Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 49385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
We fall into easier things—names we’ll never use, whether babies prefer jazz or white noise, if my child will inherit my weird thing about cilantro (genetic enemy). He steals three fries and pretends he didn’t. I let him because I’m benevolent.
When the check comes, he slides it toward himself. I open my mouth. He lifts a brow. “Consider it part of my ‘showing up’ budget.”
“Do I get a line item?” I ask.
“Snacks,” he says. “Unlimited.”
Outside, the sun has committed to the day. He walks me to the car like the sidewalk could suddenly turn treacherous. At my door he hesitates, then looks me right in the eyes.
“Thank you,” he says. “For letting me be there today.”
“You were good at it,” I say. “Being there.”
He nods, like he’s filing that away as an instruction he intends to follow. “Two weeks?”
“Two weeks,” I echo, holding up the heartbeat strip like a secret handshake.
He touches the edge of the paper with one careful fingertip, then steps back and rounds the hood to his side.
As he pulls out of the space, I rest my palm on my belly. “How’d we do?” I whisper.
The baby answers with a small, decisive thump.
“Same,” I say, smiling despite the fear. “Same.”
11
Lucas
I’m good under pressure. Tight timelines, bad weather, doors that don’t wanna open—my brain likes the clean snap of decisions. But today the math keeps changing.
We’re parked two blocks off the marina with engine heat fading, windows cracked, watching holiday lights stutter in the reflection on wet pavement. Duke’s in the passenger seat nursing his coffee. Gunner checks in from the second vehicle with a line-of-sight on the ballroom entrance. Our client’s post-event convoy is supposed to be a simple in and out.
It isn’t.
“Black sedan again,” Gunner says over comms. “Same speed discipline, same standoff. Northbound loop, third pass.”
I raise the binos. There he is—matte-black rental, clean plates, driver’s profile a slice in sodium light. Hat low, posture relaxed in a way that’s learned, not luck.
“Clocked him two nights ago at South Harbor,” I say. “He mirrored our reposition to the west lot, then vanished. He’s not watching the principal. He’s watching us.”
“Confirm,” Duke says, voice even. “Intel or leverage?”
“Pattern-of-life collection,” I answer. “Learning our routes, timing, fallback habits. Tagging the team.”
“Get me a plate,” he says.
“Already got it,” Gunner replies. “Registered to Valence Auto—bulk renter. Card: prepaid. Camera on the corner gave me a face three loops ago when he smoked in the shadow of the florist.”
My phone buzzes with a photo that looks like every face and nobody at once—average in the way guys try to be when they don’t want to stick. But the jawline’s familiar. Nose break that healed lazy. The eyes don’t blink when you expect them to.
“Run him,” Duke says.
“Working,” Gunner mutters, fingers clacking. “Hit on a skip trace forum. Alias pings: Mercer. Ed Mercer. Freelance collector. Sells to whoever pays—PI work on the surface, dirt-digging underneath. No charges that stick. Known associates: one broker in Miami, one fixer in Portland. Last known gig: leverage package for a hedge guy’s divorce.”
“Not here for the tree lighting,” I say.
“And not just following the convoy,” Gunner adds, voice flattening. “Geo pings from public cams put his face at Bean Flicker two afternoons this week. Baby Bungalow yesterday. Saint Pierce General ER side entrance last night. He’s ghosting our tail and finding our shadows.”
Bean Flicker. Baby Bungalow. ER. My spine goes cold.
“He pivoted from the job to us,” I say. What the fuck?
“Specifically you,” Duke says, tracking ahead of me like he always does. “Which means Melanie is on his map by association.”
I don’t answer right away. I’m already pulling up traffic cams in my head, mapping lines from the marina to her block. It’s been a few days since the appointment—quiet texts, heartbeat photo, a lemon muffin joke. Quiet isn’t safety. Quiet is a thing that breaks loud.
“Mission change,” Duke says. “Gunner and I button the client. Lucas—”
“I’m gone,” I say, already shifting into drive.
“Leave me Mercer’s plate,” Gunner adds. “If he moves toward her apartment again, I’ll wake up half the city.”
I drop coordinates in the channel, then I’m rolling, wipers clicking, a line of cold air spooling in from the vent as I push heat and speed into a truce. The roads are damp and mean, and I drive like a man with a cargo more important than my ego.
Melanie’s building is quiet when I pull up. Not dead quiet—residential quiet. A TV blue in a third-floor window. Someone’s wind chime doing a ghost song. I loop once for a pattern check, record plates, clock a dented Civic that doesn’t belong. It’s clean aside from that.
I text:
Outside. Don’t open until you hear me. Two knocks, then one.
Three beats. The buzzer hums. I take stairs, not the elevator. Stairs tell you more about a building—the smells, the sounds, the neighbor who leaves shoes outside their door. Third floor smells like curry and pine cleaner. Good. Familiar.