He’s already typing before I even finish the sentence, delving into his laptop with that intensely focused calm that can’t be taught. A few minutes of rapid keystrokes later, the clacking stops.
“I found it.”
Boone steps closer. “What?”
“A twenty-thousand-dollar wire transfer,” Dillon says. “Three weeks ago. From a shell corporation registered out of Delaware.”
I frown. “Who’s behind it?”
“Who do you think?” Dillon’s expression hardens. “I followed the trail just to be sure. The shell is owned by another shell, which is funded by a holding company that when you peel back enough layers, ties directly to one of Caruso’s laundering pipelines.”
Boone drops his head back, eyes narrowing in a piercing, withering glare at the ceiling, his fury locked down so tight it has nowhere to go. “She was paid to give them intel. Our location. Our routines. Maybe even where Roxie fucking sleeps if someone was stupid enough to tell her.” He closes his eyes like the sucker punch finally lands. “That stupid—” He cuts himself off, his voice cracking with rage and something dangerously close to grief. “She sold us out. Soldmeout. Again.”
“Hey,” I say, stepping in and curling a hand around his shoulder, holding on tight. “This isn’t on you.”
But he doesn’t hear me.
Dillon snaps the laptop shut. “What matters is that we know now.”
Boone braces his hands on the counter, his shoulders shaking once before he forces them still. When he finally looks up, his eyes are ice-cold. “No more chances. Tessa’s done. Caruso’s men are done. Anyone who comes near her is done, too. We’ve got eyes in town. Let’s use them.”
Adrenaline buzzes through my blood, and this time it feels right. This isn’t just a threat anymore. It’s a battle line, and someone crossed it.
Boone storms out. Even though it’s only been minutes, urgency floods my veins, impossible to ignore. I turn to Dillon. “Get on the phone. Someone in law enforcement has to be building a case against Caruso. Find out who. We’re going to need help. At the end of the day, Roxie is a witness. They’ll want to talk to her anyway.”
He nods and jumps on the phone, already digging into contacts from his hacking work. I leave Boone to burn off what he needs to so he can come back focused. I do another sweep of the perimeter from the windows.
I also call the people we have watching our backs in town, telling them to flag anything or anyone suspicious. After all our donations, anonymous and otherwise, we’ve made a lot of loyal friends.
Then I head upstairs and review last night’s feeds, focusing on the areas I know our visitor was near.
Nothing.
They knew exactly where our blind spots were.
Tessa’s fucking pictures. Roxie says she had a camera with her the other day. Shit.
By the time I make it back downstairs, I’m seething, but Dillon has news.
“I got through to FBI Agent Sarah Mitchell,” he says, gesturing me closer, phone still in hand. “She’s building a case against Caruso.”
I nod, but reality hits hard. “Local PD response time?”
“We’re too remote. Thirty to forty-five minutes,” Dillon says. “That’s what she’s worried about. She’s looping them in now.”
Thirty to forty-five minutes.
Plenty of time for Caruso or anyone he sends to do damage.
I clench my fists. The isolation I love about this place is also what makes it dangerous as hell.
I head straight to the weapons cache, moving methodically. Every magazine. Every round. Every sight. Boone’s already fortified several positions, but I map the house in my head, choke points, angles, exits.
I visualize an attack from every direction. This isn’t paranoia. It’s training. I know what being prepared looks like.
Boone finds me in the study, quietly loading magazines. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. “You’ve gone full Marine again.”
I shrug, never stopping. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe. If I have to become someone she doesn’t recognize to do it, you can bring me back when it’s over. I don’t care what it costs me as long as Roxie and the babies come out alive.”
