The third is an industrial strip near the river. Storage. Abandoned offices. Old rail lines.
“This one,” I say.
The air feels wrong.
We spread.
Slow. Patient. I don’t want him cornered.
I want him exhausted.
A light flickers in the far building.
Wolf signals.
We ghost forward.
Inside smells like oil and old paper.
Footsteps above us.
Havoc freezes.
I nod.
Up the stairs. Quiet.
At the top, a door is cracked.
I see him.
Rourke Hale is on a phone. Arguing. Bleeding from his temple.
“—you said it was clean!”
I push the door.
He spins.
His eyes meet mine.
And he knows.
He runs.
I smile.
“Contact,” I say calmly. “He’s moving.”
And the hunt finally becomes honest.
94
Saint
Rourke runs.
That’s the only mistake he makes.
