Chapter 39 Damian
Damian
The farmhouse felt different without Morgan. Too still. Too quiet.
We spread out around the table, maps and files scattered across the wood.
Cyclone already had his laptop open, fingers flying as he pulled up surveillance feeds.
River paced, restless energy vibrating off him.
Roger leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, but his eyes were sharp, tracking every move
But the thing I noticed most wasn’t on the table or the screen. It was what wasn’t there.
No soft scratch of Morgan’s recorder. No clear, steady voice piecing together threads we hadn’t even seen. The silence was louder because of it.
“Feels off,” River muttered, running a hand over the back of his neck. “Like we’re missing a piece.”
“You mean her,” Cyclone said without looking up.
River snorted but didn’t deny it. None of us did.
I lowered into a chair, dragging a hand over my face. “She had a way of cutting through the noise. Saw angles we didn’t. We’ll just have to manage without her, for a while.” My chest tightened as I said it, because I knew damn well it wasn’t just her instincts we all missed.
Roger leaned forward, his voice steady. “Luthor’s still out there. Which means the clock’s ticking. We can’t afford to drag our feet.”
Cyclone spun the laptop around. “I’ve got chatter on a warehouse near the docks. Could be nothing, but the timing lines up. If Luthor’s moving product, this might be our shot.”
River stopped pacing. “Then we hit it.”
I exhaled slowly, staring at the map spread across the table. Every line, every marker reminded me of the promise I’d just made. Morgan’s face, the way her voice had broken when she whispered please, burned behind my eyes.
“We’ll hit it,” I said. “But this time, we finish it.”
The farmhouse felt too big without Morgan. The hum of Cyclone’s laptop, the shuffle of boots across the floor, even River’s constant pacing — none of it filled the quiet she’d left behind.
We geared up quick, every man driven by the same thought: end this before it circles back to her. Cyclone had picked up chatter about a warehouse near the docks. It wasn’t much, but it was all we had.
The place stank of oil and rust. Empty pallets stacked high, tire marks fresh in the dirt. But no bodies. No product. No sign of Luthor.
“Son of a—” River kicked a crate, the crack echoing through the hollow space. “They were here. Hours ago, maybe less.”
“Too clean,” Roger muttered, scanning the corners. “They stripped it before we even got close.”
Cyclone crouched with his laptop, pulling up surveillance feeds, fingers flying. “They’re moving fast. Every time I get a ping, they’re already gone.” His voice was sharp, frustrated.
I walked the length of the warehouse, boots crunching over broken glass.
My chest was tight, not from the chase — from the silence.
No soft click of a recorder. No calm, steady voice piecing things together while the rest of us burned through adrenaline.
Morgan’s absence pressed in on me like a weight.
Back at the farmhouse, we spread maps across the table. Cyclone hammered at the keys, River swore under his breath, and Roger Grant leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. We were all happy Roger decided to join The Golden Team.
But all I heard was what wasn’t there.
Morgan.
Her voice.
Her way of finding the one angle we all missed.
I scrubbed a hand over my face and forced myself to focus. “We keep at it. Next lead, next place. We don’t stop until Luthor runs out of shadows.”
Nobody argued. But I saw the same thing in their eyes that I felt in my chest — frustration, anger, and the sharp edge of something that looked a lot like missing her.