"Loading dock on the east side." He passed the glasses back to me. "Truck entrance. Roll-up door, probably motorized. That's where the shipment will come in."
I focused on the loading dock, noted the heavy door, the security camera mounted above it—cheap consumer model, the kind you'd buy at a hardware store. "Camera coverage looks minimal. Three that I can see—main entrance, loading dock, and..." I scanned the property slowly, methodically. "South corner of the fence. Leaves blind spots on the north and west sides."
"Convenient."
"Too convenient."
A bead of sweat rolled down my temple, and Iwiped it away with the back of my hand. The ground beneath us was hot enough to feel through our clothes, baked by hours of sun. My elbows ached from pressing into rock. None of it mattered. Tank shifted beside me, his shoulder pressing against mine. The contact was grounding, a reminder that I wasn't alone out here. "What are you seeing that I'm not?"
I lowered the binoculars, chewing my lip as I organized my thoughts. This was the part that made my skin crawl—using the knowledge that three years with Cross had beaten into me. Understanding how he thought, how he planned, because I'd been his creature for so long.
"The security is wrong. Cross is paranoid—three years with him taught me that much. He doesn't leave blind spots, doesn't rely on a skeleton crew for important operations." I pointed toward the guards, both of them looking bored, inattentive. "If that shipment is as valuable as Vince claimed, there should be twice as many guards, overlapping camera coverage, probably a secondary team inside the building. Dogs. Motion sensors. Something."
"So either Vince was lying about the shipment's importance?—"
"Or Cross is hiding his real security inside." I met Tank's eyes, saw my own certainty reflected there. "Waiting for us to come through those convenient blind spots. Channeling us exactly where he wants us."
"A kill box."
"That's what I'd set up." The words tasted bitter. "Cross knows how I think. He trained me, molded me for three years. He'll be anticipating every tactical approach I might suggest, every weakness I might identify. He's probably running scenarios right now, trying to predict what I'll tell Phoenix to do."
Tank was quiet for a long moment, his jaw working, something dangerous gathering behind his eyes. Then: "So we don't do what he expects."
"What?"
"You said it yourself—he knows how you think. He's planned for it." Tank's gaze swept back to the warehouse, sharp and calculating. "So we give him something he hasn't planned for. Hit him where he's not looking."
"Like where?"
"That's what we need to figure out." He reached over, squeezed my hand briefly—callused fingers, rough and warm. "But not here. We've got what we need—confirmation that the warehouse is real, basic layout, proof that the security is wrong. Time to head back and plan."
I took one last look at the warehouse through the binoculars. In the afternoon light, it looked almost peaceful. Just a building, sitting alone in the desert, waiting.
Waiting for us to make our move. I lowered the binoculars and followed Tank back toward the bikes.
We made camp that night in a shallow canyon about thirty miles from the warehouse. Neither of us wanted to risk the ride back in darkness—too easy to miss a turn, attract unwanted attention, or run into one of Cross's scouts. So we found a spot where the canyon walls provided cover from the wind and any prying eyes, spread out the emergency bedrolls from Tank's saddlebags, and ate protein bars that tasted like cardboard pressed into vaguely food-shaped rectangles.
"Romantic," I murmured, grimacing at the bar.
"I'll make it up to you." Tank's voice was dry, but his eyes were warm in the fading light. "Steak dinner. Wine. Maybe candlelight if you're into that."
"Are you into that?"
He considered the question seriously, like it mattered. "I've never tried it. Never had anyone to try it with." His gaze found mine across the small space between us. "Might be nice though. With you."
Something shifted in my chest—a loosening, a warming. "After," I said. "After this is done."
"After." I liked the way he said it—certain, like there was no question that there would be an after. Like Cross was already dealt with and we just needed to catch up with the timeline.
The desert cooled quickly once the sun went down, the temperature dropping fast enough that I could feel goosebumps rising on my arms. I found myself gravitating toward Tank's warmth, and he opened his arm without being asked, letting me settle against his side. We ended up leaning against aboulder, shoulders pressed together, watching the stars emerge one by one in the vast Nevada sky.
There were more stars out here than I'd ever seen. The Milky Way was a river of light across the darkness, thick enough to cast shadows. No light pollution, no city glow—just the ancient fire of a billion suns, burning in the void.
"My first year prospecting," Tank said quietly, "Hawk sent me on a solo run to Flagstaff. Supply pickup, nothing complicated. I got there fine, did the job, headed back. Then my bike threw a chain fifty miles from anywhere, middle of the night, no cell service."
"What did you do?"
"Walked. Took me six hours to reach a gas station. Tore up my boots, got blisters the size of quarters, thought I was going to collapse about a dozen times." He huffed a laugh, the sound soft in the darkness. "I was so sure Hawk was going to kick me out for screwing up the timeline. Instead, when I finally limped into the compound, he looked at me and said, 'You made it back. That's all that matters.'"
