16. Rowan #2
Miles was quiet for a moment, processing the implications. Around us, the warehouse hummed with electronic life—Dorian's monitors, the security systems, and the constant digital surveillance that had become our lifeline and prison.
"There's something else," I said quietly. "Dr. Harrow's offer."
Miles nodded. "I've been thinking about it. She said she'd send authentication files, but I haven't seen anything yet."
"We need to assume any contact with her is a trap." I reached for his hand. "If Meridian's cleaning house, targeting their critics makes perfect sense. What better way to neutralize a troublesome therapist than to get him alone under the pretense of professional collaboration?"
"You think she's working with them?"
"I think she's either working with them or she's their next target."
My phone buzzed against the table—a text message.
Miles: Dr. Harrow meeting confirmed for tomorrow 2 PM. Looking forward to our collaboration
Except Miles was standing right beside me.
I showed him the screen. His face drained of color.
"I never confirmed anything," he whispered. "I never even responded to her call."
"They're using your phone number," I said. "Setting up a meeting you didn't agree to."
"Which means they're confident we'll be eliminated before tomorrow afternoon." I pocketed the phone. "Or they want us to think we've been discovered and force us into making panicked decisions."
My phone buzzed again. This time, an actual call. Unknown number.
I answered on the second ring.
"Ashcroft." The voice was ragged, barely recognizable. "It's me. Thomas. From the diner."
Rook. Calling on an open line meant he was either desperate or already caught.
"Where are you?"
"I can't—the line isn't secure." His breathing was labored. "They found the safe house. I'm moving, but I don't know how long—"
The call went dead.
I stared at the silent phone, then at Miles, then at Dorian, who was already tracing the signal through his network of digital resources.
"Belltown," Dorian said. "Call originated from a cell tower near the waterfront. But he's moving south, toward the port district."
Dorian's terminal blinked. A new window popped up—no header, no official seal, only a log-in string and a single line of text:
Calling from: Westin (secure): Off-record extraction team en route. We can't claim this; meet by Gate 3, Pier 91, 35 minutes. Bring evidence. Discretion essential.
"Header route matches the Seattle field office line Michael's used before," said Dorian. "Not proof, but maybe enough to gamble."
"Off-record," Miles repeated. "So—help from someone willing to bend the rules."
I turned to Miles. "I have to go after him."
"We have to go after him."
"No." The word tore out of me, raw with three years of buried grief and fresh terror. The thought of Miles in a container yard with armed mercenaries made something primitive and protective rear up in my chest. "I won't watch them destroy you like they destroyed Lucia."
Miles stopped halfway to the coat closet, his hand frozen on the doorframe. When he turned back to me, his eyes were bright with something that looked dangerously close to tears.
"Don't you dare," he said, voice shaking.
"Don't you dare make this about her. About your guilt.
" He took a step toward me, then another, until we were close enough that I saw the pulse hammering in his throat.
"You think I'm going to let you disappear into the night on some suicide mission because you're carrying three years of survivor's guilt? "
His hands gripped my jacket. "I'm not Lucia, Rowan. I'm not some ghost you need to protect or avenge. I'm right here and choosing to stand with you."
"Miles—"
"No." His voice cracked. "You don't get to love me and then try to save me by leaving me behind. That's not how this works." He pressed closer. "If something happens to you out there, what do you think that does to me? You think I just go back to my practice and pretend none of this mattered?"
Dorian cleared his throat softly. "He's right about the backup," he said quietly. "You'll need ground support, and I can coordinate from here. But—" He paused, fingers hovering over his keyboard. "This could be what they want. Draw us out, separate us, eliminate the threats one by one."
The three of us stood in the blue glow of multiple screens, each weighing terrible choices.
Dorian's monitors chimed with new alerts. Vehicle movement near the port district, facial recognition hits, and communication intercepts.
"Decision time," he said quietly.
I looked at Miles, the man who'd trusted me enough to drag his family into a festering conspiracy. He shared his bed, his secrets, and his stubborn determination to seek justice for the people who couldn't seek it themselves.
Impossible choices: abandon Rook and let our last witness disappear, or split our defenses and potentially get everyone killed.
Somewhere in the dark city, a terrified man ran for his life, carrying evidence that could save hundreds of future victims.
My phone buzzed a third time.
This time, it was Rook's voice, transmitted through layers of digital encryption that made him sound like a ghost: "Pier 91. Container yard. I'll wait one hour."
Dorian flicked to traffic. "Georgetown to Pier Ninety-One is ten to twelve minutes if the lights break our way."
I did the math. One hour minus twelve. Fifty-odd minutes to decide whether we were hunters or prey.