Candace folds her arms. "He's constantly sloppy."
Ruby lifts her phone. "I have receipts."
Phoenix lets the moment breathe, draws it back. "We're cutting points of failure."
McKenzie steps in. "Fewer people make decisions. The ones who do answer for them."
My attention snags on Frankie. She's braced against the back table, posture controlled. But the weight sinks into the table edge, one hip carrying everything. Shadows under her eyes dark enough to read from across the room. Knuckles pale around ceramic.
Maggie's voice cuts in, gentle but pointed. "Frankie, when's the last time you slept?"
"Define sleep."
"More than three hours."
Frankie's mouth twitches, too tired for a smile. "It's been a while."
Candace says, "You need to take care of yourself."
"I am. I'm just managing something that requires night hours."
East asks, "The stray?"
The word lands without sound, but the change is immediate. Ruby sharpens. Darla goes still. Nash's focus cuts toward Frankie.
"Yeah."
Ruby angles forward. "Getting worse?"
Frankie exhales through her nose. "Getting louder."
A beat. Arden, near the stairs, stands perfectly still. He knows exactly what Frankie means.
Malachi asks, "This going to be a problem during Chicago?"
"No." Chin lifting, shoulders squaring despite the exhaustion. "Arden and I have it contained."
"Contained isn't handled."
Frankie's smile is thin, sharp-edged. "It'll be handled when it's ready. Until that point, it's contained."
Phoenix produces a folded blueprint, spreading it across the nearest table. "The Blackwell Hotel. Chicago. Three entry points." His finger traces the routes. "East service corridor. Main lobby. Underground garage."
Chicago. The Blackwell.
I know this building. I know the network it feeds. Two years ago, I was in a basement office three blocks from it, pulling financial records off a server that belonged to Harold Whitcomb. Whitcomb's slush accounts were funneling money through a Mississippi shell company run by Donovan Castiel. The same pipeline we've been dismantling piece by piece ever since.
The Blackwell is where the auctions happen. Where men in Harrison's world buy access. Where girls disappear into roomsthat look expensive and smell of fear. Whitcomb's money built it. Castiel's network filled it.
Every thread I've traced for two years leads here. My jaw tightens. The blueprint blurs. Lines become sand, corridors become compound walls. Three entry points. Armed contractors. Private security. Phoenix's voice keeps going, but the words shift register, landing with the weight of Pashto instead of English.
Check the perimeter. Secure the approach. Mark the sightlines.
"Armed security at every checkpoint," Phoenix continues. "Private contractors."
The room narrows. Sound goes distant and close at once. Voices layer over the phantom crack of rifle fire, boot steps on tile become boot steps on gravel. My hand drifts toward my hip where a sidearm used to rest.
"Knox." Sloane's voice, low and near. Her hand slides to my forearm, thumb finding my pulse point.
