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“Where are you?”

“Abandoned service station.”

“Any injuries?”

“Holt has a cut above his eye.”

“I don’t have a cut,” Holt says in the background.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s a scratch.”

“That means he’s fine,” Kane says.

“What happened?”

“They tried to push us off the road. Trent shot one of their tires. Their driver overcorrected and introduced the SUV to a ditch.”

“Did you approach?”

“After they started shooting.”

Hayley stops pacing.

“How did they know you were coming?” I ask.

“They were waiting near the highway.”

“For any Iron Ridge vehicle?”

“We switched vehicles.”

Cold settles inside me.

“Then they knew who was inside.”

“That’s what we thought.”

“Search them.”

“Already did.”

Paper rustles near the phone.

“One has photographs.”

“Of what?”

“Us.”

Not the company vehicles.

Not the compound.

The men.

“Kane Bishop,” Kane reads. “Trent Calloway. Holt Lawson.”