The war room at Vaughn Industries was a fortress of steel and glass, its sleek walls lined with screens that now mocked Grayson Vaughn with their silence. Luna’s tracking signal—a fragile lifeline to his wife—had vanished forty-seven minutes ago. The warehouse in Long Island City was a dead end.

Grayson stood at the head of the conference table, gray eyes burning into the blank central monitor. His hands gripped the polished oak so tightly the wood groaned beneath his fingers. The ...