I ran forward, my boots splashing through a puddle of cold water.

“Talk,” Rowan said, pressing his knee heavily into the man’s wounded shoulder.

The driver grimaced, his teeth covered in blood.

“I don’t know anything,” the man gasped.

Rowan did not hesitate; he grabbed the man’s injured arm and twisted it slightly.

The man screamed, the sound echoing off the metal walls of the hangar.

“The baby,” Rowan said, his voice flat and deadly. “Where is Clara?”

“She’s not here,” the man sobbed, his eyes wide with fear. “She was never coming to the airport.”

My heart stopped, and I had to reach out to steady myself against the hot hood of the SUV.

“What do you mean she was never here?” I demanded, my voice trembling.

The man looked at me, his chest heaving as he struggled to breathe.

“It was a decoy run,” he said. “We were supposed to draw you away from the city.”

“Who gave the order?” Rowan asked, his grip tightening.

“Tessa,” the man whispered. “Tessa Whitmore.”

Rowan’s face hardened into stone.