Because if he did—
This wouldn’t be a negotiation.
It would be the endgame.
I watched Rylie melt back into cover, moving with intention, not haste.
She trusted me to finish this.
And I would.
Because Thomas had made one fatal miscalculation.
He thought Rylie walking toward him meant surrender.
What it actually meant—
Was that the Rangers were already inside his kill box.
And it was about to close.
51
Thomas
Thomas didn’t raise his voice.
He didn’t curse.
He didn’t strike the man standing in front of him, though the impulse flickered—brief, sharp, dismissed.
Instead, he smiled.
That was how men like him adapted.
“She didn’t panic,” the runner reported. “She changed the ground.”
Thomas nodded once. “Of course she did.”
That was the problem.
Rylie Tate hadn’t begged. Hadn’t stalled. Hadn’t tried to bargain for safety.
She’d spoken like someone whoexpected backup.
That meant one thing.
“They’re closer than we thought,” Thomas said calmly.
“Yes.”
“How close?”
The runner hesitated. That hesitation was the crack.
Thomas set his coffee down untouched and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You felt it,” he said. “Tell me where.”
“Behind her,” the man admitted. “Not visible. But present.”
