“Six times,” Beck says, his brows lowering over his eyes.
“And the margin for error?” Coco arches both eyebrows.
Beck hesitates, his gaze shifting toward Bellamy.
Bishop answers instead. “None.”
Coco’s eyes return to Bishop. “Can you do it?”
Beck straightens, and Bishop shakes his head. “Not like the kid.”
“I’m not a kid,” Beck huffs under his breath.
I hide my smile behind my hand.
Coco hums and nods a few times as she strolls around the garage. She cuts her attention back to Beck. “And you’re sure it’ll work?”
“Yes,” Beck says. Louder this time.
She studies him for a long second, then nods. “Good boy.”
Bishop clears his throat and tosses the dry erase marker onto the table. “It all comes down to Beck. If those chips don’t retag before the system flags the discrepancy, it won’t matter how well the rest of the job goes. We’ll be fucked.”
I push off the table and shoulder past Bishop, light but deliberate. “No pressure, kid.”
Beck swallows and rotates his neck from left to right. “Fuck.”
This is the part right before everything tips. And god help me, I live for it.
46
BELLAMY
The microwave clockreads 3:07 AM. We crowd the Calloway kitchen, shoulders brushing, voices dropped to murmurs. My skin prickles when I catch Rafe watching me from across the room, his eyes steady beneath the dim pendant lights.
The coffeepot gurgles its last breath, leaving behind that scorched smell that only comes from it being empty on the warmer for too long. No one’s talking much. Not because there’s nothing to say—but because everything that matters has already been said, argued, rewritten, memorized.
Bishop's fingers tap a rhythm against the marble island as he slides burner phones across the counter, counting out everyone’s pre-programmed number.
“And Bellamy—seven.” He pushes the last phone toward me, dangling an earpiece from his other hand. The corner of his mouth ticks up.
I take both; the plastic still cool against my palm. “What’s your favorite number, Bishop? It’s seven, isn’t it?” I flash him a dry look and fit the earpiece in place anyway, the weight of it familiar against my skin.
“Wrong. Thirty-four,” Bishop shoots back, his brows arching toward his hairline.
“Just curious. You do know what three plus four is, right?” Lola drawls, putting her earpiece in.
I bite the inside of my cheek and share a look with my sister.
He’s so ridiculous, I say with my eyes.
Ugh, he’s the worst, she agrees.
“If you’re done?” Bishop asks in that same shitty tone.
“Get on with it, brother,” Rafe grumbles.
Bishop sighs. “When we get on the road, everyone call me. Beck set up a conference call. We all stay on the line, no matter what. You can mute and unmute as much as you need to, but I expect everyone to be dialed the fuck in when it matters.”
