Then Adam says quietly—
“Wren…”
“Yeah?”
“Whose name is on the list?”
I look back at the screen.
At the two profiles now sitting at the top of the database.
Adam Stoker.
Boone Grant.
Then I answer softly.
“Yours.”
And suddenly the war Mara warned Boone about doesn’t feel theoretical anymore.
Because somewhere out there—
The Architect just started choosing his generals.
17
Boone
The Montana night settles back into silene.
Smoke drifts slowly across the church parking lot.
Five bodies lie scattered near the SUVs.
The sixth man kneels beside Russ’s truck, wrists zip-tied behind his back, breathing hard through the cold air.
Adam stands in front of him, calm and steady.
The way men look when the fight is already over.
“Let’s try this again,” Adam says.
“Who sent you?”
The man shakes his head.
“I told you. I don’t know.”
Russ snorts.
“That answer’s getting old.”
I lean against the side of the truck, studying him.
He's trained.
You can see it in his posture.
