My mother invited my 18-year-old daughter on a family vacation, then abandoned her at the airport after using her as a driver. When their plane landed, one phone call had already changed everything.

"Ella!" I screamed into the radio, my voice tearing through the subterranean tunnel. "Ella, answer me!"

Static hissed through the receiver, followed by the harsh, metallic sound of a physical radio being crushed beneath a heavy boot. Then silence.

Hank didn't hesitate. He broke into a dead sprint back up the concrete stairs, his weapon drawn, with Thomas and me hot on his heels. We burst out of the annex into the freezing courtyard, the cold air hitting our faces like a slap of ice water.

Fifty yards away, the front entrance of our brand-new gallery was shattered. The heavy tempered glass doors lay in thousands of glittering shards across the pine deck. Inside, the two federal protective officers were on the floor—one groaning, clutching a bloody shoulder wound, the other unconscious against the reception counter.

Ella was gone.

On the floor where she had been sitting lay her laptop, its screen smashed, and beside it, an antique silver pocket watch.

I fell to my knees and picked it up. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely open the casing. Inside was an inscription carved thirty-five years ago:

*To Victor, with all my love. Evelyn. 1982.*

"They took her in a commercial flatbed," the wounded federal officer gasped, struggling to sit up against the counter. "Four men... tactical gear... unmarked plates. They were using military flashbangs. We didn't even have time to clear leather."

"Where did they head?" Hank demanded, ripping open his field trauma kit to bandage the officer’s shoulder while barking coordinates into his satellite radio.

"North," the officer choked out. "Toward the Blackwood gorge. Up the logging grade."

"He took her to the high trestle," I said, my voice dropping into a deadly, ice-cold stillness that shocked even Hank. The terror that had gripped my chest vanished, replaced by an ancient, predatory rage.

"Heather, you can't go up there alone," Hank said, rising to his feet, his eyes searching mine. "Julian has thirty years of local logistics experience and a private mercenary security force paid for by Victor’s offshore trust. It’s an ambush."

"He doesn't want money, Hank," I said, looking down at Victor Vance's silver watch. "He wants the eradication of Arthur's bloodline. Evelyn spent forty years hating my father, hating Sarah, and hating me because Arthur exposed Victor Vance's first illegal land grab in 1980. This isn't about lithium. It’s about Evelyn's revenge."

Thomas stepped forward, his eyes blazing under his woolen cap. He racked the slide on his Remington shotgun with a sound that echoed like a rifle shot across the empty showroom.

"He took Arthur’s granddaughter," Thomas said, his voice trembling with mountain fury. "Julian thinks the drivers in this valley belong to him. He’s about to find out who really built these roads."

Thomas pulled out his heavy-duty two-way radio, dialed it to the emergency emergency timber-band frequency, and keyed the mic.

"All valley haulers, this is Shop Foreman Thomas," his voice boomed over the airwaves. "Code Red on North Mountain. Arthur’s girl has been taken by Vance mercenaries. Block the turnpikes. Seal the state line. Bring every rig with a diesel engine to the base of the high trestle. Now."

Across the valley, through the static of thirty years of family history, the radio crackled back with a dozen voices:

*Station 4 rolling.*

*Rockingham timber company rolling.*