And I know—whatever happens next will change us forever.
44
JUSTIN
Silas finally tracks down Scott-Evans just after dusk.
He sent through the coordinates, a satellite image, and very specific directions on how to get to the cabin in the woods where Scott-Evans has hunkered down. When he volunteers his support, Titan gives me a short, curt shake of his head, declining the offer.
“You don’t want to make him an accessory to what we’re willing to do to this man, Justin.”
We prepare to drive two hours north to the cabin in the woods, where there are no neighbours within shouting distance.
We send Miguel to retrieve Marcus Delaney. He’s easily accessible, and he’s another door we need to open.
William Scott-Evans isn’t a door. He’s a fuse.
We don’t talk much on the drive. The road narrows the farther north we go, pavement turning to gravel, trees pressing in close enough to block out the sky. Titan drives like he always does—steady, alert, controlled.
The cabin comes into view just before full dark, as the sun slips beneath the trees. It’s one lone cabin, and it’s so isolated, I can see why he would choose a place like that to hide out.Though the reason he’s given his wife is that he’s gone on a soul searching fishing trip.
There’s a porch out front, and we can just make out the silhouette of a man sitting there with his hands on his knees.
William Scott-Evans is sitting in a rocking chair like he’s been there all afternoon, legs stretched out, fishing rod propped against the railing. There’s a lit lantern lit beside him. He seems calm, like he’s been waiting for our arrival.
He doesn’t move when we get out of the car. But he does smile.
“What took you so long?” he calls.
The words barely leave his mouth before he produces a gun.
It’s one smooth, practised motion as he brings it up and presses it to his own temple.
Titan and I draw at the same time.
“Lower the weapon,” I say.
Titan doesn’t speak. His aim is steady, centered on Scott-Evans’s chest.
Scott-Evans chuckles softly, like this is amusing. Like we’ve finally caught up to him and he’s been bored without the company.
“Careful,” he warns. “We’re all very jumpy right now.”
“Put it down,” I repeat.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking between our guns.
“Here’s the thing,” he says conversationally. “Who do you think has the quicker trigger finger? Me… or you?”
The question isn’t rhetorical. It’s a dare.
My pulse stays even.
“You don’t get to do this,” I tell him. “Life-and death-is no longer your choice.”
He hums at that, thoughtful. “Isn’t it?”
