“We stick to the plan,” she continues. “We watch, track, follow, but don’t break the pattern yet.”
Ronan snorts. “But we break someone.”
“Later,” she says, grabbing her knives. “After I get answers.” Her gaze finds mine and locks. “We’re close, Ro.”
I nod, because speaking right now might choke me.
We pile into today’s van—silver, dented, mismatched doors, one panel rattling like it’ll fall off. Berk’s handiwork. She smirks when Ronan curses under his breath as he starts the engine.
“Can’t bring you anywhere nice,” she jokes, but her knee bounces from nerves and impatience.
I fire up the portable command screen, fingers moving fast. “I’ve got three traffic cams, one ATM feed, and two postal exterior cams already syncing. Give me five minutes and I’ll have the entire block mapped.”
“Make it three,” she says.
I do it in two.
Ronan weaves through traffic, knuckles white on the wheel. Emerson rolls his shoulders like he’s prepping for a fight, because he is. We all are.
As we pull into the outskirts of downtown, the tension thickens until it’s a living thing breathing down our necks.
Berk turns slightly, eyes tracking the maps blooming across my screens.
“Talk to me, Ro.”
“Postal cameras cover the lobby and half the PO box wall,” I explain. “Traffic cams pick up the street, sidewalks, and half the parking lot. If someone walks in, I’ll have them in a four-angle grid.”
“And if they’re smart?” Emerson asks.
“They’ll still fuck up,” Berk says coldly.
Ronan exhales hard. “We’re catching someone tonight.”
“No,” I correct, eyes narrowing as a new feed loads. “We’re catching the right someone.”
The van slows.
The post office sign looms into view through the windshield.
My pulse kicks.
“We’re here,” Ronan murmurs.
Berk’s lips lift—not a smile. A warning. “Then let’s hunt.”
The post office lot hums with its usual nothing-special energy. People shuffling in with envelopes, out with junk mail, cars pulling through like we’re all living normal lives. But under that bland noise is the thrum we’re hunting. The pulse of something wrong.
Ronan parks the van far enough away to avoid cameras but close enough that we can respond in seconds. The four of us spill out, fanning casually in different directions like we’re justbored people killing time. Berk hands each of us a comm, her fingers fast and precise. She always works like her pulse runs on code instead of blood.
I lean against the concrete outer wall, hood up, pretending to scroll my phone. Berk mirrors the angle from inside the lobby, posture loose but eyes razor-sharp. Emerson blends into the line of customers at the counter. Ronan stands near the stamp machines, tapping out a fake text while actually scanning every reflection he can catch.
Box 1013 sits halfway down the metal grid. Smaller than the chaos it controls.
Emerson murmurs through the comm, “No movement so far. Jory’s still at home, lazy bastard.”
“Give it a minute,” Ronan replies. “Patterns always show.”
I shift my weight like I’m stretching, but my stomach still knots tight. Six days of silence from Jory after his last drop. No messages. No pickups. Just porn searches and stupid videos as proof he’s still breathing. Six days of waiting for the next fracture in their system.