tattoo.
It painted a sickening, damning picture. Jenna was getting paid to facilitate the trafficking of her own daughter.
But if Jenna was happily taking the money, why did she hide the evidence box? Why did she tell Maya to wait for someone safe?
The contradiction gnawed at my gut like a starving dog.
We turned off the main highway onto a cracked, unpaved road that wound through dense Georgia pines. The old iron freight yard loomed in the distance, a sprawling graveyard of rusted shipping containers, broken cranes, and forgotten rail cars. It had been abandoned for a decade, perfectly isolated from the rest of the world.
I cut my engine a half-mile out and let the bike coast silently into the thick brush. Miller and Boone did the same.
We moved on foot through the tall, wet grass, drawing our weapons. I held my heavy .45 in my right hand, keeping my injured left arm tucked tightly against my ribs.
The freight yard was deathly quiet, except for the rhythmic dripping of rain hitting hollow metal containers.
“Tire tracks,” Boone whispered, pointing to the mud near the main gate. “Fresh. Heading toward the central dispatch office.”
We slipped through a gap in the rusted chain-link fence. We used the shadows of the towering shipping containers for cover, advancing slowly toward a dilapidated, two-story brick building in the center of the yard.
A white cargo van was parked out front. Its engine was off, but the hood was still ticking from the heat.
The rear doors were standing wide open. The van was completely empty.
Suddenly, a single, deafening gunshot rang out from inside the dispatch building.
The sound echoed off the metal containers, scattering a flock of crows into the gray sky.
I didn't hesitate. I sprinted out of cover, kicking the heavy wooden door of the building completely off its rusted hinges. I swept my gun across the room, Miller and Boone flanking me instantly.
The room was a wreck of overturned desks, broken glass, and rotting paperwork.
Lying in the center of the concrete floor was Corbin.
He was clutching his chest, blood pooling rapidly around his fingers, gasping for air. The smug arrogance I had seen on his face thirty minutes ago was entirely gone. He had been shot at point-blank range.
I rushed forward and kicked his discarded weapon away. I grabbed him by the collar of his ruined shirt, hauling him halfway off the floor.
“Where is she?” I roared. “Where is Maya?”
Corbin coughed, a terrible, wet sound, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He looked up at me, his eyes glassy and unfocused.
“Double... crossed,” he wheezed, his grip weakly clawing at my leather vest. “Vance... he took it.”
“Who is Vance?” I demanded, shaking him. “The guy with the snake tattoo?”