Hawk snorted. “We didn’t like what we just found either.”
Boone’s eyes sharpened. “Try me.”
We crowded into the motel room, the stench of burnt coffee and sweat thick. Boone dropped the laptop onto the table, spinning it toward us. Lines of emails, invoices, coded memos filled the screen.
“Clinic’s just a hub,” he said, confirming what I already knew. “I traced their shipping invoices. Refrigeration units, saline, surgical packs. But here’s the kicker—they’re not billed to the clinic. They’re routed through shell companies tied to medical research grants.”
Russ leaned closer, his face tightening. “Federal funding?”
Boone nodded grimly. “Or the appearance of it. Everything leads to nonprofits and foundations on paper, but the money trails offshore. Cayman, Zurich, Panama. Somebody’s laundering a hell of a lot of cash to keep this machine greased.”
Logan swore under his breath. “That’s not cartel. That’s corporate. Government-level.”
I felt the weight of it settle over the room like a shroud. This wasn’t just about a ridge or a clinic. This was a system. A network.
Boone’s eyes flicked to me, steady. “And here’s the worst part—those feeds you tripped in the clinic?”
My chest tightened. “They were live.”
“Yeah,” Boone said, his voice low. “And someone was watching. Because the second you blew the lens, the servers spiked. They know you’re onto them now.”
The room went still.
Raine’s hand slid into mine, her grip tight. Hawk’s mouth curved into a grim smile. Blade said nothing, just pulled another knife from his belt and set to sharpening it.
Russ closed his notebook, his voice steady. “So we don’t just have enemies. We’ve got eyes.”
I straightened, my jaw locking. “Then we blind them. We cut every feed, every chain, every hand in the pie until there’s nowhere left for them to hide.”
Boone leaned back, studying me. “That’s not a mission, Stoker. That’s a war.”
“Damn right it is,” I said.
And as silence fell over the room, I realized the truth—they hadn’t just baited us tonight. They’d declared the first shot.
Now it was our turn.
70
Raine
Boone’s laptop glowed in the dim motel room, filling the air with blue light and a low hum. Lines of emails and coded invoices scrolled across the screen while Boone tapped through them, muttering under his breath like he was solving a puzzle no one else could see.
I sat beside him, trying to focus on the words, but all I could see was the clinic.
The refrigeration units. The blinking red light. The kidney sliding across the tile.
The images came faster than I could stop them, spilling from my mouth before I even realized I was talking. “Boone, you didn’t see it—the freezers, the containers, the way the air felt like it was swallowing us whole. The men, the way they looked at us like they were more scared of whoever’s paying them than of dying. And then the organ, just there on the floor, and I swear I could still smell the—”
Boone lifted one hand, palm out, his eyes never leaving the screen. “Okay. Stop.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Stop,” he said again, deadpan. “I already have nightmares, Carter. Don’t go adding kidneys to the rotation.”
For a beat, the room went silent. Then Logan groaned, Hawk smirked into his fist, and even Blade made a sound that might’ve been a laugh if he were human.
I clamped my mouth shut, half-annoyed, half-relieved. “I was just trying to explain—”
