“We’re really doing this?”
“We’re doing it.”
The waitress returns. We order—eggs, toast, coffee, the fuel of fugitives and long-haul truckers. When she’s gone, Cassie leans forward.
“And the Grandmaster?”
The name sits between us like an unexploded bomb.
“Still a ghost. Julianna’s note confirms the hierarchy—Grandmaster at the top, then King, Queen, Rook, Bishop, Knight, Pawn. We’ve identified some of the pieces. The Knight is Admiral Cole. The Rook is Julianna. The King is Senator Vance.”
“But the Grandmaster stays hidden.”
“Protected by layers. Even the other pieces might not know the real identity.”
Cassie’s jaw tightens. “So we’re fighting a war against an enemy we can’t identify, led by someone we can’t find, with a thirty-seven day window to destroy a facility we’ve never seen.”
“Welcome to Cerberus.”
She laughs—a short, sharp sound without much humor. “I used to think corporate litigation was complicated.”
“You were dealing with different kinds of monsters.”
“Was I?” She wraps her hands around her coffee cup. “Men who hid fraud in footnotes. Companies that destroyed evidence and intimidated witnesses. Systems designed to protect the powerful and crush anyone who challenged them.”
“Sounds familiar.”
We finish our meal, enjoy the break, but duty calls. I pay and we exit the small diner with full bellies and far more energy than we walked in with.
Thorne is waiting by the SUV when we return, but something’s different. His posture is the same—arms crossed, weight balanced—but the hard lines of his face have softened. There’s a light in those pale eyes that wasn’t there before. Whatever call he just finished, it wasn’t tactical.
He pockets the phone when he sees us approach. Quick. Almost guilty.
“Contact made?”
“Brass confirmed. Seattle’s the destination. Team’s assembling.”
“Then we drive.” He opens the back door for Cassie—an oddly courteous gesture from someone who looks like he was assembled in a weapons factory. “I’ll take first shift. Then we switch. You drive, I sleep. Four-hour rotations until we hit Seattle.”
Cassie clears her throat. “Excuse me?”
Thorne pauses. Looks at her.
“There are three of us in this vehicle.” She crosses her arms. “I’ve been driving since I was sixteen. So maybe don’t plan the rotation like I’m cargo.”
Thorne’s eyebrow arches. He looks at me.
“She’s feisty,” he says.
“You have no idea.”
“Fine. Three drivers. Rotate every four hours.” He slides behind the wheel. “But I’m taking first shift. I need to be functional when we arrive—my parents are expecting me.”
“Parents?”
“They live in Seattle. They’re watching my daughter while I work.”
I study his profile as he starts the engine. Ghost mentioned Thorne had a daughter. Something about cancer.
