“With everything we’ve got,” Chrome replies.
I meet Fred’s gaze through the screen. “She doesn’t lose her future because of the past.”
Fred gives a single nod. “Keep me informed.”
“We will,” Mode says, before severing the feed. The screen goes dark.
The office feels smaller without his face there.
Chrome exhales slowly. “This just got complicated.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, staring at the blank screen. “It did.”
But one thing is clear.
No one touches Zara. Not for money. Not for revenge.
Not while I’m breathing.
“What have you uncovered about the Bushrangers?” Chrome asks Mode. “We know where they’re staying, right? But how did they get into the country?”
Mode nods. “I verified that they’re registered at that motel you followed them to. I’ve got all the names and the cards that they’re using. I put a trace on them, so if anything changes, I’ll get an alert. If they check out or move locations, I’ll know.”
“Good. That’s something. How many of them?” I ask.
“Six. They’re all using fake IDs; that’s how they got into the country. I did some backtracking and put names to faces. These are them.”
He pulls up six images on the screen so Chrome and I can see them. Six Australian ID photos stare back at us. Different names are listed under each. Different addresses in different cities.
“All fake IDs,” Mode says. “They’re good.”
I step closer.
The first face I recognize immediately.
“Menace,” I growl.
Even in a grainy digital photo, I’d know him anywhere. Crooked nose from a fight I started fifteen years ago. Pale eyes like chipped ice. His hair’s thinner now, more gray at the temples. Prison carved lines into his face, hollowed out his cheeks. He looks older than he should. Harder. Meaner.
Mode nods. “Real name: Callum Reade. Out on parole eighteen months ago. Served eight years for the shit in Adelaide.”
Mode clicks to the next image. “Dax ‘Razor’ Mallory. Real name checks out. Then there’s Trent Holloway, aka ‘Hound.’ Stefan Ilic—goes by ‘Vandal.’ Marcus Reed—‘Clutch.’ And last but not least, Owen Price. Street name ‘Jinx.’”
Six faces. Six ghosts from a life I thought buried.
They all look the same in one way—aged beyond their years. Prison pallor. Bad prison ink crawling up necks anddisappearing under collars. Eyes that have seen too many concrete walls and too little sunlight.
Chrome’s jaw tightens. “How did they get here?”
Mode taps a few keys, pulling up a map. “They flew into Toronto three days ago. Commercial flight. All under those fake IDs.”
“Canada?” Chrome asks.
“Less scrutiny,” Mode replies. “From there, they rented bikes. They drove east and crossed the border into Michigan at Port Huron.”
I stare at the red line tracing their route. “Why Michigan?”
“Smaller crossing,” Mode says. “They received less attention than they would in Detroit. They kept their heads down.”
