“No doghouse. No chain. No barking when the wind shifted.” I stand, keeping to the shadows. “We approach from the rear. Wood line to the shed. I clear the vehicle. You watch the house.”
“And if someone comes out?”
“You signal. Two taps on your leg. We vanish.”
“And if they see us?”
I check my weapon. “Then we deal with it.”
Her eyes flick to the gun. “You wouldn’t.”
“I do what is necessary.”
“They’re civilians, Diego. Innocent people.”
“No one is innocent.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. The recoil in her eyes is visible. The fear. Not of the situation, but of me.
Good. Fear keeps distance.
“Let’s go,” I say.
We move down the slope. The transition from wild woods to human property feels loud. The crunch of dry grass. The smell of diesel and trash.
We reach the back of the shed. The air smells of oil and wet rot.
“Wait here,” I whisper. “Watch the windows.”
She nods. She’s pale, but she positions herself near the corner of the shed, eyes fixed on the trailer.
I move to the truck.
It’s a wreck. Rust eats at the wheel wells. The bed is full of scrap metal and empty beer cans.
But the tires have air.
I try the door. Unlocked. The hinges screech.
I freeze.
Nothing from the house. No movement.
I slide inside. The cab smells of stale tobacco and mold.
I check under the dash. It’s a mess of wires. This won’t be as clean as the Ford. I pull out my knife.
“Halo.”
Cassie’s whisper is a sharp hiss.
I freeze. “What?”
“Movement. Kitchen window.”
I look through the dirty windshield. The trailer is fifty feet away. A curtain twitches.
“Confirm,” I whisper.
