Page 24 of Her Grumpy Protector

We spend the rest of the afternoon going through the USB files together at the table. Banks points out connections I missed, and I show him patterns in the financial trails that I’d been chasing for months. Every so often our shoulders brush or our hands touch over the laptop, and that quiet spark is still there, steady and reassuring. I’m still worried about what comes next. I’m terrified for his family and mine. But sitting here with him, working side by side, I feel a little less alone in all of this.

Banks’s phone rings and he answers it. “What’s up?” He mouths the words, ‘It’s Mack’ to me.

I nod.

“The blue pickup was pinged not far from here,” Banks says. “On it.” he hangs up, looking at me. “Want to go and check it out?”

“Yes,” I say too quickly.

“Same rules apply.”

I nod, already moving toward the front door.

SEVENTEEN

BANKS

I grip the steering wheel tighter as the truck bounces along the cracked service road leading to the old industrial park. The blue truck pinged here less than two hours ago. An abandoned factory complex on the eastern edge of Halo City that used to manufacture airplane parts before the company went bankrupt and left everything to rot. Chain-link fences sag in places. Weeds push up through the asphalt. It’s the kind of place where people go when they don’t want to be found.

"Stay close," I tell Anniston, keeping my voice low. "And stay behind me the entire time. If I say run, you run. No questions. No hesitation."

She nods, her face serious in the dim glow of the dashboard lights. "I will. I promise."

We park the truck behind a rusted storage container about half a mile from the main building. I kill the engine and sit for a second, listening. The night air is cool and damp, carrying the sharp scent of wet concrete, old oil, and decaying metal. Broken streetlights flicker overhead like dying fireflies. Somewhere in the distance a dog barks once and then falls silent. This placefeels like a graveyard, and I don’t like how exposed we are. Like sitting fucking ducks.

I check my pistol one more time, make sure the suppressor is tight, and hand Anniston a small backup piece. “You ever shoot one of these?”

She takes it without argument and tucks it into the waistband of her jeans. “Yes.”

I reach over and brush a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger on her cheek for just a second. "You ready?"

She leans into my touch for a heartbeat. "As ready as I’m going to get."

We move on foot, sticking to the deepest shadows along the chain-link fence. My heart beats steady but hard in my chest. Every crunch of gravel under our boots sounds too loud. I keep Anniston tucked right behind me, one hand ready to push her down or pull her to safety if needed. The factory looms ahead, a hulking silhouette against the night sky, its broken windows like empty eyes watching us approach.

We slip through a hole in the fence where the wire’s been cut recently. I scan the ground and spot fresh tire tracks in the mud. A truck was definitely here. We cross the overgrown lot in a low crouch, moving from one patch of darkness to the next. My pulse is steady, but my mind is racing. My father was here. He used Wyatt Rivers' card. Every step feels like we’re walking deeper into something we might not walk out of.

We reach the side of the main building. A rusted metal door hangs crooked on its hinges. I ease it open just enough for us to slide through without making a sound. Inside, the air is thick with dust and the faint metallic smell of old machinery.Moonlight cuts through the shattered skylights high above, painting long silver stripes across the concrete floor. Massive presses and conveyor belts sit like sleeping giants everywhere. Crates and tarps are scattered around. This place has not been truly empty for long.

We move deeper, slow and silent. I keep my pistol low but ready. Anniston stays right behind me, her breathing soft but quick. I can feel the tension rolling off her in waves. She’s not trained for this kind of work, but she’s doing everything right. No panic. No unnecessary noise. Just quiet trust that makes something warm and fierce twist in my chest.

We clear the first large room. Nothing but dust and shadows. In the second room I spot fresh boot prints in the thick layer of dirt on the floor. Recent. I point them out to Anniston and she nods, eyes wide. We follow the trail toward the back offices, stepping carefully around broken glass and fallen debris.

The prints lead us to a small room that looks like it was used as a makeshift camp. A sleeping bag is rolled up neatly in the corner. A portable stove sits cold on an overturned crate. I kneel beside a small fire pit someone had made with scrap wood and touch the ashes. They’re still slightly warm. He was here tonight. Maybe even a couple of hours ago.

"He was here," I whisper.

Anniston moves to a metal desk pushed against the far wall. She picks something up and holds it out to me. My chest tightens so hard it hurts.

It’s my father's old pocket knife. The one with the worn wooden handle and the initials B.H. scratched into the side by Nash’s hand when he was fourteen. He never went anywhere without it.I turn it over, feeling the familiar weight, the smooth grain of the wood. He left this on purpose. For me. For us.

Under the knife is a folded piece of paper. I open it with steady hands even though my pulse is hammering.

Boys,

Stay out of Halo City.

They are watching.