“Sir,” the spotter said, still speaking to Lunchbox but looking at Grace. “I’m going to have to ask you to come with me to security.”
“Nope,” Lunchbox said pleasantly. “That’s not happening.”
The man’s left hand slid into his jacket pocket.
Bones murmured, almost soundless, “Weapon.”
My muscles fired.
I stepped forward at the same moment Bones closed in from the opposite flank, our approaches tight enough to squeeze the spotter into a wedge he didn’t realize existed until it was too late.
But Grace—Grace got there first and Goblin growled—low, primal, a warning with teeth. The sound froze the spotter.
Bones’ hand clamped around the man’s forearm from the right, iron-hard. I grabbed the jacket fabric at the collar from behind, jerking him back just enough to disrupt his balance.
Lunchbox planted himself between the man and Grace, voice still a calm summer breeze over a field of landmines. “Hands where I can see them, amigo.”
The spotter panicked—tried to yank his hand free, but Bones’ grip didn’t budge.
I leaned in close to the man’s ear, voice low and warm. “Bad move.”
He froze.
His hand emerged from his pocket—not with a weapon, but a radio. A tiny one. Disposable. Already half-pressed from the motion he'd started.
He hadn’t pulled it to call security. He’d pulled it to callthem.
Bones ripped it from his grip before he could speak into it. Lunchbox casually tipped it off the pier into the water.
Grace exhaled once—soundless. But her eyes behind her sunglasses were burning.
We had him. Which was good, but we also had an issue. He’d tried to report her.
And that meant Sarmiento’s people weren’t just here.
They were watching.
I tightened my grip on the man’s collar, lowering my voice. “We’re going to take a walk,” I told him. “Somewhere quiet.”
Bones met my eyes and nodded once. Lunchbox cracked his neck, ready. Grace didn’t move—but Goblin did, stepping back to heel at her side like he knew the choreography too.
Alphabet’s voice broke through the comms again, breathless with urgency.
“Guys—you need to clear the boardwalk now. I’ve got movement at Pier C. Not workers. Not security. You’ve got incoming.”
Of course we did.
The hunt wasn’t just changing shape.
It was about to hit back.
Chapter
Fifteen
GRACE
The moment AB saidincoming, the air around us snapped tight like someone had cinched the world one notch smaller. Lunchbox shifted his stance. Bones’ grip on the spotter became something carved out of iron. Goblin pressed against my leg—silent, focused, all business.
