Lazarus’s hands clenched around the phone.
The photo didn’t change.
His daughter.
A blood-slick knife grazing her skin.
Terror in her wide eyes.
The kind of terror he hadn’t seen since the day her mother died.
Vincent stepped into the room, still shirtless, his knuckles bruised from training. “You’ve gone pale.”
Lazarus didn’t look up. He simply turned the screen toward him.
Vincent froze.
His jaw tightened. “Where was that sent from?”
“Anonymous number. Scrambled IP.” Lazarus’s voice was flat, dangerous.
Vincent leaned over the phone, zooming in on the background. “Industrial lighting. Old pipes. Could be a warehouse. Southside, maybe?”
Lazarus stood abruptly.
“Get me every camera feed within a five-mile radius of our last Southside raid,” he said. “And bring Selene. Now.”
V
