Ethan taps a key. The screens shift.
“I pulled hospital security from the last forty-eight hours,” he says. “Cross-referenced with street cams within a four-block radius. Then I overlaid it with movement patterns from the areas Ana Danbury frequented.”
Killian straightens. “You found him?”
The screen freezes on a still image of a man in a ball cap and hoodie, his face partially obscured—but not enough.
“He’s been orbiting the same zones as Basia and that poor woman,” Ethan continues. “And here’s the kicker.”
Another window opens.
“Facial recognition flagged him twice in the hospital lobby today. Different entrances. Different times.”
Damien swears under his breath. The stalker knew about Morgan’s appointment, knew Basia would accompany her.
“So where is he now?” I ask.
Ethan’s fingers fly.
“Tracked his last confirmed hit to an industrial strip in Red Hook,” he says. “Abandoned warehouse. No utilities on record. No registered tenants.”
I grab my jacket.
“Gear up,” I order. “We’re moving.”
“He’s mine,” Damien says, his voice like crunching gravel.
I grunt as I enter Ethan’s tactical room. “If you don’t let me have a piece, we’re gonna have a problem, Hale.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw, but he doesn’t protest.
I’m already wearing my Glock 19 in a cross-body harness, and a smaller Sig Sauer P365 in an ankle holster. I unbuckle and set them aside to put on a bulletproof tactical vest. I select an HK416 as my primary long gun, then strap the Glock and Sig back. As a final touch, I pick up a Benchmade SOCP Dagger.
“You’re arming up like we’re going after a small army,” Killian comments.
“He’s wily,” I muse. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he left traps.”
“That’s only if he knows we’re coming,” Ethan replies, strapping his own arsenal on. “There’s no way he can trace my searches back to us.”
“He seems paranoid enough regardless,” Damien adds.
“We’re about to see,” I say with finality. “I’m not letting this fucker breathe free air much longer.”
We roll out twenty minutes later in the armored and blacked-out van Ethan and Killian use for their work. No insignias on it—this isn’t law enforcement. We’re cleanup.
The warehouse sits squat and ugly against the river, rusted metal and broken windows staring back at us like empty eye sockets. No lights. No cars. No movement.
Too quiet.
I signal, and we fan out. Ethan stays at our backs, eyes on the tablet, feeding us thermal scans.
“Nothing,” he murmurs. “No heat signatures inside.”
I breach anyway, and the door gives with a muted crack. The smell hits me first—stale air, old oil, something metallic underneath.
We clear the space fast. Too fast—there’s no one here. Just a sleeping bag on the floor, empty food containers, a folding chair, a workstation. And maps. Notes taped to the wall. Printed photos.
Basia.
