Ronan grunts an approval, still typing, still radiating that protective heat.
“If he left even one shadow, one reflection in a window, one stray frame he forgot to scrub, I can find him,” I say, swallowing hard. “People like Jory think they’re ghosts.”
Ronan finally glances over, a slow, dark smile forming, the kind that promises violence in the most exciting way.
I lean forward, watching Ronan tapping furiously through the files we stole, the map of the city glowing across my screens.
While Ronan and I trade off at the keyboard like our blood is wired into the circuits, Rowan stands at the second monitor hammering through financial trails with the precision of a surgeon who hates his patient. Emerson returns from the forced nap I shoved him into earlier, hair damp from splashing water on his face, eyes clearer but still shadowed with worry. He tries to hide it, but I see every crack he thinks he’s covering.
I told him sleep helped me reset, helped drag me out of the mental hole I was spiraling into. He didn’t argue. He just nodded and stayed close.
We need to be sharp. Kimber needs us sharp.
Hours bleed together, coffee cooling untouched, fingers flying, eyes stinging. The war room feels smaller by the minute, like the walls are leaning in on us, listening. Every so often one of us pushes back from a dead end with a cursed breath, forcing ourselves to try a new angle, a new link, a new door.
Then Ronan goes perfectly still.
Not frozen. Not confused. Still—like a predator whose prey finally stepped into the open.
His mouth pulls slowly into that dangerous grin of his before he hits the return key hard enough the keyboard rattles.
“Found him.”
The words slice through the room. All of us whip toward the main screen.
The footage glows grainy in the dark. Dockside camera. Nighttime timestamp.
There he is.
Jory.
Short, shaved head. Narrow shoulders hunched as if life has already beaten him down more times than he can count. He glances around like a man who believes the shadows have teeth. Then he drops a small package behind the metal bench, does another paranoid sweep, and speeds off.
Thirty minutes later Micah appears, jittery as hell, grabbing the drop with all the subtlety of a raccoon stealing a wallet. It’s almost comical—if it weren’t part of the chain that leads to Kimber being taken.
“Can you enhance the face?” Emerson asks, stepping behind us, jaw grinding.
“Already on it,” Ronan murmurs, fingers moving in a blur.
He isolates Jory’s face, runs the frame through my enhancement software. The static cleans up. Lines sharpen.Shadows lift. Not movie-quality. But enough. Enough to spot him in a crowd. Enough to corner him if it comes to that.
We stare at the screen like it might blink first.
“Any of you recognize him?” Rowan asks, voice low.
We all shake our heads.
“What kind of role would someone like him play with Dean and Bryce?” Emerson mutters. “Why pay a third party instead of doing it themselves?”
“The kind that only exists so they don’t get caught on camera,” I say. “Middlemen. Runners. Disposable shields.”
Ronan snorts. “Spineless assholes always outsource their dirty work.”
My focus locks onto Jory’s image, the faint nervous tremor captured in his shoulders.
“If he’s doing drops for them,” I say, “then he’s been close. Maybe close enough to overhear something. Close enough to lead us to whatever holes they’re hiding in.”
Rowan’s fingers curl around the edge of the desk, his tattoos stretching across his knuckles as he leans in. His voice is quiet, but it vibrates with intent. “Now we trace him backwards. Every camera, angle, and step he took.”