Page 120 of The Last Call Home
Silence follows.That awful, unnatural silence that settles into your chest and presses against your lungs.The only sound in the recording now is wind rushing past, tires grinding steadily against asphalt, and someone adjusting what sounds like a radio—static, faint voices bleeding through like ghosts caught in the airwaves.
Then—barely audible—a voice breaks through.Female, maybe younger, clipped and cautious.She’s not speaking on the phone.She doesn’t even realize it’s on.
“Boss says bring her straight to Ashport Docks.No delays.He wants her on the ship by midnight.”
Cassian stiffens beside me, and I don’t need to look to know his body just snapped to full attention.
“Ashport Docks,” I whisper, the words catching on my tongue.“The woman said Ashport Docks.”
Cassian’s already pulling out his phone with one hand, fingers swiping fast, opening maps, scrolling past landmarks until he finds it.
“There,” he mutters, more to himself than to me.“Outside Cutler.North of the main route.It’s not on any civilian map.”
He tilts the screen toward me.A satellite image—coastline rugged and uneven, a vast stretch of unpatrolled water brushing up against an old access road and a series of industrial docks half-swallowed by forest.
“There won’t be any traffic cams.No patrol stations.No local oversight.It’s private property, officially abandoned.They’re driving her there now.”
My stomach turns.
“They’re going to move her by water.”
Cass nods grimly, already accessing encrypted satellite feeds and requesting aerial scans.
“She’s not supposed to leave the country,” he says, mostly to himself, is voice like ice.“But if she’s on that boat by midnight, we’ll never see her again.”
And just like that, the urgency to find her tightens, turning vicious.
We’ve got a few hours.Maybe less.
No margin for error.
ChapterFifty-Six
Cassian
In less than twenty minutes,we’ve deployed aerial surveillance—drones cutting through the night sky like bloodhounds, scanning every major and minor road between Birchwood Springs and the Maine coast.Their lenses track heat signatures, monitor vehicle speed, and feed us with real-time updates on anything moving northeast along potential exit routes.
We’re airborne too, en route to Eastmoor Bay—the quiet, unmonitored stretch of coastline where Ashport Docks sits nestled against the tree line.It’s a place forgotten by most, but perfect for anyone wanting to disappear without questions or cargo witnesses.We’ve calculated their direction, cross-checked timestamps from the audio, and barring any detours, we should arrive before they do.
The plan, as bare-bones and urgent as it is, is to intercept them before they reach the water.We’re preparing for an ambush.Every agent around the area is making their way to the docks.I’m hopeful that we’ll be rescuing Lilah, but ...there’s another layer to this kidnapping.One that presses cold against my spine no matter how hard I try to stay focused.
Rosalinda disappeared too.
The team initially assigned to Rosalinda’s surveillance—those we trusted to keep eyes on her at all times—joined the search for Delilah.
By the time agents reached her home, she was nowhere to be found.No sign of forced entry.No struggle.No neighbors saw her leave.No cameras picked up movement.
It’s like she just disappeared.
It’s like she vanished into thin air.
One moment Rosalinda was there—untouchable in her own stubborn, infuriating way, protected by agents, watched by surveillance, encased in routines we thought were secure—and the next, gone.No trace.No sound.No clue.Just the hollow silence of a house still warm from her absence, like she simply walked out of the frame of her life.
And maybe that’s what happened.
Maybe whoever took Delilah decided they couldn’t risk the woman who knew too much.Maybe they circled back to erase what was left.
Or maybe—maybe she knew something was coming.Perhaps she slipped away before they could get to her.Maybe Rosalinda ran to protect her daughter the only way she could, disappearing into shadows of her own making.
