The safehouse smelled like coffee, rain, and exhaustion. Someone—probably Miles—had found a box of donuts that looked a couple of days old, but nobody complained. After nights like the one we’d just had, sugar and caffeine counted as medicine.
Hawk was at the window, shoulders broad against the gray light. The river lay beyond, calm now, pretending innocence. I sat on the couch, bare feet tucked under me, watching steam rise from my mug. I looked around and wondered how Delta Five could afford such a beautiful home as a safe house.
“You ever think about quitting?” I asked.
He didn’t turn. “Every time we win.”
That answer pulled a tired laugh out of me. “That makes no sense.”
“It makes all the sense in the world,” he said. “You get the win, then you realize it never lasts.”
He finally looked over his shoulder—hair damp, stubble dark, eyes quieter than I’d ever seen them. The armor was off, literally and otherwise.
“You don’t have to stay in this,” he said. “Aaron will understand. I want you to go home. This is getting way too dangerous for you to help us.
“Neither of us is built for walking away,” I said. “Besides, someone has to make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”
He smiled, small but real. “Is that why you’re here?”
“Part of it.”
He came closer, sat across from me, elbows on his knees. “And the other part?”
I took a slow breath. “Ask me after we find Reese.”
He studied me for a long moment, then nodded. “Fair.”
Outside, thunder muttered somewhere far off—reminding us that the calm was only temporary. Inside, for the first time in days, the silence didn’t feel like pressure; it felt like rest.
Boone’s voice broke through the quiet from the hallway. “Aaron wants us in the briefing room. He’s got coordinates.”
Hawk stood, stretching, the motion easy but ready again. He looked down at me. “Guess the breather’s over.”
I set my mug aside and rose. “It was nice while it lasted.”
He reached for the door, paused. “Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“Next time we get five minutes, remind me what normal feels like.”
I smiled. “You first. So remind me again who took over the cartel file?”
“The FBI.”
“Right.”
23
Hawk
The hum of computers and the steady tap of rain against the windows were the only sounds when Aaron called us in.
Maps glowed across the monitors—satellite overlays of Washington D.C., Richmond, and the Virginia coastline. Miles stood off to the side, a headset slung around his neck, fingers flying over the keyboard.
Aaron pointed to a red-marked grid on the screen. “This came in an hour ago. Reese’s beacon pattern pinged again—short burst, heavily encrypted—but the signature matches Halcyon’s ghost servers. Source triangulates to an old naval intelligence site outside Norfolk.”
Boone frowned. “That place was decommissioned a decade ago.”
