"No," Ryker said. The single syllable carried the weight of a man who had drawn a line.
Craine looked at his man. Nodded once. The handcuffs disappeared.
"For now," Craine said again.
Two of the others moved to Wyatt's sides—one on each arm, their grips professional and firm. Wyatt went with them. Didn't resist. Didn't tense. Walked between them down the steps and across the gravel toward a blacked-out van parked behind the Bureau sedan.
I watched my brother walk toward the van. The brother I'd hugged on this patio last night. The brother who'd poured me stolen tequila and told me our father was alive. The brother who'd ridden horses with me to Mexico when we were kids and gotten grounded for two months and said it was worth every penny.
Fuck this.
I leaned toward Ryker. Close. Low.
"Make sure Louisa is okay," I said. "Tell her I'll be fine."
Then I stepped forward.
"Agent Craine."
Craine turned. The slate eyes found me. Assessed.
"I'm coming with him," I said.
"That's not how this works, Mr.—"
"Dane," I said. "Grant Dane. He's my brother. I'm coming."
"This is a federal matter. Family members aren't?—"
"I'm coming."
I held his gaze. Didn't blink. Didn't soften. Gave him the full, unfiltered weight of a man who'd spent twelve years in rooms where the stakes were measured in lives and who was not, under any circumstances, going to watch his brother get loaded into a van alone.
Something flickered in Craine's eyes. Brief. Barely there—a micro-expression so small that most people would have missed it entirely and I caught it only because reading micro-expressions was the difference between coming home and not coming home in my line of work.
It wasn't surprise. It wasn't anger.
It was interest.
The flicker of a man who'd just seen something he hadn't expected and was filing it for later use. The look of a predator who'd come for one thing and had just noticed something else worth watching.
"Fine," Craine said. His voice didn't change. The concession was delivered with the same flat precision as everything else. And then he really surprised me. "You can ride with your brother."
He turned and walked toward the sedan. The tactical team continued to the van, Wyatt between them.
I looked back at Ryker. The man's face was stone, but his eyes—Ryker's eyes, which I was learning to read the way I read Louisa's, for what lived underneath the surface—were calculating. Running scenarios. Adjusting the operational picture to accommodate a variable he hadn't planned for, which was me, walking voluntarily into federal custody alongside my brother.
I nodded once. Ryker nodded back. The nod of two men who understood that what was about to happen was necessary and possibly stupid and definitely happening regardless.
I turned and walked down the steps. Toward the van where my brother was already inside, seated between two men in black gear, his face calm and his eyes carrying everything his face wouldn't show.
I climbed in. Sat down across from him. The doors closed.
Wyatt looked at me.
"You didn't have to do that," he said.
"Yeah," I said. "I did."
