My eyes snagged on Roth’s hand on the steering wheel.White knuckles.A bandage wrapped his wrist.
“What happened?”
“Diaz happened.”Spade clicked to freeze the frame.“A reminder, maybe.A warning.Hard to say for certain.But fear radiates off him.”His gaze flicked to me.“I prefer enemies scared.”
“You’re enjoying this,” I accused, because accusing Spade felt easier than admitting how my own fear transformed into something meaner when I saw weakness in Roth.
“I enjoy staying one step ahead,” Spade fired back.“And watching men squirm when consequences catch up to them.”
He shifted windows, revealing a satellite image of a property set back from a road.A modest house stood beside a detached garage.Trees bordered two sides.A dirt access lane curved toward the structure -- the kind of path made for people who wanted to vanish.
“Roth’s hideaway,” Spade explained.“He hasn’t slept there more than a night at a time.My bet says he returns soon.”
“Why now?”I asked.
“Because Diaz wants his head.”Spade tapped a corner where the map highlighted a path.“Roth believes hiding will save him.Men retreat to comfort when scared.This house represents safety to him.”
“Feels strange.”My voice thinned.“Planning around him as though he’s a weather pattern.”
When he opened Jason’s notes on another screen, I saw my brother’s shorthand crawl across digital pages.The messy scrawl made Jason seem present and not stuck in prison.The sight pinched my chest.
“While our rat looks for a hole,” Spade continued, brisk as ever, “we keep working.There’s something here I want your eyes on.”
Spade muttered under his breath while cross-referencing everything with maps and databases, clearly thriving on the complexity of our puzzle.Every few minutes his eyes darted to a cluster of tiny notifications in the corner of the screen.
No alerts appeared.
My shoulders remained locked with tension whenever he checked and found nothing, my body refusing to accept even a momentary peace.
By lunchtime, my eyes throbbed and my throat felt rubbed raw.Spade shoved a sandwich into my hand without looking away from the screens.
“Eat,” he ordered.“You stop making sense when your blood sugar drops.”
I obeyed because I didn’t have the energy to argue and because he wasn’t wrong.
When Kane came to steal me later, Spade let me go with only a brief scowl.
“Keep her breathing,” he called after Kane.“I need that cyborg brain later.”
Kane’s expression darkened.“She’s not a machine.”
“She’s more reliable than my laptops,” Spade tossed back.“Upgrade.”
The range helped in the way it always did -- noise and focus and simple rules.Load.Rack.Stance.Sight picture.Breathe out.Squeeze.
Kane stood beside me, steady and quiet.He corrected my grip with a touch so gentle I never felt controlled.When I fired, each bullet ripped through the paper silhouette’s chest.
“Better,” Kane noted as we walked back, his gaze flicking to the target.“You’re not flinching at the sound anymore.”
“I still flinch at Diaz’s name.”
“That’s normal.”Kane’s hand brushed my lower back as we stepped off the range.“If you ever stop, I’ll worry.”
The afternoon slipped away in chunks.I ran a safe room drill with Casey and the kids, my heart racing when Maui’s little ones refused to hide under the desk.Adrenaline felt different when someone else needed protection.Solena handed me boxes while we restocked medical supplies, her fingers brushing mine whenever I reached for the gauze.Marci put me to work chopping vegetables, tears streaming down my face until she laughed and said, “Therapy costs a fortune, but onions?Dirt cheap.”
Evening painted the sky orange and pink beyond the tree line.The sunset seemed peaceful, a beautiful lie making me forget violence waited beyond our fence.
Spade materialized in the doorway as though summoned by darkness falling.
