“Heather Walton,” she shouted, “fifty million in cash and an unmarked helicopter at the airfield. Come alone. One police officer, and your child pays.”

The feed went dark.

Grant looked at me. “You’re not going in there alone.”

“She wants to see me beg on my knees,” I said, sliding Phoebe’s shoe into my coat pocket. “So I’ll give her exactly the performance she wants.”

Chapter 9 — The Warehouse

The warehouse sat in an industrial zone by the river, ringed by abandoned garages and rusted containers. I walked through the sliding doors with a black duffel bag, in a long trench coat, hair pulled back.

Gwendolyn stood on an elevated steel walkway with four hired men. Phoebe was tied to a support pillar nearby.