The first time Boone Mercer walked into our NICU I thought he was lost—six-foot-four, broad as a tank, burn scars crawling up both his arms, hands so huge and shaking so badly from combat nerve damage they looked like they were built for war, not holding a fragile two-pound preemie—right as the abandoned baby in bed seven started screaming that guttural, desperate cry only a completely alone infant can make.

We didn’t sleep that night.

We drove straight to the state police barracks, forty minutes out of town, the ones Tuck had said Jax didn’t own. We brought the flip phone. We brought the note from my apartment. We brought everything.

The detective on duty was a woman named Carter. Late forties, tough, no-nonsense, a scar across her left cheek. She listened to us for an hour, took notes, looked through every text on Tuck’s phone, and didn’t say a word until we were done.

Then she leaned back in her chair. Stared at us.

“This is big,” she said. “Jax has been on our radar for ten years. We’ve never been able to touch him. Too many people in our own department on his payroll. This phone? It’s a gold mine. We can take down his whole operation. Half the county government with it.”

She paused. Looked at the text about Chloe’s sister.

“The girl’s name is Mia Parker. Twelve years old. We ran her through the system. She’s been missing from her foster home for three days. Jax has her somewhere. We’ll find her. I promise you that. But it’s gonna take time. We can’t raid Jax’s places blind. We need intel. We need to be sure she’s there before we move in. Or he’ll kill her before we get through the door.”

“The hearing is Monday,” Boone said. His voice was raw. “That’s two days. If we don’t have Mia by then, Chloe will lie on the stand. Jax will get custody of Wren. And he’ll kill both of them before the sun goes down.”

Detective Carter nodded. “I know. We’re moving as fast as we can. I’ve got six guys on this. Working around the clock. But you two need to stay out of it. If Jax finds out you came to us, he’ll move Mia. He’ll kill Wren. Do you understand me? No more sneaking into bars. No more making deals. Let us do our jobs.”

We nodded. But we both knew we couldn’t just wait. Not when Wren’s life was on the line.

We left the barracks at five in the morning. Drove straight to the hospital. Wren was fine—sleeping, warm, safe, surrounded by her stuffed wrens. Margaret was there, had driven through the night to be with her, brought a pot of her famous chili for the nurses. She took one look at our faces and knew something was very wrong.

We told her. Everything. Jax. Ms. Hale. The judge. Mia.

Margaret didn’t panic. She didn’t cry. She just stirred her chili slow, her face hard as stone, the same steel I’d seen the first night she’d walked into the NICU.

“Jax’s real name is Jackson Rook,” she said. Quiet. “I grew up with him. Same town. Same high school. He was a bully then. Mean. Killed a kid’s dog just ‘cause he could. His dad ran the same operation before him. Everyone knew. No one ever did anything.”

She looked up at us. Her eyes were cold.

“He has a farm out on Old Mill Road. Abandoned. Has a root cellar under the old barn. Used to lock kids in there when they didn’t pay up back in the day. If he has that little girl? That’s where he’s keeping her. I’d bet my life on it.”

Boone stood up. “Let’s go.”

“Boone, no,” I said. Grabbed his arm. “Detective Carter said to stay out of it. If we mess this up, Mia dies. Wren dies.”

“Carter said she needs time,” Boone said. “We don’t have time. Monday is two days away. If we wait for the cops, it’ll be too late. We go out there. We check it out. If Mia’s there, we call Carter. If not? No harm done.”

Margaret stood up. Picked up her keys off the table. “I’m driving. I know every inch of that property. Used to pick berries there when I was a kid. We won’t get caught.”

Ten minutes later, we were in Margaret’s old minivan, driving down the dirt road to Jax’s farm. The sun was coming up, pink and orange over the cornfields, but the air was cold enough to see your breath.

The farm was exactly how Margaret had described it. Abandoned. The house was falling apart, windows broken, roof caving in. The barn was still standing, though—big, old, weathered, the doors hanging off their hinges. No cars in the driveway. No sign anyone was home.

Margaret parked the van a quarter mile down the road, hidden in the trees. We got out, quiet as mice. Walked through the cornfields toward the barn, our boots crunching on the frozen dirt.

Boone had his gun. I had my pepper spray. Margaret had a baseball bat she’d pulled out from under the van seat.

We crept up to the barn. Stood flat against the wall, listening.

Nothing. No sound. No voices. No crying.

Boone gestured for us to stay back. He crept to the barn door, gun raised, peeked inside.

Empty. Just hay bales and old farm equipment. Dust motes dancing in the sunlight.

He gestured us in. We walked through the barn, quiet, checking every corner. Nothing. Then Margaret pointed to the back corner, under a pile of old tarps.

“There,” she whispered. “The root cellar door.”

Boone pulled the tarps off. There it was. A heavy wooden door, iron ring in the middle, a padlock holding it shut.

And then we heard it.

Faint. Muffled. A little girl crying.

“Please. Let me out. I want my sister. Please.”

Mia.

Boone’s face went hard. He raised the gun, aimed at the padlock.

“Wait,” Margaret whispered. She pulled a bobby pin out of her hair. Got down on her knees. “I used to break into these things when I was a kid. Steal my dad’s beer. Give me ten seconds.”

She worked the bobby pin in the lock. Twisted it once. Twice.

Click.

The padlock fell open.

Boone grabbed the iron ring. Pulled the door up slow.

A rush of cold, damp air hit us. The smell of mold and rot. And then, clearer now, the crying.

Boone lowered himself down the wooden ladder first, gun raised. I went next, then Margaret, bat held high.

The root cellar was small, dark, lit only by a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. In the corner, huddled on a pile of old rags, was a little girl.

Mia.

She was small for twelve, thin, wearing a too-big hoodie and jeans with holes in the knees. Her hair was a mess. Her face was streaked with tears. When she saw us, she screamed, scrambled back against the wall, covered her head with her arms.

“Please don’t hurt me! Please! My sister will pay! I promise!”

Boone lowered the gun. Held his hands up, slow, so she could see he wasn’t a threat.

“Hey, Mia,” he said. His voice was soft. Gentle. The same voice he used with Wren. “We’re not here to hurt you. We’re friends of your sister Chloe. She sent us. We’re here to get you out. Okay?”

Mia peeked out from behind her arms. Stared at us. “You know Chloe?”

“I do,” I said. I stepped forward, slow, knelt down so I was eye level with her. “She loves you so much, Mia. She’s been so scared for you. We’re gonna take you to her. We’re gonna keep you safe. I promise.”

Mia stared at me for a long second. Then she nodded. Slow. Scared. She stood up, her legs shaking, and walked over to me. I wrapped my coat around her, pulled her into a hug. She was so cold, so small, shaking like a leaf.

We climbed back up the ladder, fast. We were almost to the barn door when we heard it.

Tires on gravel. A car door slamming. Voices. Loud. Angry.

Jax. And two of his men.

They were here.

Boone pushed us back into the shadows behind a stack of hay bales. Held a finger to his lips. His gun was raised again, his face cold, his breathing slow and steady. The soldier was back.

We heard the barn doors creak open. Heavy footsteps on the dirt floor.

“Check the root cellar,” a deep voice said. Jax. “Make sure the little bitch is still there. Chloe tries anything funny at the hearing Monday, we cut the kid’s fingers off one by one. Send ‘em to her in a box. That’ll teach her.”

The footsteps got closer. He was walking straight toward us.

I held Mia tighter. Covered her mouth so she wouldn’t scream. Margaret raised her bat, her knuckles white. Boone tensed, ready to fire.

The footsteps stopped ten feet away.

And then a phone rang. Loud. Sharp.

Jax answered it. “What?… You’re kidding me… Tuck talked?… Son of a bitch… State cops are raiding the house right now?… We gotta move. Now. Leave the kid. She’s dead weight. We’ll get her later. Let’s go.”

The footsteps ran back toward the door. The barn doors slammed shut. Tires screeched as they peeled out of the driveway.

We waited five whole minutes, not breathing, before Boone moved. He crept to the door, peeked out, then signaled it was clear.

We ran to the van. Fast. Margaret peeled out, tires spinning, driving as fast as the old minivan would go down the dirt road.

I called Detective Carter. Told her we had Mia. Told her Jax was running.

She said they’d set up roadblocks. They’d catch him.

But I knew better.

Jax was slippery. He’d been running from the cops for ten years. He wouldn’t go down easy.

And Monday was still two days away.