Chapter 52 #2
I skim my hands along every inch of the newly constructed walls three times before I feel it. A slight dip under my fingertips. Too smooth. Too intentional. My brows draw tight.
“Here.” I rise on my toes and tap the spot. “Get a light on this.”
Theo steps in with a penlight, sweeping the beam across the seam where the wall meets the ceiling.
There’s a barely visible irregularity. A circle the size of a quarter that doesn’t match the rest of the surface. Not paint. Not putty.
“What is it?” Monty appears at my side.
“Sheetrock flaw?” Carl inches closer.
“No. That’s a cover. Look.” Theo removes a small tool and cuts around the dimple. “Camera lens is behind it. Wireless.”
“Hello, Satan’s Ring cam.” My heart pounds. “Can you trace it? Where does the feed go?”
Theo and Ross pull out more gear. Laptops open, signal intercepts, decrypt attempts… Nothing.
“This thing’s locked down tighter than a bank vault.” Ross switches to a different computer. “Encrypted at a level I haven’t seen outside black ops. No wonder it didn’t trigger our equipment.”
“We can’t trace the feed.” Theo’s brow creases. “Wherever it’s going, it’s not a commercial endpoint. No pings. No reflection.”
“Figure it out.” Monty crosses his arms.
“It’s not going to a cloud.” Theo pauses. “It’s going to a physical system. Closed loop. Somewhere nearby.”
“Blue princess,” I mutter under my breath.
They all look at me.
“That’s what he called it.” I shrug. “His setup. His lair. That’s where the feed’s going.”
Carl nods. “Where—?”
“Hold up. There’s a dead-end road…” Monty removes his phone, and his thumbs fly over the screen. “A couple of blocks from here.” He angles the display toward us, showing a zoomed-in map. “Princess Way.”
“There’s a fucking street called Princess Way? And I’m just now hearing about it?” I’m already moving, heading toward the door.
Monty and Carl flank me as I cut through the streets. Following Monty’s directions, I turn right, then left, and two blocks later, I stop at the entrance of a dead-end road.
Princess Way.
How many times have I passed this street? It’s so unremarkable I never gave it a thought.
It consists of four beat-up houses that slump into waist-high grass. Old chairs and busted appliances rot on the porches, and mailboxes tilt at crooked angles.
One house is straight-up rotting, the windows smashed, and the front door hanging off the hinges. But it’s the backyard that grabs me.
Tucked into the overgrowth, as if trying to disappear, sits a concrete shed.
Dead freight piles up around it. Cracked plastic bins, broken shelving, and splintered pallets lean against the ugly, unassuming cement-block walls with weathered, faded paint.
Blue paint.
A blue shed on Princess Way.
“That’s it.” My pulse spikes as I break into a run, boots crunching through weeds and gravel.
I circle the shed, checking for tracks and clues. No windows. No vents. Just one steel door with a black keypad embedded beneath the handle. A solid, industrial thing. Too new for this building or this neighborhood.
Monty retraces my steps around the shed as Carl pulls on gloves and kneels to inspect the keypad.
“Blue princess.” Monty picks at the chipped blue paint. “Do you think Jag left you this breadcrumb by accident?”
I crouch beside Carl and study the door and keypad. My mind spins through possibilities, traps, bait, and the million ways this could be a dead end. Or a setup.
But my gut doesn’t scream danger. It hums.
“No.” I straighten, wiping sweat from my brow. “Jag leaves rock trails for Dove. Coded breadcrumbs are literally his thing.”
Monty nods. He already knew that. He just wanted to hear me say it.
Carl looks up from the keypad. “Then let’s hope he left you the passcode, because this door will be impossible to open without it.”
“Explain.” A cold weight drops in my chest.
“This isn’t consumer-grade.” Carl taps the keypad with the back of his knuckle.
“It’s black-market, military-adjacent tech.
I’ll have Theo and Ross confirm, but I’ve seen something like this before.
It’s booby-trapped in a digital sense. Wrong code or too many attempts, and the lock bricks itself permanently. Power fries.”
“So we get one shot.” My stomach plummets.
“At best.” Carl sighs. “Assuming the passcode isn’t time-locked, location-locked, or biometric on top of it.”
I have no idea what the passcode could be. Did Jag leave it somewhere I might find it? Or Dove…?
“The graves.” My heart rate redoubles. “He leaves rocks under his parents’ graves in Anaheim. Coded rocks for Dove. Holy fuck, that’s it!”
Monty’s already pulling out his phone, fingers moving fast.
“Wilson,” he says in greeting, “I need the cemetery where David and Celeste Rath are buried. Anaheim, California. And I need someone you trust on-site within the hour.” He glances at me, eyes asking for details.
“Tell them to look under a newly planted flower or tree.” I start pacing.
When Jag killed Gavin, he was in California. He could’ve left a message then, especially if he intended to run.
Monty relays the information and ends the call. “Now we wait.”
I lean against the shed wall, hands in my pockets, adrenaline surging.
“Even if we get inside…” Monty eyes me. “There’s a possibility Jag erased the feed or cleared out the equipment.”
“You don’t need to manage my expectations, Dad. Disappointment is basically my side hustle. I’ve been eating that shit for breakfast since I could walk.”
His eyes soften with regret. Whenever I mention my childhood, it reminds him he wasn’t there for it. He stares at me like he wants to rewind time and beat the hell out of everyone who let me down.
Including himself.
“Come on.” I head to the back stoop of the rotting house and light a cigarette.
Monty joins me, the porch groaning under our weight.
The shed looms in front of us. Carl paces nearby, speaking on the phone with Theo and Ross.
I can’t stop staring at the keypad. Can’t stop bouncing my leg. Can’t stop thinking about Dove.
Monty rests his elbows on his knees, watching the sky shift above the trees. He doesn’t try to fix this. Doesn’t say it’s going to be okay. I’m grateful for that.
Theo and Ross eventually show up, carrying all their gear.
One hour. Sixty minutes. A thousand years.
Then, finally, Monty’s phone buzzes.
He grabs it quickly, stands, and answers without looking at the screen.
“Wilson.” A pause. He listens. His shoulders shift. “Copy that. Send the photo.” He hangs up and meets my eyes. “They found it.”
“What’s on it?” I lurch to my feet.
He hands me his phone.
A photo lights up the screen, showing a smooth white rock nestled in the dirt beside a young sapling. Written across its surface in thick black sharpie are six numbers.
Blood thrashes in my ears as I cross the yard to the shed. I don’t hesitate. Don’t second-guess.
I punch in the code.
Each beep feels like a detonation. When I enter the last digit, the lock buzzes.
Click.
The door unseals with a hiss and cracks open.
I shove it wide.
Cool, recycled air hits my face. Inside, the hum is constant, alive, a soft electric heartbeat in the dark.
My pulse spikes, chest pounding as I step in slowly, eyes adjusting.
Stacks of towers line the back wall. Rows of monitors flicker to life as I cross the threshold. Feeds, windows, command lines, maybe a dozen active systems, all still running.
He left it all.
Relief hits me like a drug.
Then comes the drop.
If Jag orchestrated his and Dove’s disappearance, none of this would still be here. He would’ve wiped it, burned it, or taken it with him.
But he didn’t. He left it running. Which means this wasn’t part of the plan.
If he intended to run, he never got the chance.