Page 99 of Thunder's Reckoning
Instead of disappearin’ like she should’ve, she doubled back mean. Sold us out with a smile, one piece at a time, until everything I loved was dragged into the dark.
But she hadn’t vanished for good. Not yet. And as long as she was breathin’, she was the thread. She might not be holdin’ them, but she knew where they’d been taken. That made her more than a traitor. That made her the key.
“She’s not at her place,” Chain said, stormin’ into the war room, his voice sharp with frustration. “Neighbors say her car’s not been seen in two days. Mail’s stacked up at the box.”
“She ain’t dumb enough to go home,” Bolt muttered, stalkin’ the length of the room like a dog in a cage. His boots scuffed the floor, back and forth, his shoulders twitchin’ like he was itchin’ for a fight. “Not if she knows we’re comin’.”
“She knows,” I cut in, my voice grim, rough enough to scrape the walls. “Hell, look at that footage again. Her face was too calm. Too steady. She believes Gabrial will protect her from us.”
That silence pressed down heavy, like a chain drawn tight across all our throats.
Devil leaned forward over the table, his fingers tappin’ slow against the scarred wood. Each knock echoed in my skull like a countdown to detonation. “She knew our moves,” he said, hisvoice flat. “Our timing. Like she had the playbook in her damn hand.”
“She had help,” Mystic said, arms crossed, his eyes cuttin’ sharp. “This wasn’t just some jealous outburst. This was placed. Plotted.”
But my gut burned cold, certain.
“No. She didn’t plan shit. She was the bait. Gabrial set the table, and we sat down without blinkin’.”
Devil’s gaze snapped to mine, cutting as a blade. “But still, something in my gut says there’s a piece we’re missing.”
“I think so too,” Spinner spoke up, his voice gravelly. “They were waitin’ when you left. Doesn’t pass the sniff test.”
The silence that followed slammed harder.
Gearhead cursed under his breath, the kind of curse that tastes like blood and regret when you realize you’ve been playin’ by somebody else’s rules.
Phones lit up the table, glowin’ like fireflies. Fingers flew, numbers punched, calls made, contacts shaken down.
Chain called every one of Leena’s old hangouts—strippers, waitresses, a landlord down on Rivers Avenue who’d once covered her rent for a “favor.” Nothin’. Nobody had seen her in days.
Mystic leaned against the wall, phone to his ear, mutterin’ low to a contact on the docks. His jaw locked tighter with every word before he finally snapped it shut. “Containers checked. No sign.”
Bolt slammed his palm against the table after his third call. “Pawn shop says she sold off her jewelry last week. That’s it. No trail since.”
Gatsby hunched over his laptop, keys clickin’ fast, screens glowin’ with data. “Her last burner was killed before she left the city. She scrubbed her digital footprint cleaner than she ever could’ve done on her own.”
Gearhead cursed again, draggin’ a hand over his face. “Which means Gabrial’s people covered her exit. She’s got protection.”
Every lead crumbled too fast.
Too clean.
Too damn calculated.
“Gabrial must’ve helped her leave the city,” I said, the words bitter as bile. “And we know he didn’t take them back to his mansion.”
Devil nodded slow, his jaw tight. “Yeah. Gabrial wouldn’t take ’em home. Too visible. Too many eyes.”
“He’s hidin’ them,” I growled, slammin’ my fist against the table hard enough to make the maps jump. “Somewhere buried. Somewhere only he knows. And Leena may be the one person who can point us there.”
“And if she’s vanished,” Bolt muttered, “we can’t use her to track him.”
I turned toward the wall board. Maps, pins, strings crisscrossin’ like veins stretched thin. Routes, names, connections we’d mapped over years—all of it suddenly lookin’ smaller, weaker, like the world was closin’ in around us.
“We stop chasin’ shadows,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
“Kickstand is sendin’ me everything he has on Gabrial Lopez and his cult,” Gatsby said, eyes never leavin’ the screen. “The files are downloadin’ as we sit here.”
