“Good.”
Twenty-three minutes later, our guy steps back outside. Same blank expression. Same clipped stride. But now there’s tension riding him—shoulders drawn tight, jaw locked.
Whatever waited in that building mattered.
“That’s our target,” Berk whispers. “He’s tied to something bigger.”
“Agreed,” I murmur. “We stay on him. See where he takes us.”
We peel off from the alley and melt back into the current of the city. The man keeps moving at an even pace, shoulders loose, stride unhurried. Too unhurried. Either he’s convinced he shook anyone tailing him from the drop… or repetition has dulled his caution into carelessness.
Berk matches my pace without hesitation. Her steps are silent, measured. Focus sharp enough to slice through the noise of passing cars and early commuters, like she’s tuned to a different frequency altogether. Her chin stays dipped just enough to avoid cameras catching her face. Habit. Precision. Art.
We trail him through two blocks of cracked sidewalks and sagging apartment buildings until the scenery changes. He cuts sharply through a small community park, then turns down a side street lined with near-identical houses. Beige paint. White trim. Patchy lawns. A neighborhood so aggressively ordinary it feels designed to bury secrets.
He stops at the third house on the left, pulls a key, unlocks the door, and steps inside without a single glance back.
Fucking amateur.
Or overconfident. Hard to tell.
We tuck in behind a parked SUV, both of us fixed on the silent front porch.
Berk taps her screen rapidly, muttering, “Give me a second. I want everything about this asshole before we move.”
My comm crackles softly in my ear. Emerson’s voice comes through steadily. “Jory made the drop at River Pier Twenty.”
Ronan adds, smug enough I can picture the stupid grin on his face. “Dipshit didn’t even look around.”
I smirk. “Good. Swing back here. We’ve got an additional problem.”
“Location?” Emerson asks.
I glance at the house. “Suburban hideaway on Willowcrest. Third house on the left. Quiet. Too quiet. Park a block away. I’ve dropped our location.”
“On our way,” Ronan says.
Berk doesn’t bother looking up as she scrolls, her thumb moving fast. “His name is Matthew Riker. Thirty-nine. FormerArmy Recon. Lives alone. Eight years at this address. No spouse, no kids, no criminal record. Works private security for a shipping company that is… Horizon Logistics.”
My eyebrows jump before I can stop them. “Horizon Logistics. Seriously?”
She just keeps typing.
I let out a low whistle under my breath. “They kept this one completely off our radar,” I mutter, half to myself, half to the universe. “Slippery sons of bitches.”
“Definitely.” She scrolls again, her mouth tightening. “He has enough combat training to be dangerous, but nothing in his public profile screams dirty. Which usually means they’ve scrubbed him clean.”
I glance back at the house. “So, he’s buried deep.”
She finally meets my eyes. “Most likely. If he’s handling drops to Jory, he’s not a minor player—but he’s not their right hand, either. An in-between. Middleman, maybe.”
There’s something in her tone—cold, certain—that twists in my chest. She’s sharpening again. Coming online in a way that terrifies the men who raised us.
Emerson’s voice crackles softly through the comm in my ear, steady and controlled. “We’re set. Move when you’re ready. Two blocks south, then one west.”
We’ve got what we came for—for now. Berk slips her phone into her pocket, and I give the quiet suburban street one last scan. No neighbors peering through blinds, no bored dog walkers lingering, no engines idling too long. Just the hum of daytime stillness and the sharp, damp bite of over-watered lawns.
I lace my fingers with hers and tug her close, letting our bodies fall into the peaceful rhythm of a couple wrapped up in each other. It’s not exactly acting. Not for us. Her hand slides up my chest, my arm drapes around her waist, and we strolldown the sidewalk like we don’t have blood on our hands and vengeance in our souls.