He hit the side of the table with the heel of his hand hard enough to make the laptop jump.
“We’re out of time,” he said.
My fear sharpened into action. “Then we go.”
He hesitated just long enough to weigh what not telling me would cost against what telling me would.
Then he picked up his phone and dialed a number he clearly did not use lightly.
The moment the line connected, his whole demeanor changed—more formal, more direct.
“Uncle Ben. It’s Elias. We found Sterling’s tracker. Asheville area. Jordan is already on her way and she may be walking into it blind. I’m sending the coordinates now. I need support.”
I heard a man’s voice answer, deep and controlled, though I could not make out the exact words.
Elias listened, nodded once, and said, “Thirty minutes. Understood.”
He ended the call and turned toward me.
“Who is Uncle Ben?” I asked.
“A man Sterling trusted. A man Victor does not want involved.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have time to give.”
He copied every file from the USB and the micro SD card onto two encrypted drives, sealed one in a padded envelope, and handed the other to me.
“Keep this on you.”
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
We locked eyes. He saw at once that I was not bluffing.
“Amara,” he said, more softly, “if this turns into what I think it might, it will not be safe.”
“My husband may be alive. Jordan may already be in danger. I am done sitting in safe rooms waiting for other people to decide my life for me.”
He held my gaze another second, then gave a short resigned nod.
“All right. But once we get there, you follow instructions exactly.”
We left Atlanta in a rush of headlights and bad coffee, the city falling behind us as the highway unspooled into dark miles and mountain curves. Elias drove fast but not recklessly. He never seemed hurried in the visible sense. He just moved with the concentration of someone who had already accepted the stakes.
The farther north we went, the more my thoughts splintered.
What if the tracker was old?
What if Sterling had hidden it to mark a place, not his own location?
What if Jordan was already there, already trapped, already silenced?
And worst of all: what if hope had returned only to make the final blow harsher?
We arrived near Asheville close to dawn, but the place itself was far from the postcard version of Asheville people imagine—the breweries, the art galleries, the mountain weekend crowds. This was beyond that. A remote property outside town on rough land overlooking dark water, shielded by trees and stone walls and distance. The kind of estate built for privacy and maintained by people with something to hide.
An old mansion sat on the rise, half renovated and half decaying, all sharp corners and shadow. Lights glowed in only a few windows. A service road curved around the back. Security cameras were fixed under the eaves. More than one vehicle was parked out front.
A small team was already assembled at a turnout below the ridge.
Men in dark jackets. Quiet voices. Equipment cases. No wasted movement.
And in the middle of them stood Uncle Ben.
He looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties, broad in the shoulders, silver at the temples, wearing a simple dark overcoat that somehow made him look more authoritative, not less. He did not project drama. He projected command.
When Elias introduced me, Uncle Ben studied me with grave, measuring eyes.
“You’re Sterling’s wife.”
“Yes.”
