Chapter 97 Saint
Saint
The building is quiet.
That’s how I know it’s over.
Not the calm of preparation. Not the silence before violence.
The empty kind.
The kind that comes after something has finished burning.
I’m in the operations room with Wolf and Havoc, staring at a screen that hasn’t changed in ten minutes.
No new pings.
No new threats.
No new names.
“Say it again,” I tell Marco.
His voice comes through the speaker, steady in the way only exhausted men get.
“It’s done. Eleanor Vale is dead. Suicide. Fire confirmed. Body recovered. Dental records pending, but it’s her.”
I close my eyes.
Just for a second.
Wolf exhales slowly. Havoc leans back in his chair.
I don’t move.
“Network?” I ask.
“Collapsed,” Marco says. “We’re executing the last warrants now. There will be trials, but no more moves. No one left who can coordinate anything like this again.”
The word again lands heavier than it should.
“And the baby?” he asks quietly.
I look at my hands.
“Safe,” I say. “She’s been safe since the night they failed. We didn’t tell Laney everything.”
“I figured,” Marco says. “You never do.”
That’s not an insult.
It’s an observation.
“She’s really gone?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “She made sure of it.”
For a moment, nobody speaks.
Then Wolf stands.
“Go home, Saint.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
He looks at me like he’s known me too long to accept that answer.
“No, you’re not. And it’s over. That means you don’t get to hide in this room anymore.”
Havoc nods. “Your war’s done.”
I don’t argue.
Because something in my chest has finally started to ache.
The drive back feels longer than it should.
Not because of traffic.
Because I don’t remember the last time I drove without rehearsing exits in my head.
The house is quiet when I open the door.
Laney is on the couch, curled around Emmy, who’s asleep against her chest.
The light is soft. The room smells like clean laundry and baby shampoo.
Normal.
It hits me like a wave.
Laney looks up.
One glance at my face and she knows.
“It’s over,” she says.
I nod.
She doesn’t ask for details.
She just stands and walks to me carefully, not waking the baby.
I take them both into my arms.
That’s when my knees almost give.
Laney’s hand presses into my back.
“Hey,” she whispers. “I’ve got you.”
I haven’t heard anyone say that to me in a long time.
I bury my face in her hair.
For the first time since this started…
I let myself breathe.
That night, after Emmy is asleep in her crib, I sit on the edge of the bed and realize my hands are shaking.
Laney kneels in front of me and takes them.
“You don’t have to be strong anymore,” she says.
I swallow.
“I don’t know how to turn it off.”
“I do,” she says. “Come back to us.”
And I finally understand:
The fight didn’t end with Eleanor's death.
It ended when I walked through my front door.