Chapter 9 · The Guy Who Sold Her

Marcus wasn't at the north gate.

I stood there in the shadow of the rusted loading crane, breath fogging in the cold, and felt the weight of every bad decision I'd made in the past forty-eight hours settle onto my shoulders like wet concrete.

Karl was behind me, back to the fence, watching the access road. He hadn't said a word since we left the alley. His coat was still splattered with blood from the auction house. Mine too. We looked like extras from a horror movie who'd forgotten to go home.

"He's not coming," I said.

Karl didn't answer. He was listening to something I couldn't hear.

The railyard stretched out in front of us—empty boxcars, cracked asphalt, weeds growing through the rails. It smelled like rust and old diesel. The kind of place where people got dumped and didn't get found till spring.

"Amy."

I turned. Karl's eyes had gone flat. That dead-calm look he got right before things went sideways.

"They're here," he said.

I heard the engines then. Two of them. Maybe three. Coming fast.

Headlights swept across the fence line, and I saw the first SUV roll through the south gate—