We turned off the highway onto a dirt spine of road. A chain blocked the entrance. Bolt cutters solved it. We killed the lights and rolled to a stop beneath pines that whispered like conspirators.

The club had flanked through the trees—no roar, just quiet purpose. Rescue, not war.

“You can stay with the cars,” Grizz said.

I shook my head. “I need to see this through.”

We moved toward the shack. A thin band of light bled through a grimy window. Inside, a man’s voice wavered high and mean: “No one’s coming for you, kid. They’ll never find you here.”