Page 83 of Locked and Loaded

The silence on the other end of the line was louder than anything Mick could have said.

"Lennox doesn't know yet," Dragan said. "That it's probably too late."

"You're not going to tell her."

"Not without proof. Not until I can give her something concrete. She's already carrying enough guilt to drown in. If I tell her I think her sister is dead and I'm wrong⁠—”

"She'll never forgive you."

"If I tell her I think her sister is dead and I'm right, she'll blame herself. Either way, she needs to hear it when I know for sure. Not before."

"That's a hell of a weight to carry alone," Mick said.

Dragan studied the map. The routes Hassan had marked in faded ink, paths through the desert that only he knew. "She's carrying more."

Mick didn't argue. He'd seen the file. He knew what Lennox had been through. Chasing her sister across half of Europe and North Africa. Getting shot at. Watching people die. And still getting up every morning, still fighting, still refusing to quit.

"Send me everything you've got on the mansion," Dragan said. "And the yacht. I want to know who was at that auction and who took Chloe."

"I'm on it. Might take a few hours. If property records in Spain are a nightmare, yacht registrations are worse."

"I'll be here."

"Oh, I know you will. Say hi to the camels for me."

"How do you know about the camels?"

"Hassan's been posting on Instagram. The man's got a following."

Dragan ended the call before Mick could keep going. He sat in the quiet of the office tent and let the pieces turn over in his mind.

The picture changed things. They'd known Chloe was taken at an auction. They'd known Katya and Nikolai were there. But now he had a location. A real location. A mansion on Ibiza with its own dock, its own yacht, its own private auction where young women were sold like livestock.

If he could trace the mansion, he could trace the buyer. If he could trace the buyer, he could find out where they'd taken Chloe.

If she was still alive.

He stood up and walked to the tent opening. Through the gap in the canvas he spied a bit of the camp, the red tents glowing in the afternoon sun, the carpets running between them. At the far end, near the camel enclosure, he could see Lennox. She was standing next to Hassan, one hand resting on the neck of a camel, the other shading her eyes against the sun. She was wearing the white sneakers he'd found her. In the loose cotton clothes he'd left on the bed, she looked like she belonged here. Like the desert had already started to work on her the way it had worked on him all those years ago.

She was going to have to know. Eventually. When he had proof. When he could give her something solid instead of just another fear to carry.

Until then, he'd carry it for her. He'd carry it, and he'd find the mansion, and he'd find the yacht, and he'd find out who took her sister.

Whatever it took.

Dragan glanced at the screen of his phone as it vibrated. It was Kathleen's number, but he knew instinctively it was going to be Valardi on the other end. He glanced toward the door of the office tent. He’d have to keep an eye out for Lennox in case she came looking for him.

"Maric," he answered.

"Maric, it’s Valardi," came in response.

"How are you?" Dragan said, more out of reflex than actually wondering.

"Fine, but I have some bad news."

"Go ahead," Dragan said, bracing himself. Every instinct told him whatever was coming was more than just bad news. It was going to be crushing in some way.

"I was wrong. Georgiou is not in Greece. He's in Malta.”