Rafe
Teddy flies me to an airport in Santa Fe, and we drive out to the last address I have on my packmates’ phones. I still haven’t been able to reach any of them. Teddy takes the wheel while I stay on my phone, trying to call them, and grip the oh-s**t handle so hard I leave a palm print on it.
Lance had yelled something about the cartel having been brutally savaged and then, “Oh my f*****g God, you won’t believe this,” but that was all I could get other than “Rafe—come here.” The fact that he still hasn’t been in communication scares the crap out of me.
“How you doin’, man?” Teddy glances over at me. My jaw tightens, and I scroll through my phone one more time, refreshing to check for messages. Nothing.
There’s a crack, and I’m holding the pieces of the oh-s**t handle in my hand. I
