Voodoo chimed in next from their SUV. “On your six. Firecracker, you good?”
“I’m perfect,” she said, leaning forward between the seats. “Are we heading to the safe house first or…?”
“My Miami contact confirmed Dvorak was at a warehouse in Little River this morning. Left fifteen minutes before wheels down,” Voodoo answered.
We pulled out of the private side of the airport, weaving into traffic. Miami had its own pulse—cars darting, horns blaring, palm trees whipping in the wind. So alive it was almost distracting.
Bones grunted. “Good timing. For once.”
“We need to check traffic cams,” Lunchbox said, tone shifting into mission mode. “You’re up, Alphabet.”
I already had my laptop open and attached to the wifi available in the vehicle. Honestly, the ability to be online everywhere made my job so much fucking easier. I flicked through the feeds, fingers flying, hacking into the city’s real-time camera loop under multiple spoofed addresses. Dvorak wasn’tcareful. He was arrogant. He moved like he wasn’t afraid of being followed.
“Got him,” I said. “Silver BMW, custom plate. Heading east. Looks like he’s heading to the Marina District. Or one of the hotels in that area.”
“Good to know he’s stupid,” Voodoo muttered.
Grace leaned in, eyebrows rising. “Is he stupid? Or is he arrogant? How could he even know we would be looking?”
“Arrogant. Someone in his position should assume someone is always looking.” Bones shook his head. He wasn’t wrong. Anyone in a position of power who handled the kind of things Dvorak did was practically waving a red flag to get attention with his custom plates.
Nose wrinkling, Grace leaned back in her seat. “So we’re heading to a marina?”
I marked the route on our shared map. “ETA for us, twenty minutes with traffic.”
Grace touched my arm, a soft brush grounding me. “What if he changes his route?”
Blowing out a breath, I headed back to monitor the reports coming in from the bot I’d released. “Tracking his license plate right now, any deviations, including not exiting near the marina and I’ll have the updates.”
Bones navigated over to the fast lane like a Nascar pro. “How do we want to handle him? Bag and tag? Surveillance? Intimidation?”
Amusement speared me at Bones’ list. All were viable.
“Conversation,” Grace said sweetly.
I shot her a look. “Conversation first.”
Her smile widened and while sunglasses hid her eyes, I’d bet they were glowing. “Bullet later.”
Voodoo laughed. “You sweet talker.”
The warmth of that settled in my chest—quick and bright, like a spark in dry tinder. I scanned the traffic feed again. “Okay. Dvorak just parked. Marina District. South pier.”
“Tourist side or private docks?” Bones asked.
“Private.”
Voodoo whistled. “Expensive taste. Means he thinks he’s safe.”
“He’s not.” I shifted screens to look for cameras at the marina. I wanted to know where Dvorak was going. Specifically.
The Marina District glittered like money dipped in sunshine. Private yachts, sleek hulls, polished rails. Everything gleamed with the quiet smugness of the wealthy who thought they were invisible.
Bones pulled into a lot two blocks away, tucked the SUV between a pair of oversized pickup trucks. Voodoo and Lunchbox parked opposite us.
Salt wind hit the second our doors opened, humid and warm enough that even Goblin huffed.
I did a quick scan of the marina feeds from my phone, linking them to my laptop.
