I move toward the front door and push it inward, stepping over broken glass as interior light spills across my coat. The living room isn’t arranged for comfort. A folding table sits in the center with two laptops open and maps pinned down by water bottles and ammunition boxes. A mounted screen displays a static traffic feed from an intersection several miles away, slightly distorted by interference.
One man lies on the floor near the shattered window, clutching his shoulder where Mikel’s shot found him, blood soaking heavily through his sleeve while he fights to remain conscious. The other kneels with his hands raised, eyes moving between us as he calculates the version of survival available to him.
“On your knees,” I tell him.
He complies fully, palms visible.
Karp drags the man from the yard inside and forces him down beside the others, his boots leaving damp impressions across the hardwood floor. Mikel clears the hallway and returns with a small incline of his head. No female presence.
I move through the house myself.
The first bedroom contains two cots placed parallel, duffel bags unzipped and spilling tactical clothing onto the floor. Boots are placed side by side beneath the bed frames. All adult male sizes. The bathroom sink holds disposable razors and industrial soap. No secondary toothbrush. No cosmetics. No stray hair ties.
In the second bedroom, I pause beside an open laptop displaying a detailed map of Charlotte’s train yards and industrial districts,several intersections circled in red with handwritten notes beside them. Fuel receipts are clipped near the keyboard, all dated within the last forty-eight hours.
In the kitchen, the refrigerator contains packaged meat, protein drinks, and energy bars arranged in tight rows. No leftovers or fresh produce. No sign of normal use.
I open a cabinet and find spare plates, folded maps, and sealed burner phones. This house is a transfer point. It was never meant to hold Rowan.
I stand in the center of the living room and listen to the low electrical hum above me, letting the quiet stretch long enough to confirm what the rooms already told me. If she had been here, there would be signs of it. There are none.
I return to the kneeling man and crouch in front of him, resting my forearms lightly on my thighs as I meet his gaze.
“Who coordinates this location?” I ask.
He swallows and glances toward the wounded man before responding. “We rotate through instructions.”
“That’s not the question.”
Karp places his hand at the back of the man’s neck and holds it there without tightening.
“Ivan,” he answers finally. “We receive direction from Ivan.”
I study his pupils rather than his mouth.
“Ivan operates alone?” I continue calmly. “Or does he answer to someone?”
He hesitates, his breath hitching. Karp tightens his grip.
“We report through channels,” he replies. “Ivan brings the orders.”
Which means he isn’t the one making the decisions.
“Were you expecting interference tonight?”
“No,” he answers quickly. “We weren’t informed.”
“Then why was the rear door unsecured?”
He adjusts under Karp’s grip, shoulders tightening as he searches for a version that might keep him alive.
“Standard exit protocol in case of a sweep.”
I straighten and step away, sliding my hands into the pockets of my coat.
Ivan is coordinating the external operators, but this location clearly answers to someone else. If Lila was with Ivan the way we believe she was, then taking her with Rowan doesn’t fit. A man doesn’t remove someone who’s aligned with him unless he doesn’t control the decision. So, either Lila never understood what she stepped into, or Ivan doesn’t have the authority he thinks he does.
I walk toward the broken window and look out across the dark yard where our vehicles idle beneath the trees.
