And today, the air feels wrong.
Berk’s voice cuts through the static. “Rowan… blue jacket. Left entrance.”
I lift my eyes without moving my head. A man strides in—late thirties, maybe early forties. Too clean. Haircut military-short. No ring. No hesitation. No wandering. He moves straight for box 1013.
Not Jory.
A new ghost.
He doesn’t bother checking his surroundings, which tells me he either believes he can’t be seen… or can’t be touched.
He unlocks the box, slips a small, padded parcel inside, closes it with the casual finality of someone filing a report, andturns out the door fast enough to avoid connection but not suspicion.
Emerson breathes one sharp word into my ear. “Fuck.”
Ronan counters with, “We’re not alone in this game anymore.”
I move as the guy exits, falling into step a block behind him. Berk joins me without being asked, her gait syncing with mine like we rehearsed it. We’ve never needed practice. When she’s beside me, my instincts sharpen instead of split.
“Ronan, Em,” I whisper. “He’s not just a dropper. The guy moves like he knows counter-surveillance.”
“So did Jory,” Emerson says dryly. “But only in the absolute bare minimum, dumbshit kind of way. This guy looks competent.”
“Stay on box 1013,” I order. “If Jory comes, keep him in sight. Let him pick it up. Do not stop him.”
Ronan snorts. “We weren’t planning to kill the little puke just yet.”
“Just follow him to the next drop,” Berk adds. “Then let him scurry home.”
“Copy,” Emerson says. Already shifting into the hunter he keeps tucked behind his softness for her.
Berk and I trail the new guy through the thinning crowd, keeping distance but never losing him. He walks with intention, cutting through side streets, avoiding cameras where possible. Definitely trained. Definitely a problem.
“What are the odds he’s ex-military?” Berk murmurs.
“Seems like it,” I answer. “Or cartel trained. Maybe security with protocols.”
He turns toward the industrial strip. Warehouses. Loading bays. Empty sidewalks. The city’s quiet underbelly.
My fingers twitch toward my knife without thinking.
The guy stops at a squat building wedged between two bigger ones. No sign. No windows. Just a steel door and a keypad so new it shines. He punches in a code, steps inside, and locks it behind him.
Berk and I duck behind a dumpster across the lot, the stench making my eyes water. She scrunches her nose in disgust, and I snort softly.
“Romantic, isn’t it?” I whisper.
She elbows me. “Shut up.”
We settle in and wait.
Minutes drag. The midday sun crawls across the metal siding. My muscles stay tight, ready to spring. Beside me, Berk vibrates with a barely leashed need to break the door down.
My comms crackle. “Jory picked up the package,” Emerson reports. “Heading toward the waterfront. Same general route as his last drop.”
“Stay behind him,” I say. “Do not interrupt the chain.”
“Tracking,” Ronan replies.