Chapter 16 Damian
Damian
The farmhouse smelled of strong coffee and damp paper. Cyclone and River hunched over the map we’d laid across the table, their voices low, steady, but my mind kept circling back to the image of Morgan on the couch — small frame wrapped around that bloody recorder like it was armor.
She’d whispered Ruby’s name like a prayer. And God help me, I’d almost believed her words carried enough weight to reach across the darkness.
But belief didn’t win wars. Planning did.
“Hub 9’s a spider’s web,” Cyclone said, tapping the edge of the map with a pencil. “Multiple docks, layered security, but nothing that screams military. They’re running civilian-grade patterns, hoping to stay under the radar.”
River leaned back, arms crossed. “We tag Hemsley, follow him up the chain. He’s the link to Caldwell, to the shell companies. The trick is keeping Morgan out of the blast radius while we do it.”
I rubbed a hand over my jaw. “She’s already in the blast radius. Luthor doesn’t let loose ends dangle.”
Silence stretched. They knew I was right.
Cyclone adjusted the map, laying a smaller blueprint over the top. “There’s a secondary access point on the north side of the hub. Maintenance entrance. Minimal camera coverage. That’s our way in if we want eyes on the inside.”
“In and out?” River asked.
“Five minutes,” Cyclone confirmed.
I studied the lines, the angles, the exposures. Calculations ticked through my head — not if we could do it, but what it would cost.
“We go tonight,” I said finally. “Tag Hemsley, track his route. Get confirmation on what Caldwell’s moving through that hub.”
River nodded. “And Morgan?”
I looked toward the doorway, where faint light spilled from the room she’d taken. I could still hear the faint murmur of her voice, the way she couldn’t stop narrating her thoughts even when she tried.
“She stays here,” I said. My tone left no room for argument, but my chest tightened all the same. “Cyclone will rig a perimeter, motion sensors, and a back door exit if it comes to it. She doesn’t move until we’re back.”
River arched a brow. “You think she’ll actually listen?”
I almost smiled, bitter and reluctant. “Not bloody likely. But she’ll try. And sometimes trying is all you get.”
Cyclone slid the blueprint closer. “We’ll need her notes, though. She’s the one who saw the trail. If she spots something we don’t, it could cut the chase in half.”
“Then we take them with us,” I said. “But not her.”
River’s grin was sharp. “Funny. You sound like you’re convincing yourself.”
Maybe I was.
Because the truth I wouldn’t say aloud — not to River, not to Cyclone, not even to myself — was that Morgan Tate wasn’t just useful anymore. She mattered. And that made her dangerous in a way no enemy could match.
I tightened the strap on my rifle, pushing the thought down where it couldn’t touch me.
“Gear up,” I ordered. “We hunt tonight.”