“And you know that revenge won’t fix what she did. Won’t undo the trauma.”
“It’s not about revenge,” Brendan said quietly. “It’s about accountability. Sylvia thought she could sell my daughter and walk away. She needs to understand that actions have consequences.”
“Just be careful. For Emma’s sake. She needs her father.”
“That’s exactly why I’m doing this.”
Raymond was waiting for Brendan outside the building.
“I talked to Adrien. He’s a mess. Keeps saying he should have seen it coming.”
“He should have.”
“Cut him some slack, man. He genuinely didn’t know. Sylvia kept him in the dark about everything—the gambling, the debts, all of it. He found her laptop hidden in the garage. That’s what made him turn over the evidence.”
Brendan felt a flicker of something that might have been sympathy, but it was buried under too much anger.
“Adrien made his choices. He picked Sylvia, defended her, tried to convince me to give her custody of Emma. He doesn’t get absolution just because he finally opened his eyes.”
“Fair enough.”
Raymond pulled out a tablet.
“I did some digging. Called in some favors with folks who owe me. Sylvia emptied her bank accounts—about eighty grand total—the same day as the auction. She used three credit cards to buy plane tickets under her real name, probably as decoys. But I found something interesting. She owns a cabin in West Virginia, inherited from her parents. Deed is in her maiden name, Hines. The property is remote, off-grid. Perfect place to hide while planning your next move.”
Brendan took the tablet, studying the satellite photos of a small structure deep in Monongahela National Forest.
“You sure?”
“I pulled her cell records from before she ditched the phone. She made three calls to a number registered to a prepaid phone activated two weeks ago. That phone last pinged off a tower fifteen miles from this cabin.”
“Who was she calling?”
“No idea. But whoever it is, they’re helping her disappear.”
Raymond met Brendan’s eyes.
“What are you going to do?”
“What needs to be done.”
“Want company?”
Brendan considered it. Having backup was always smart. But this was personal in a way that went beyond tactics and strategy. This was about a line that had been crossed, a violation so profound that the rules no longer felt real.
“No. This one’s mine.”
“At least take this.”
Raymond handed over a small device.
“GPS tracker. Keep it on you. If you’re not back in three days, I’m coming in.”
“Three days is plenty.”
The cabin was exactly as remote as the satellite photos had suggested. Brendan approached on foot, having parked his truck five miles away and hiked in through dense forest. It was early morning, the kind of gray pre-dawn light that made everything look washed out and unreal.
Smoke rose from the cabin chimney.
Someone was home.
Brendan circled the structure looking for security measures. There was a camera hidden in a tree, cheap wireless, the kind you could buy at any electronics store. He disabled it with a well-placed stone. No alarms sounded.
The cabin had two windows and one door. Through the dirty glass, he could see Sylvia sitting at a small table, a laptop open in front of her. She looked haggard, her hair unwashed, dark circles bruising the skin beneath her eyes. She wore the same clothes from the family photo on Adrien’s Facebook—designer jeans and a cashmere sweater, now rumpled and stained.
She wasn’t alone.
A man sat across from her, his back to the window. Brendan couldn’t see his face, but the body language was familiar. Someone military-trained, or former law enforcement. The way he held himself, the alertness even at rest.
Brendan settled into a crouch behind a fallen log and waited.
Patience was something SEALs learned early. Sometimes the best action was no action. Not until the moment was perfect.
Twenty minutes later, the man stood and stretched. Brendan finally got a look at his face and felt a jolt of recognition.
Daryl Hansen.
Another dishonorably discharged soldier who had worked with Stanton’s trafficking network. The intel had listed him as potentially involved but unconfirmed.
Now Brendan had confirmation.
Hansen grabbed a coat and headed for the door.
“I’m going to check the perimeter,” he called back to Sylvia. “Keep that laptop closed. If they’re tracking your online activity—”
“I know, I know,” Sylvia snapped. “Just hurry up. I want to get moving by tonight.”
The door closed behind him.
Brendan watched Hansen walk a predictable patrol route—north side, west side, checking the trees and sight lines.
Amateur hour.
Hansen was worried about distant threats, not someone who had already infiltrated his perimeter.
When Hansen’s back was turned, Brendan moved.
He crossed the clearing in absolute silence, coming up behind the man with the practiced ease of countless similar operations. The chokehold was textbook, cutting off blood flow to the brain, not air to the lungs. Hansen struggled for maybe five seconds before going limp.
Brendan zip-tied him, gagged him, then dragged him into the trees. He would wake up eventually, but by then it would be too late to matter.
The cabin door was unlocked.
Sylvia was so confident in her isolation, in her planning, that she never heard Brendan enter. He crossed the space in three long strides and had his pistol pressed against the back of her head before she could scream.
“Don’t move. Don’t speak.”
