Chapter 23 Damian
Damian
The taillights ahead glowed faint red through the fog, steady as a heartbeat. Hemsley’s truck rumbled along the highway, heavy with whatever Caldwell was smuggling through Bright Shores.
River leaned forward in the passenger seat, eyes narrowed. “He’s not just heading south. He’s weaving. Testing the mirror.”
“He knows we’re out here,” I muttered. “Question is whether he wants us to follow or lose him.”
Cyclone’s voice was calm, clinical. “Tracker’s holding. We can peel back, wait to see where he roosts.”
I tightened my grip on the wheel. Patience had never been my strength when a bastard like Hemsley dangled bait in front of me. But Morgan’s face flickered in my mind — her wide eyes, the recorder clutched in her hands, her whispered words: 'I feel like I’m failing Ruby.'
She wasn’t failing. I was. Every minute wasted on games was another Ruby spent in shadows.
“We hold distance,” I said, forcing my tone even. “We can’t spook him, not yet.”
River shot me a sideways look. “Since when do you play cautious?”
“Since I’ve got more than my own neck on the line,” I snapped before I could bite it back.
Silence settled, heavy. I didn’t have to explain. They’d seen it — the way Morgan lingered in my focus, the way I carried her words like shrapnel in my chest.
The truck veered off the main road, tires crunching gravel. Cyclone’s screen pulsed green, steady as ever.
“Warehouse district,” he murmured. “Not Hub 9. New site.”
“Bloody hell,” River breathed. “How many of these places does Luthor have?”
“As many as it takes,” I said. My jaw clenched. “Mark it. We’ll circle back once we know what we’re walking into.”
Cyclone logged the coordinates, calm as stone. I forced my hands steady on the wheel, but inside, a storm churned.
Every road, every name, every false charity led back to one truth: Luthor’s reach was deeper than I’d thought. And Morgan — with her sharp eyes and unyielding loyalty — had stepped straight into the heart of it.
I glanced at the mirror, catching the faint reflection of my own eyes — hard, gray, burning.
If Hemsley thought she was just another pawn, he had no idea what kind of war he’d just started.
Because I wasn’t letting Morgan Tate break.
Not for Luthor. Not for anyone.