In 1891, in a small town near Toronto, an elderly Black man breathed his last on a simple wooden bed. Around him stood his wife, his children, his grandchildren—a full family, strangely peaceful. Before closing his eyes, he whispered seven words into the ear of the woman who had shared more than half his life: “I found them all… just as I promised.”She tightened her grip on his hand. She understood. The world did not.Because fifty-three years earlier, in Natchez, Mississippi, Daniel Cross had been nothing more than a slave—obedient, quiet, skilled at the forge, and convinced that if he kept his head low enough, his family would be spared. He was wrong.One morning in March 1858, his wife’s scream tore through the plantation yard. Daniel ran outside to see her dragged onto a wagon, his eldest son bloodied and motionless, his daughter frozen in shock, and his youngest screaming in the arms of a stranger. It all happened within minutes. In the silence of guns and rope. In the eyes of a man who, for the first time, understood what it meant to lose everything.“Your family has no value,” the plantation owner said, as calmly as if selling livestock.The wagon rolled away. Just before it turned off the red dirt road, his wife looked back and spoke a single sentence—one sentence that would change the course of her own life, and the lives of those who sold her.“Find our children.”That night, Daniel returned to the forge. He lifted the hammer. The fire still burned. But the man standing before the anvil was no longer the obedient slave he had once been.And from that moment on, a hunt began—not the hunt of a predator… but of the prey.