Damon's POV
"Godson, where exactly is she?" I asked, my voice sharp, urgent, barely holding back the tidal wave of panic building inside me.
"Ten miles west of the last checkpoint," Godson answered quickly, tone clipped but steady. "Near a forgotten dirt road off Route 42. A trucker spotted a kid lying there—bruised, barely conscious."
I slammed my fist hard against the dashboard. Ten miles. Ten miles of precious time that might have meant the difference between life and death for Lila.
The city lights disappeared behind us, swallowed by thick darkness and looming pines. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel so hard my knuckles ached.
"Godson," I said through gritted teeth, "you and two men come with me. We move fast. No mistakes. No second chances."
"Understood," he replied, already fastening his seatbelt.
The engine roared louder, the tires biting into gravel as we tore through the night, cold wind whipping through the cracked windows carrying pine and fear.
