A masked figure reached through the shattered window and seized her arm. I lunged across the seat and wrapped my arms around her waist, but something struck my shoulder — a pipe — and my vision blurred.

When the smoke cleared, my daughter was gone. Only one of her pink shoes lay on the seat.

I didn’t cry. I picked up the small shoe, pressed it to my chest, and felt a cold, absolute rage settle over me.

Three minutes later, Grant’s helicopter set down on an intersection our security had cordoned off. “Block every interstate exit, seal the local airfields, alert all regional teams,” he said into his radio.

“Nothing leaves this district without my clearance.”

My phone buzzed with a video. Phoebe, tied to a chair inside an old warehouse, crying without a sound. Gwendolyn appeared, makeup smeared, eyes manic, holding the camera.