Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 60921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
“Arrow?” I say. “Did you know there’s a second line out here?”
“Define ‘second line.’”
“This looks like… a cellular uplink. Separate from the main cam wiring. Like a backup route.”
He swears again. “If it’s a cellular backup, it might be sending metadata even if the main feed is looping. I’ll trace it.”
My stomach drops.
Inside, Knight has reached the office. I see him break into a file drawer on one of the cam feeds, snapping pictures of documents with his burner.
“Knight,” I say, “we might have a second problem. They’ve got another camera.”
“Of course they do,” he mutters. “Anything else?”
“Yeah.” I peek around the corner of the building, through a grimy window. “We’re not the only ones paying attention. Vale’s got a buddy watching monitors in a back room. He looks twitchy.”
At the security console, a scrawny guy in a cheap windbreaker frowns at the screen, then taps the side of the monitor, confused.
Uh-oh.
“Arrow,” I say, “security creep is noticing your loop.”
“We’re almost done,” Knight says. “I’m in the safe.”
Panic and pride fight it out in my chest. I hold my breath, watching. Then, because the universe hates us, two things happen at once.
First: the guy at the security console leans closer, squinting, then slams a fist on a red button.
Second: Arrow says, very softly, “Oh, shit.”
All the screens flicker.
My loop cuts out.
The live feed jumps back on.
And there, in crisp HD, is Knight Hayes.
Face clear. Posture clear. In the middle of cracking a safe in a crime boss’s warehouse.
Silence.
Then alarms start wailing.
Not digital. Physical.
Real.
Knight swears. “We’re burned. Abort now.”
“Working on it,” Arrow snaps. “But that cellular backup already pushed a burst packet to an offsite node. I’m tracing it, but it’s not good. They’ve got both your faces.”
Fuck.
A door slams inside.
Voices shout.
Boots pound.
Knight bolts out of the office, cutting down a side hall, hugging the corner as two men with guns rush past toward the safe room.
“Birdie,” he bites out, “where are you?”
“Back lot,” I say, moving toward the rear of the building. “Rounding toward the dock.”
“Stay outside. I’m coming out the side door.”
“Negative,” Arrow says. “They’ve just locked it from the inside. They’re funneling to the exits. You’ve got one clear escape route—rear loading dock. But there are two guards moving that way.”
“Make it zero guards,” Knight growls.
“Working on it.”
I don’t think.
I run.
Around the corner, up the short metal steps to the back dock. The floodlight flares to life, painting me in white. For a second, I freeze.
A guard at the far end of the dock whips around.
We lock eyes.
Shit.
No more sneaky tonight.
“Hey!” he barks, reaching for the gun at his hip.
My bat is in my hand before my brain catches up.
I leap forward.
Feet pounding. Heart in my throat.
He lifts his weapon.
Too slow.
I swing.
The bat cracks against his wrist with a sickening thud. The gun clatters to the concrete and skids away. He swears and grabs his arm, stumbling.
“Sorry!” I gasp. “Okay, not sorry—”
He lunges.
I duck and swing again, catching him behind the knee. He crashes down, cursing.
The second guard reaches for his radio.
I fling the bat.
It slams into his chest hard enough to knock him against the wall, the wind leaving his lungs in a wheezing oof.
I sprint, grab the bat, whirl, and square my stance between them and the door.
“Anybody else want a concussion?” I ask, panting.
They glare.
They hesitate.
And that’s when the door behind me bursts open and Knight barrels out.
He takes one look at the scene—me, bat, two groaning guards—and his expression is a mix of horror, fury, and deep, exhausted resignation.
“Birdie,” he says darkly. “What did I tell you?”
“Technically,” I say, breathless, “I stayed near the car.”
He grabs my wrist. “Run now. Semantics later.”
We jump off the dock, hit the gravel hard, and sprint toward the alley as shouts rise behind us.
Bullets ping off metal somewhere to our left.
We duck.
“The car,” I gasp. “Two blocks.”
“New plan,” Arrow says in our ears, voice sharp. “Do not go back to Riverside. They’re sweeping the street. You’ve got a fast-moving van heading your way—no plates, clouded windows. It’s not cops. It’s someone else.”
“Who?” Knight snaps.
“Whoever got that feed burst,” Ozzy says grimly. “They’re fast. And they’re organized. This is bigger than Diego Vale. You’ve tripped something bigger.”
We slam into shadow, ducking behind a dumpster.
I’m panting, lungs burning.
Knight presses his back to the cold metal, one arm still around my wrist. His breath clouds the air between us.
“Okay,” he says, voice low. Controlled. Terrifyingly calm. “Give it to me straight.”
Arrow doesn’t hesitate. “That camera system? It’s not just for blackmail. It’s tied into a darknet bounty network. Someone’s scraping faces from high-risk criminal hubs and adding them to a database. That packet with your image went straight to a node with a standing buy order.”
I squint. “In English?”
Ozzy answers. “Your face just landed in a folder labeled ‘Persons of Interest – Interference.’ There’s a bounty tag on it now.”