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I check the time. It’s 9:42 a.m.

Then I look at my phone.

Nothing.

I toss it onto the couch.

This is fucking ridiculous.

I’ve waited hours for targets to appear. Sat motionless in vehicles. Watched buildings through scopes. Spent an entire night in freezing rain because some asshole decided not to follow his usual routine.

I know how to wait. I’m fucking excellent at it.

Yet my silent phone is almost sending me over the edge.

I glare at it.

Callie hasn’t posted anything since last night. Not that I’m waiting for her to. I’m not.

I’m just waiting for Bishop to call and release me from this prison. Checking her socials is just a way to pass the time.

I grab another piece of firewood and toss it into the fireplace.

Then I check my phone again. 9:44.

Jesus Christ. I need to get the fuck out of this cabin.

Three more fucking days, then I’m free. That’s what Bishop told me yesterday.

My side is healing. The stitches are still there, but the wound no longer feels like someone is shoving a knife into me every time I move.

I’ve started working out again. Carefully. Which means I only did fifty push-ups this morning instead of my usual routine. My side protested around thirty. I ignored it until fifty.

Pierce would call me an idiot. He'd probably be right.

I open Instagram. Not because of Callie. Because apparently this is something I do now.

I stare at the screen. No new posts from her.

I tap her profile. Nothing there, either.

I’m about to close the app when I notice the colored circle around her picture. I’ve seen that before.

I tap it. A photo fills my screen. A fucking plastic cup of iced coffee sits beside her laptop.

The text across the picture reads: If caffeine can’t fix it, we’re probably screwed.

I snort. Then realize I’m smiling. My face immediately goes blank.

I tap the screen.

Another picture appears. This time, Ivy’s cat, Mr. Pickles, is sprawled across her keyboard. It’s captioned: My assistant has rejected today’s marketing strategy.

I stare at the cat. His yellowish-green eyes are looking right at the camera. He doesn’t look impressed.

I shake my head.

What the fuck am I doing?