He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and straightened slowly, every movement deliberate. Controlled.
Fly turned away from the mirror, unsettled.
The night settled into a quieter rhythm as Shamrock and Bolt finally let the ride go. The jokes thinned out. The volume dropped. They kept throwing Fly sidelong glances, like they wanted to ask him what the hell was going on but didn’t trust the answer they’d get. That made the sick feeling in his gut tighten instead of easing.
“Tattoo time,” Bolt said finally, pushing his chair back. “I’m ready for some lightning.”
Fly nodded, grateful for the excuse to move.
North rose a beat too late.
Fly caught it immediately. Not a stumble exactly, just a hesitation where there shouldn’t have been one. North’s movements were usually economical, calibrated. He didn’t waste motion. Tonight, he over-corrected, boots scuffing as he found his balance again.
“You good?” Fly asked, already halfway out of his chair.
“Yeah,” North said, too quickly.
They headed for the door. The bar was loud again, bodies shifting, someone laughing too close. North angled toward the exit—and nearly clipped the doorjamb hard enough to rattle it.
Bolt reached out on instinct, hand coming up to steady him.
“Hey—”
North recoiled like he’d been shocked.
“Don’t touch me,” he snapped, voice sharp and raw. He planted his feet, shoulders squared, like he was bracing against something invisible. “Don’t you think I’m capable of walking on my own? I’m the fucking anchor.”
The words landed heavily in the narrow space.
Bolt froze, hands dropping, surprise flickering across his face. Shamrock went still. Fly felt it like a punch, not the anger, but the fear underneath it.
That wasn’t North.
North didn’t flare like that. He didn’t need to assert what he was. He was it.
North scrubbed a hand over his face, breathing hard now. “I’ve got a headache,” he muttered. “Like a son of a bitch.” He shook his head once, as if that might dislodge it. “Alcohol should’ve helped. Didn’t touch it.”
Fly watched him closely as they stepped out into the night air. North’s gait was steady again, but something in the way he moved felt…off. Like his center of gravity was a fraction displaced. Like he was compensating for a ground that wasn’t answering the way it should.
Fly’s stomach clenched.
First him. Now North.
Whatever had happened on that beach hadn’t stayed there.
41
RCMP WILD Headquarters, TOC, Outskirts of Kamloops, British Columbia
The Tactical Operations Center had been churning since Ayla had found that new base of operations tucked into the backcountry. The Eightfold Kings’ cartel was regrouping, and that spelled danger for anyone who worked and played in that area. The low hum of servers threading through the room like a second pulse was as familiar to her as breathing. Screens lined the walls, satellite imagery frozen in layers of terrain and shadow. Ayla stood near the back, tablet tucked against her ribs, posture relaxed in the way that came only after years of learning how to disappear in plain sight.
She’d already briefed Iceman and Lieutenant Commander Lindstrom on the preliminary findings. Tucked behind a strategic bottleneck and into a lush valley, it was planning time for her Tier 1 guys. They were getting ready to do what they did best.
Assault.
Names, faces, movement patterns. Enough to make the room sharpen, not enough yet to ignite it.
Now she listened.
