One dead at nineteen after pulling a trigger in panic.
The other molded into a weapon and dropped into my life like a long-burning fuse.
Marcus Vulov had destroyed both his sons.
Now he was trying to destroy me.
The storage unit changed around us after that. It stopped feeling like a hidden room and became a command post.
FBI tactical agents arrived in dark vests carrying cases, laptops, and hard-sided gear. The air thickened with radio chatter and urgency.
Carter pulled up a thermal image of a building.
“Your mother is here,” he said. “Abandoned meat-packing plant on East Riverside. We’ve had eyes on it for the last two hours.”
I leaned in.
Two heat signatures glowed in one of the rooms. One adult-sized.
The other small.
“That’s a child,” I said.
“Yes.”
I looked at Carter.
“Whose child?”
He opened another document.
