We reach the tree line, and Julian stops. He turns to me, fingers still tangled in mine.
"You know what happens next?" he asks.
"No," I say. "And I don’t care."
He laughs, a deep rumble that spreads through his chest. "That’s my girl."
Then he leans in, presses his mouth to my ear, and whispers: "We’ve got a surprise for you."
Chapter 14: Julian
Themoonisrisingquickly above the parking lot. Everything is in place and all I feel is a numb acceptance that we are finally enacting our plan. There is no wind, only the low hum of blood pressure rising as we stand in a circle, a mess of hardened faces, ready.
Bam stands fingers in his pockets, casually, knuckles already sheathed in brass. He wears black jeans, a hoodie, and a belt with various knives attached to it. Next to him, Colton blends into the night—tactical fleece zipped to his chin, black gloves, a gun in the back of his jeans.
Caius flicks a cigarette onto the ground, and sweeps the assembly with a single, perfect glance. His hair is tamed byproduct, his jawline knife-edged, his coat tailored in a way that says he expects to be photographed at the scene of the crime. He carries a duffel bag. The bag hits the ground and nobody flinches.
Rhett closes the back of the truck bed, takes a swig of some energy drink, and gestures us closer.
Caius clears his throat. No one speaks, not even Bam. Authority runs like an electric current from him, a voltage that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with inevitability.
"Bam. Julian. You take the first house." His voice is velvet over steel. "Harrington sleeps with his alarm on but never arms the interior sensors. Hit the side door by the pool, cut the master to the security panel, and don't kill the dogs. He likes them more than his children."
Bam grins, teeth shining under the streetlights. "Copy."
"Colton, you and Rhett take Ellis and Roth, Slade will go with you."
Colton nods, silent. Rhett just rolls his neck, bones popping.
Caius steps in, standing in the center, and opens the duffel. He hands each of us a radio, pre-tuned and labeled. Mine is set to channel 2, with a spare battery taped to the back. He tosses out gloves, headsets, black balaclavas. "No names on the comms. No fingerprints. Slade has men on perimeter; if you need extra muscle, just call. The rest of you, take the Board, find Steele andMarcus and bring them all to the ritual site. There’s burlap sacks in the duffle that you need to bring for your targets, use them."
Slade stands at the edge of the lot, leaning against the fender of a Ford truck, massive arms crossed, face like a meat grinder, but his attention never drifts from the mission. He’s surrounded by men of his own, all ex-military types.
"We clear?" Caius asks, but it isn't a question.
Bam grabs his gloves. "Clear.”
The plan unfolds in three lines, four vehicles, and the perfect confidence that nobody will stop us. Bam and I pile into the black Land Rover, windows already tinted, plates swapped for the night. I drive, because Bam is a weapon, not a tactician.
The streets are empty, the world reduced to a grid of security lights and wet asphalt. Bam hums under his breath, sometimes pounding the dash in time with the music playing in his head.
"You think they know we're coming?" he says.
"They know they're not safe," I answer. "That's enough."
The Harrington house is a contemporary sprawl in the far west subdivision, all windows and angles and blue-lit landscaping. We park two blocks down and cut through the hedges. Bam vaults the gate with the joy of a kid at a playground. I follow,counting the motion detectors—every third pillar, just as our intel said.
The pool is covered, a blue tarp stretching like a body bag across the water. The side door is glass. I hold up my gloved hand and Bam freezes.
He kneels, inspects the lock, then leans back. "Go," he whispers.
I slip the bump key in, twist, and the door clicks. We step into a kitchen that smells like citrus and Pine-Sol. There is a bowl of fruit on the counter, a half-empty bottle of white on the table. I scan the sight lines, trace the security panel on the wall, and pull out the circuit tracer.
"Give me thirty seconds," I say. Bam prowls to the next room, soundless except for the soft shush of his breath.
The panel is standard, old code. I kill the power, yank the battery, and set a loop on the line so it will show green until dawn. I check the windows—none armed, all closed. The dogs are behind a baby gate at the end of the hall, two poodles, staring at us with intelligent, uncaring eyes.
Bam whispers, "Upstairs."
