"Amen," the congregation chorused.
"Amen," Cory echoed quietly.
"Amen," Izzy whispered, surprising herself.
She should let go of his hand now. The service was ending, the moment passing. But neither of them moved as the livestream showed the congregation filing out, stopping to chat, living their normal Sunday lives.
Both their phones buzzed simultaneously, shatteringly loud in the quiet room.
Kenji's text filled her screen:
Got intel. Reed's settlement story checks out 100%. Clean paper trail once we knew where to look.
His daughter Sarah died in 2019. Drunk driver was Kenneth Walston III, heir to Walston Mining fortune.
Settlement was $22.4 million. All documented, all legal.
But Tom Morrison? Different story.
More texts flooded in rapid-fire:
Zara: Pulled traffic cams from the route to the shooting location
Zara: And may or may not have borrowed some satellite time
Zara: [Image attached]
Kenji: Check the timestamp. That's Morrison's truck leaving the area 4 minutes after the shooting stopped
Zara: License plate match. Vehicle ID match.
Zara: [Image attached - zoomed satellite photo showing the truck's license plate with crystal clarity]
Kenji: Timeline works. He could have driven from his house to the shooting location with 10 minutes to spare.
Zara: Also, footage of the guy hitting a Quickstop on the way home for gas and road snacks. Paid with cash. Like that’s gonna help. [Image attached of figure in dark pants and ski jacket in cowboy hat, face turned away from the camera]
"How do you get resolution like that?" Cory leaned over her shoulder, studying the impossibly clear satellite image on her phone.
Izzy felt her lips twitch. "You sure you wanna know? Because I think you might want to rethink that position. Plausible deniability’s a real thing."
Cory’s self-deprecating smile hit her straight in the heart. “No joke. You’re a smart woman, Ms. Reyes.” He straightened, all business now. "Looks like Morrison just became a serious person of interest."
"We need to talk to him." Izzy was already standing, energy crackling through her. Finally, something to DO. "Now."
"Izzy, it's Sunday morning. We can't just?—"
"Can't we?" She faced him, chin raised. "Sure looks to me like Tom Morrison tried to kill us two days ago. Every hour we wait is another hour for him to run, destroy evidence, hurt someone else."
"We don't have legal authority?—"
"When has that stopped us lately?" The words came out sharper than intended, but she didn't take them back.
Cory's jaw worked as he processed. She could see the war in him—procedure versus justice, rules versus righteousness.
"Fine," he said finally. "But we do this smart. No cowboys tactics."
She grabbed her jacket. "I'm Special Ops, Fraser. We don't do cowboy. We do precise."
