We were a ragged little army: my father in a suit that had seen better press conferences but still carried the authority of every handshake he’d ever made; Tyler with his guilty, wide eyes and a phone full of grudges; Gage, all easy muscle and quiet cursing; Mara with her steady nerves and a baseball bat she insisted could be persuasive; and me, with a duffel that still smelled faintly of Mercer Vault dust and a hunger in my chest that had nothing to do with food.
We had three things: Dominic’s last live feed location, a shaky tip from one of Tyler’s dark contacts about an off-the-books compound on the edge of town, and a very dangerous faith that we could do what the lawyers and the police wouldn’t.
“Two teams,” Dad said, voice low and carved into a plan. “Tyler and I will create a dive
