The rain-slicked pavement glistened under their boots as they moved in silence, shadows sliding between the skeletons of old storefronts. Every creak of the wind through broken shutters had Isla’s nerves taut as wire. She kept her weapon close, eyes sweeping alleys, windows, rooftops.
The school loomed ahead, brick worn by time and weather, its front door yawning open like a black mouth. The drizzle hissed against the sagging awning above it.
They reached the entrance. Garrett pressed to one side of the doorway, Isla to the other. Cal, Raines and the deputy covered them from farther back, their rifles angled, scanning the perimeter.
Isla dared a glance inside. Her breath caught.
Harris.
He stood on the stage, the weak glow of his phone flashlight trembling in his hand. His face was pale, eyes rimmed red, the strain of sleepless nights and raw confusion etched into him. Relief surged through her chest, tempered immediately by caution. He was here, yes, but he was wounded in ways deeper than they could see.
His gaze lifted, meeting hers, and his voice cracked the silence. “Who the hell am I?”
The question cut through her like glass.
Isla drew in a steadying breath and lowered her weapon. Every instinct told her to keep it ready, but the boy in front of her wasn’t a threat. He was broken open, raw. And if she didn’t reach him now, they might lose him for good. Garrett and the others had her back.
“You were born Harris McCord,” she said softly, her voice carrying across the empty corridor. “Your parents are Randall Hayes and Leah McCord.”
Harris’s head dropped, his shoulders hunched as if she’d added weight he couldn’t bear. A groan slipped from him, bitter and pained. “Leah McCord. The woman who died in that house fire. In the house where I lived when I was a kid.”
The words hit Isla hard. She exchanged a quick look with Garrett before stepping one careful pace closer. “How do you know that?”
Harris gave a short, sharp laugh, the kind that came from disbelief more than humor. He shoved his free hand into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, the edges worn soft from handling. “Because I got this.”
He unfolded it with trembling fingers, the light from his phone glancing over the creases. “No address. No name. Just details. About her. About me.”
He held the letter out, his hand shaking.
Through the comm, Jackson’s voice cut in, tense and clipped. “Second heat source approaching, three o’clock. Moving fast.”
Adrenaline spiked. Isla pivoted with Garrett, their movements sharp, weapons swinging toward the row of hollowed-out shops that crouched in shadow. The wind funneled through the broken glass and sagging doors, carrying the faint scrape of movement.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. Harris froze, the light from his phone jerking wildly across the cracked walls.
Then a shot cracked the night.
The bullet hissed past, splintering old brick in a spray of dust and stone.
Chapter Nineteen
The rattle of gunfire shredded the night. Bullets slammed into the old school, tearing through wood and plaster, ricocheting off steel beams.
Garrett grabbed Isla and shoved them both behind a column just as Raines, Cal, and the deputy dove for their own cover. Dust and fragments rained down with every impact.
“Harris, get down!” Garrett bellowed, his voice barely carrying over the roar.
He caught a glimpse of Harris diving for the side of the stage, scrambling on his hands and knees before pressing flat against the wall. Good. It wasn’t the best of cover, but he was no longer out in the open.
The shots didn’t follow Harris. Not one. They ripped into the walls, into the air around Garrett and the others. A calculated spray meant to pin them down, to keep them from moving.
Garrett’s gut tightened. Whoever was out there wasn’t here to kill Harris. The crosshairs were on them.
“Can you see the shooter?” Isla’s voice was sharp, tight with frustration. She had her weapon up, ready to return fire if he gave the word.
Garrett shifted, pressing his shoulder against the cracked column, and leaned just far enough to get a look. A flicker of movement across the broken windows of one of the old shops.A man crouched there, rifle braced against the sill, firing in controlled bursts.
Recognition hit like a punch. Garrett’s jaw locked. “It’s Kane,” he shouted over the chaos. “Victor Kane.”
