Chapter 1 – Damon (January 18)
The glow of the laptop screen cuts through the dim light of our temporary command center, an overpriced Airbnb in Oakland.
"Gotcha," I whisper, my fingers freezing over the keyboard.
On the screen, a single red dot pulses against the dark map of the Bay Area.
"Tell me you have her," Black growls from the kitchen doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest, his biceps straining against the black thermal shirt he’s wearing. He hasn't slept properly in weeks, the dark circles under his eyes a testament to the obsession that’s gripped all of us since Christmas.
"I have her," I confirm, the knot of tension that’s been living in my gut for weeks finally loosening. "She just pinged the tracker."
Marcus looks up from the floor where he’s been trying and failing to engage Skipper in a game of tug-of-war with a plush red squeaky heart. "She checked the app?"
"She checked the app," I say, a small, triumphant smile tugging at my lips. "I told you she wouldn't be able to resist. She misses the dog."
"She misses us," Marcus corrects, abandoning the toy to hop onto the back of the couch behind me, peering over my shoulder. "She just uses the dog as an excuse."
It was a gamble, rigging the GPS tracker on Skipper’s collar. We knew Blue had the app to track it, she’s the one who installed it, after all. When we took the dog from Santa Monica, I didn't disable the tracker. Instead, I reversed the handshake protocol. I set up an alert to notify me the second another device queried the tracker’s location.
She’s been disciplined or more likely stubborn so far. She didn't check it for weeks, probably terrified we’d use it to lure her into a trap, or maybe she was just trying to cold turkey us. But tonight, she cracked and gave in. She logged in and the moment she pinged Skipper’s location, her IP address lit up my server like a flare gun in a dark room.
"Where is she?" Andre pushes off the doorframe and stalks over, his darkness lifting for the first time in days.
"San Francisco," I say, tapping a key to zoom in. "Industrial district. Looks like a parking structure near the edge of the downtown core. It’s a dead zone for residential, which means she’s likely sleeping in the van."
Marcus shakes his head in confusion. “I can’t believe she’s still using that rust bucket. With all the money she stole she could have set herself up somewhere better."
"We move now," Andre says, already reaching for his leather jacket. "We catch her while she’s stationary."
"Wait," I say, holding up a hand. "We need to talk about the play, Andre. We can't just storm in there like we did on Halloween and Christmas."
Andre pauses, his jaw working. "She drugged us and ran and then she ran… again after Christmas. She should have come for us, for the dog, by now."
"And we drugged her back," I remind him, my voice steady. "We took her dog. We’re even on the 'asshole' scorecard. If we go in there guns blazing, metaphorically or literally, she’s going to bolt. And this time, she might never ping that tracker again. We might lose her for good."
Marcus slides off the couch back and lands lightly on his feet. "Damon’s right. The whole 'you’ll do as I say' schtick worked when we had the element of surprise and she was looking for a good time. But Blue? She’s skittish now. She’s scared."
"She’s not scared of anything," Andre scoffs, though the hard edge in his eyes softens slightly.
"She’s scared of this," I say, gesturing between the three of us. "She’s scared of needing us. Why do you think she ran after Christmas? It wasn't about the money. She’s been giving it away to families and victims. It wasn't about the job. She ran because that night in bed... it got too real. We offered her something that was so much more, deeper than a good time and it scared her."
I look down at Skipper. The little dog has abandoned her toy and is currently curled up on my foot, letting out a huff that sounds suspiciously like a miserable sigh. She’s been moping for weeks, barely eating unless I hand-feed her roasted chicken. She misses her mom.
"We need to stop making this into a game," I continue, looking back at my brothers. "No more chasing. No more forcing her hand. We need to show her we’re not an anchor she has to drag around. We’re the engine she needs to get up that hill."
Andre runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. "So what? We just knock on the van door and ask for a cup of sugar?"
"We offer her a trade," Marcus suggests, a wicked glint entering his hazel eyes. "She’s in San Francisco for a reason.We know she’s hunting Thorne but not why. That woman is a fortress. Demi is good, but she’s one person against a corporate army. She’ll need backup."
I nod, turning back to the screen where I’ve already pulled up the dossier on Dr. Aris Thorne. "Exactly. I’ve been digging into Horizon Wellness since we figured out Blue’s general trajectory and guessed at her next target. Thorne is going to be a nightmare to nail down. She has an ex-military security detail, biometric locks on everything and paranoia that rivals a cartel boss. Demi can’t take her down alone. She knows it. That’s why I think she’s sitting in a parking garage in the rain instead of executing a plan."
"She’s stuck," Andre realizes, his voice dropping to a low rumble.
"She’s stuck," I agree. "So we don't go in as the villains who caught her. We go in as the partners she’ll need to get the job done."
I stand up, stretching my back. My body aches from the stress I’ve been holding since she left. I miss her. I miss the way her mind works, sharp and quick, challenging me at every turn. I miss the way she looked at me when I told her about our parents, like she understood the broken parts of me because her pieces were jagged too.
"We go in softly," I command, looking at Andre. "No threats. No restraints. We give her the dog back. We give her the GPS tracker. We show her we trust her enough to let her run again if she wants to."
