Grayson
The headline glares up at me from my phone screen, and ice shoots through my veins.
Ten girls, ages three to seven, missing in Moonshadow Creek over the past month.
Fuck.
My gut knots hard. There's only one thing this could mean.
Some sick bastard is trafficking kids again.
It's been eleven years since the Moonshadow Creek m******e—since I put a bullet in my father's skull and wiped out every piece of s**t that worked with him. But the memories never fade.
I can still see those cages in the clubhouse basement. Still hear the rusted hinges scream when we forced them open. Still remember the way those little girls looked at us—silent, terrified, too broken to believe hope was real.
We freed them. Sent them back to their families. Prayed like hell it was over for good.
But it
