Page 62 of If You Go
“Now, I am ready to be transferred when you are.”
“Okay, I will transfer you now, sir, one moment.”
The hold music begins and then suddenly stops. For a beat, I taste the room’s stale air.
He grunts, then a voice I despise comes through.
“This is Gavin.”
The conversation unfolds like a choreographed dance where I already know all the steps. His voice—that particular blend of honey and gravel—slides through the phone and settles in my ear like an infection. Each word lands with the precision of a boxer's jab: calculated, measured, designed to wound without leaving visible marks. My knuckles whiten around the receiver as heat crawls up my neck, my jaw clenching so hard I can hear my molars grinding. The familiar rage builds not in waves but in concentric circles, expanding outward from my chest until myfingertips tingle with it. I did my part and kept him on long enough to serve its purpose, both for getting a location and to ignite the war drums in my soul.
“Got the location on his work phone,” Corver says without ceremony. “It’s a landline. I need more digging to find his cell. Also–weird–trackers are pinging on all your phones. All of yours are safe. Surry’s phone shows a Seattle ping.”
“Seattle?” Sam blinks; the word lands in the room like a thrown brick.
I run out of the room. My feet carry me to Surry’s room, my heart a fist. The door is cracked, the light a sliver. I push it open, and the small world I’ve been holding–the covers, the scent of her–is gone. The bed is empty, sheets bunched over nothing. Her phone is gone. Her side of everything has been stripped.
“ALISHA!” I roar. The name echoes off crown molding, and within breaths, Alisha barrels in, breath ragged.
“What is it–” she starts, but then she sees the bed and the words leaves her throat sounding dry and cracked. “Where is she?”
“Who is supposed to be watching her?” Names spill out, panicked — Richie, Hazel, Juniper. They come running, faces ashen. Selene lurches in, limping, the sight of her sister’s empty bed collapsing something inside her.
“Who was with her?” I bark. No one answers quickly enough. Hazel’s voice breaks; she was in Selene’s room. Time slipped. It’s always time, slipping. Selene starts crying, and the house tilts. I don’t have patience for anyone’s grief right now. Surry is gone.
My knees hit the floor before I fall to the side, like I can feel every second. The room spins. I clamp my hands on my knees. Something sharp and animal snaps in me. The part that wants to tear out throats. Josh punches me in the chest. Hard. I didn’t see the fist coming; it lands, and the pain is an anchor.
“Get your fucking head on straight, man,” he says. “She took a small boat. Black clothes, sunglasses, hood. She wasn’t taken in a truck. She went willingly. I don’t know how we missed it. Gavin called, Corver checked the call logs. He must have threatened her, or Bridget. We need a plan.”
A small boat. She chose it. A hundred versions of why tumble through my skull, and I’m dizzy with them: guilt, relief, fury, helplessness. If she went, why didn’t she tell me? Why did she think she had to go alone?
I look at Stefan. “Do you have gear here? If not, I’ll hit Ballard and grab mine.”
Stefan gives that slow, dry grin. “Ah, me son. I’ve all that an’ more, I do.” He taps the table with a ring, and the men who move under his orders already shift into lines I recognize.
We march back into the office, and Corver is already back in his world, eyes blue with code. “I’m in a backup office,” he says, but he’s doing work right now. “Arnie’s gone to Tacoma. Gunnar’s going to help me move closer when I find the Warehouse I am sure he will end up in if the intel on Natasha is good. I’m pulling every feed.”
“Good,” I say. “We will pack up here and head that direction. Let us know the location to meet you in Seattle.” Corver nods, and the rest of us move out to collect what we will need.
Before I exit, I place my open hand on Sam's chest, feeling his heartbeat hammer against my palm. His jaw tightens, a muscle twitching beneath the three-day stubble that darkens his face. "We get her back," I say, my voice barely above a whisper but hard as tempered steel. My eyes meet his—two mirrors reflecting the same desperate fury, the same raw fear.
“I can’t lose her again, Brenden. I won’t. It was bad enough the first time.” His gaze holds mine for a breath, and I give him a single, sharp nod. I understand. I turn away, boots scuffingagainst concrete as I fall in step with the rest of the men, their weapons gleaming dully under the fluorescent lights.
We move fast because there’s only one direction that matters: forward. Bags are thrown together. Stefan’s boats are loaded with the kind of kit that smells like rubber and oil and certainty. We don black and pack light. The chatter is clipped, everyone running on coffee and adrenaline. There’s no room to be sentimental in the hull of speed boats hurtling east; that will come later, if we live.
On the way to Seattle, the world goes by in strips of bright sun, which is unusual for Washington this time of year, and industrial coastlines. Corver calls from the backup office; he’s already scraping the grid and turning over cameras. Gunnar texts an ETA. Arnie is standing by in Tacoma; we’ll bring him in if we need the muscle. Right now, he serves us better by being attached to his screens.
We get to the safe house Corver keeps, a nondescript block building with one of those garage doors you’d ignore if you saw it every day. It smells like electronics and takeout. Corver and Gunnar arrive within the hour, faces set and ready. We are not far from the coast, near a section of warehouses, praying to whatever god might listen that these will be the right ones. They dump laptops, lay maps, and immediately start overlaying feeds.
After two hours, Corver yells, “Found her!” Flipping the screen, the map zooms to a strip of brown warehouses on the east side. “Old industrial lot. One big derelict shed. Looks like the description of where Natasha was rumored to be held.”
Adrenaline hits like a second heartbeat. The room gets quieter; the panic crystallizes into a shape we can answer.
“We go tonight?” Josh asks. He’s ragged and ready. It’s about four in the afternoon right now, so we have a few hours until dark. So now we need to lock in a solid plan.
I run my hand over the map until the lines blur. Kill the chatter, make a plan that doesn't put her in more danger. But we’re not kids throwing stones. We do this once, and we do it right.
“Corver, get more eyes on the building. Gunnar, call in anything you need to get now, prep staging. Josh, be ready to move with me to the front. Sam, you’re with the exit team. Arnie stays on standby in Tacoma in case we need a diversion.” I keep it plain because plain is what people can hold to. Stefan, are you men ready to move with us?
