Page 72 of Peak’s Code

Maeve's eyes widened. "Wren wasn't telling us where she was; she was telling us when they'd move her."

Peak's heart started pounding. They'd been looking at the clue all wrong. It wasn’t a destination, but a deadline. He checked the clock. It was 4:12 a.m.

Maeve was already searching offline tide charts stored in the mapping software. "There." She pointed to the screen. "High tide."

Peak read the screen. "5:38 a.m." Silence filled the motel room. That was in less than ninety minutes. Whatever the Director planned, it was happening before sunrise.

Peak looked at Warden. "Call Ruin."

The Enforcer already had his phone out. "I’ve got no signal." Peak cursed.

Maeve looked toward the window and the storm brewing outside. "The towers have too much interference."

Peak grabbed his kutte. "We're done waiting."

Warden smiled. "Now you're talking."

Peak holstered his pistol before turning toward Maeve. "You stay behind me."

She folded her arms over her chest. "No."

"I'm serious,” he insisted.

"So am I,” she said. He opened his mouth to respond, but she beat him to it. "I'm the only one who recognizes Wren's code."

"I know."

"I'm also the only one the Director actually wants, and if they're expecting us—” She stepped closer to him and stared him down. “They're expecting you to protect me."

Peak frowned. "So?"

"So let's stop doing what they expect." For a second, nobody spoke.

Warden grinned. "I like her."

Peak sighed. "Yeah, so do I." Maeve looked up at him, and a tiny smile tugged at her lips despite everything.

"We're going to get your president back,” she promised.

Peak held her gaze. "And your sister." He wasn't making a promise; he was stating a fact. Somewhere out there, Captain was waiting. Somewhere else, Wren Carter was still leaving breadcrumbs for the sister she refused to believe had given up. Peak wasn't about to prove her wrong.

He opened the motel door. The rain had finally stopped, and the sky over Maryland was beginning to lighten with the first gray hints of dawn. And somewhere across the Eastern Shore, the tide was coming in.

Maeve

The rain had finally stopped. Water dripped from the motel roof in a steady rhythm as Maeve climbed into Warden's battered pickup. The truck smelled faintly of gun oil, leather, and black coffee that had probably been sitting in the cup holder since yesterday.

Peak slid into the driver's seat, and she looked at him. "You driving?"

Warden tossed Peak the keys. "My truck blends in better than your bike, even though you drive like a grandma.”

Peak caught the keys without looking. "My grandmother drove better than you."

"She also drove thirty-five everywhere,” Warden countered.

"She lived to eighty-seven,” Peak said.

Warden grunted. "Fair point." Despite everything, Maeve smiled. She was beginning to understand the strange language of motorcycle clubs. Insults meant affection, arguments meant trust, and silence meant something was wrong.