Marcus shrugged.“You’re overthinking.For months this guy’s been a ghost.Tomorrow, for the first time, he’s a target we can actually see.This is huge.You should be excited.”
“I’msomething,” she muttered.
Marcus leaned forward.“You’ve done everything right.The op’s tight, the teams are ready, the Bureau’s actually workingwiththe locals for once.This is the best shot we’ve had since he went underground.”
Kate rubbed her forehead.“Tommy worries me.He was playing to the crowd today.You saw it.He loved the attention — the briefing, the gear, the stage-time.He doesn’t grasp what’s at stake.He’s treating it like a ride-along.”
“He’ll settle to it,” Marcus said.
“You hope.He’s written this half-coherent account of his dealings with Cox, and even now he admits there are names he can’t remember.How do we know he’ll even remember his lines tomorrow?”
Marcus smiled faintly.“People like Tommy don’t forget when it really counts.You’ll see.I’ve got a good feeling about this.”
She looked at him.“You actually mean that, don’t you?”
“I do.Cox has been haunting you — haunting all of us — for too long.And tomorrow we finally get to shut the door on him.That’s not just a good feeling, Kate.That’s history.”
She didn’t answer.
He finished his water, stood, and stretched.“Go to bed.Seriously.You’re no use to anyone running on caffeine and adrenaline.”
Kate nodded.“Yeah.Soon.”
He hesitated in the doorway.“You’ll see, partner.Tomorrow we end this.”
When he was gone, the room was quiet again except for the rain and the faint buzz of the TV.She switched it off, leaving only the city’s dim glow seeping through the blinds.
She tried to believe Marcus.She really did.
But somewhere in the dark, the image of her father’s body returned — and the figure standing over him, turning, silver hair spilling from the hood.
She closed her eyes, but the vision stayed.
And she knew, with the slow, certain dread that came from long experience, that dreams like that weren’t dreams at all.
They were warnings.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Friday February 28th
The church had grown colder as the night deepened.
Every sound travelled in it—the tick of cooling stone, the whisper of rain finding cracks in the roof, the occasional sigh from Tommy Rodrigues.
Kate sat hunched beneath the gallery steps, collar up, eyes on the narrow strip of moonlight cutting across the nave.The place smelled of mildew, old incense and unwashed people.Close on seven hours.Seven hours of waiting, listening to the same empty situation reports crackle through the radio: nothing seen, nothing heard.
It was the kind of waiting that bred fury.
Rodrigues’s cough had started as a polite throat-clear, then grown into a steady, rasping bark.Every time it came, it bounced off the church walls, shredding what little patience she had left.
Marcus had disappeared somewhere behind the pulpit, pretending to patrol but mostly just pacing the stone aisle to stay warm.She could picture him there now—hands in pockets, jaw clenched, the outline of his breath misting in front of him.
The radio hissed.
"Unit Four.Negative.Streets clear."
Another pause.Then: "Unit Five.Negative."
