They sent a drone.
They sent a message.
And now they were playing tag at the fence like this was a fucking game.
Ghost’s voice buzzed again. “Northwest quadrant. Approaching the tree line.”
Ranger shifted direction immediately, his long stride silent in the gravel. Brutus flanked him. I veered left, sticking closer to the clubhouse wall to cover the blind spot behind the garage.
Then—
“There!” Ghost snapped. “Movement. One runner. Black hoodie. Looks male.”
A flash of motion cut through the dark just ahead. It was too fast for a civilian, too clumsy for a pro. They weren’t trying to sneak in.
They were baiting us.
I hit the corner of the lot just as Ranger broke from cover and gave chase. Brutus peeled off to cut them off from the other side.
I followed, boots hammering the ground, adrenaline pushing me faster.
The runner reached the tree line, turned sharp?—
—and slammed right into Ghost.
No warning. No sound. Just Ghost appearing out of the dark like a fucking shadow with arms.
The guy went down hard.
I skidded to a stop as Ranger got there a second later and hauled the guy up by the front of his hoodie.
“Talk,” Ranger snapped.
“Fuck you—” the guy spat, writhing in his grip.
Wrong answer.
Brutus stepped up and slammed a fist into the guy’s gut. Not hard enough to kill, but just enough to steal the air from his lungs. He dropped like a rock, wheezing and cursing.
“Try again,” I said calmly, crouching in front of him.
He looked up at me, eyes wild. Young. Maybe twenty. Dirt on his face, shaky hands. Not a soldier.
A pawn.
I leaned in just enough. “Who sent you?”
“I—I just drop shit off, man,” he panted. “I don’t ask questions. I get a pin, I show up, I toss it, I leave.”
Brutus scowled. “A drone and a fucking decoy?”
“Backpack,” Ghost muttered. “He’s got one.”
We stripped it fast. Nothing but an empty thermos and a pack of Red Vines.
Which somehow pissed me off even more.
“This was a fucking joke to them,” I said, standing. “They used him to keep us busy.”
