I didn’t remember the drive.
I didn’t remember the transfer through an underground garage, or the elevator, or the coded door that hissed open like something out of a spy movie.
I remembered Goblin’s warm flank pressed against my leg.
I remembered Bones’ hand on the small of my back anytime my steps slowed.
I remembered Legend’s voice—low and steady—telling me we were almost there.
Then we arrived at a safe house. Another one.
This one near the District, tucked between a row of narrow brick townhomes that blended so well I wouldn’t have noticed it if AB hadn’t opened the door with a loud, “Welcome to the nation’s capital, kiddos, please remove your shoes, weapons optional.”
He was trying to make me smile.
It worked. Barely.
The place was…anonymous. Clean lines, bare floors, neutral colors. The kind of temporary shelter where nothing personal was meant to remain. No pictures. No memories. No ghosts.
I dropped onto the couch before any of them could herd me anywhere else. Goblin climbed up beside me, shoved his nose under my arm, and sighed with all the weight of the world.
“Yeah,” I whispered to him. “Me too.”
Across the room, Alphabet had already commandeered the dining table. Three laptops open, phone plugged in, tablet connected, cords like veins spreading out in every direction. The digital heartbeat of the entire mess pulsed beneath his fingers.
He didn’t look up as he spoke. “Sinclair’s five names are garbage in isolation, but when you run them against shipping manifests, port clearances, and the last twelve to eighteen months of diverted cargos? We’ve got movement. Not a full trail. But movement.”
Legend slumped into an armchair opposite me, rope burns still on his hands. “Means we’re not dead in the water.”
Voodoo paced. He’d been pacing since we arrived—tight, contained circles like a lion searching for a threat it could already smell but not yet see. “Movement isn’t enough. We need a direction, and we need to know whether following it keeps Grace in play or puts her in the crosshairs.”
Bones stood behind the couch, both hands resting lightly on the back near my shoulders without actually touching me. His closeness alone was comfort.
I let out a breath that felt like it dragged broken glass out of my chest.
“So what are we doing?” My voice sounded steadier than I felt. “Going back to Montana? Staying here? Hunting for the next lead?”
AB finally tore his eyes from the screens, gaze sweeping the room before landing on me. “We’re triangulating. Every name,every container ID, every port switch Ignacio babbled, every code Sinclair vomited up—we’re stitching it together. By tonight, I’ll know which cabal branch is most active and where the shipments converged. And from that, we can figure out the most likely vector Amorette was funneled into.”
My stomach hollowed. Hearing her name still felt like stepping off a cliff.
Legend leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Montana gives us home turf. Resources. More privacy. But we lose proximity to the East Coast ports.” He jerked a thumb at AB. “And Mr. Wi-Fi Overdose here gets cranky when the bandwidth sucks.”
Alphabet lifted one finger from the keyboard. “Correction, I get homicidal when the bandwidth sucks.”
Bones ignored both of them. His voice lowered. “Grace.”
Just my name. But full of weight. “We follow your lead. If you need home—real home—we go. If you want us to keep pushing here, we stay.”
Home.
Their place had become home at some point over the past several months. As much as we’d traveled, and all the safe houses, they brought part of that home with them. They were my home.
The word punched something deep in my ribcage. I wanted it. God, I wanted the pine air, the mountains, the quiet. I wanted my bed or theirs. I wanted to sleep without seeing Sinclair’s face or hearing Ignacio sob.
But Amorette wouldn’t be in Montana.
Time kept slipping away.
