We were getting closer.
We weren’t stumbling blind anymore.
We had a location, a name with weight, a direction.
“Then what’s next?” I asked quietly.
Bones pushed back his chair, unfolding to his full height with that military precision that always made people step aside without knowing why.
“We gear up,” he said.
“We go in,” Legend added.
“We watch everyone,” Voodoo finished.
“And we don’t stop,” AB said, “until we have a trail.”
I drew in a slow breath.
“Good,” I whispered.
Because under all the fear, grief, and exhaustion, a single truth was burning, we were hunting again.
Voodoo drummed his fingers against his thigh, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he studied me. “One more thing,” he said. “Did you bring anything in… I don’t know… touristy chic?”
I blinked. “Touristy chic?”
Legend snorted. “Translation, something that says ‘I am innocent, non-threatening, and definitely not here to watch organized crime.’”
I spread my hands. “Does such a thing exist in my wardrobe?”
Bones answered without missing a beat. “No.”
Voodoo clapped his hands once, decisive. “Alright then. We’ll fix it.”
Which was how, twenty-five minutes later, I found myself stepping out of the SUV at the port’s public-access promenade wearing aDelawaresweatshirt three sizes too big, a navy baseball cap with a crab on it, and sunglasses so large they bordered on parody.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered, pushing the brim of the hat up.
“No,” Voodoo corrected solemnly, adjusting the strap of his own camera bag, “this is camouflage.”
Legend walked past in a tacky “BIDEN COUNTRY” t-shirt and jeans, sipping iced coffee like he was preparing to review a food truck festival. “Honestly?” he said. “You look extremely normie. Can’t even see the murder in your eyes.”
Bones wore jeans, a hoodie, and a backpack—standard under-the-radar dad-on-a-day-trip gear. On him, it looked like a tactical uniform pretending to be civilian clothes. Goblin trotted happily beside him in a bright blueSERVICE ANIMALvest, which was probably the only legitimate accessory among all of us.
Even AB, who had remained at the hotel but insisted on blending in for safety, was currently wearing a local minor-league baseball cap and sending us live updates like a retired accountant moonlighting as an intel analyst.
I stared at my reflection in the SUV window—hat, sunglasses, sweatshirt.
I really did look like a tourist.
A tired tourist.
A grieving tourist.
A tourist hunting human traffickers.
“Okay,” I said, exhaling a laugh despite myself. “Fine. I look like someone here to buy saltwater taffy and take pictures of boats.”
