After dressing and shaving, I head for the kitchen. The thought occurs, unbidden, that she will need to eat. Or at least drink something. Logistics matter, even now.
I stop outside her door and tap lightly, keeping my voice even. I don’t open it, clearing my throat. “Do you drink coffee?”
There is a pause. Then, quietly, “Sure.”
“How do you take it?”
“I prefer a latte at a café in the French Quarter.”
My mouth tightens despite myself. “Very funny. Strong, black, with a splash of milk. That work?”
I mutter under my breath, heading for the kitchen. What am I, a goddamn barista? I try to do something decent, but it’s not enough. Nice to know.
“Sure,” she answers, louder this time, but her voice is muffled by the distance and the closed door separating us.
I almost make it to the coffee machine when a text comes in. I look to see it’s from Keller.
Luc’s situation is fixed. Rhodes is now looped in going forward and protocol is that 2 men on every dock shift are on board from here on out. Both verified. No single point of failure.
I don’t reply. There’s nothing to clarify.
I pull out the coffee grounds when an alert pings on my phone, stopping me cold. I glance down at the live feed from one of the deer cameras near the property line.
Two figures move through the trees just beyond the cabin, slipping through the underbrush with practiced care. They are not hikers. They are not lost.
I zoom in and catch a partial profile as one of them turns his head. A familiar scar cuts down his cheek.
Boudreaux. Low level, but unmistakable. I remember him from a meeting with my father and Laurent years ago.
I know this kind of movement. This is not a coincidence.
More motion flickers on the screen as the second man shifts closer, following a narrow deer trail, scanning the area like he expects resistance. He doesn’t look cautious. He looks prepared.
The intrusion needles at me, irritation sharpening into something colder.
This cabin is buried deep, off the books, known only to a handful of people I trust without question. There is no legitimate way for them to have found it. Especially this fast.
Which means someone talked.
I had planned to reveal myself on my terms. A controlled move, timed to land where it would do the most damage. Not this. Not now.
And yet here they are, already moving to reclaim her.
Not happening.
I swipe through the camera feeds, tracking their positions as they spread out. One angles toward the cabin. The other widens his arc, testing the tree line. When the closer man lifts his head again, there is no doubt who he is.
I turn away from the screen and open the hidden compartment behind the closet. The rifle comes free smoothly. The weight settles into my hands as I slide the magazine home and chamber a round.
The motion is practiced because my father insisted on it. Not because he wanted us violent, but because he understood what hesitation costs when someone decides to make a point. This is not improvisation. It is containment.
I move through the cabin without turning on a light and grab my boots by the door before stepping into them. Then pull on my coat.
I check the back lock and ease the door open just enough to scan the tree line beyond it. The forest is still, damp, and quiet in a way that never lasts.
I slip outside and pull the door shut with two fingers. I wait until the latch settles without a sound.
I move downslope and settle behind a low rise, dirt cool and wet against my knees. The morning air clings to myskin as I bring the rifle up. I can see one of them now, cutting through the trees with quiet precision. He is about twenty yards out, attention fixed on the cabin as he advances.
