Chapter Ten
Rowan
The days crawl.
Six long, suffocating days of checking Jory’s phone like it’s a fucking detonator waiting to blow.
Six days of refreshing feeds, cross-referencing bank activity, digging through files, chasing shadows connected to men we’re itching to bury. And nothing.
Every night, Berk curls tighter between us—restless, twitchy, that razor-sharp part of her pacing inside her skull. At night I feel her cracking just a little more. Every morning, she wakes up and pretends she’s fine.
She’s not.
None of us are.
But on the morning of day six, while the sun climbs through the blinds like it’s mocking me, Jory’s phone delivers.
One message.
Encrypted.
Short.
Precise.
Pickup.
PO Box 1013.
Thirty minutes.
Ronan freezes halfway through a cup of coffee. Emerson drops whatever he’s holding—a spatula, a fork, who knows—which clatters across the counter.
Berk stands so fast that her chair skids backward across the floor.
My chest tightens, adrenaline hitting like a fist.
“Finally,” Berk whispers. It’s not relief—it’s hunger. A promise. A threat.
Ronan is already strapping his vest on.
“Gear up,” he says, voice low and vibrating with violence. “We’re moving.”
I flip the portable command case open—our mobile brain, our lifeline. Inside, everything gleams. Wireless interceptors, scramblers, our burner system, software Berk built that can skin a digital footprint in seconds.
Emerson loads his gun with cold efficiency, eyes flicking to Berk. “Are we letting the drop go through?”
“We have to,” she answers, tying her hair back in a brutal twist. “We need the entire chain. Sender. Drop. Pickup. Whoever’s running these routes for Dean and Bryce—they’ll be watching.”
Her tone is steady, but her hands tremble. I catch it, but pretend I didn’t.
“We stick to the plan,” she continues. “We watch, track, follow, but don’t break the pattern yet.”
Ronan snorts. “But we break someone.”
“Later,” she says, grabbing her knives. “After I get answers.” Her gaze finds mine and locks. “We’re close, Ro.”
I nod, because speaking right now might choke me.
We pile into today’s van—silver, dented, mismatched doors, one panel rattling like it’ll fall off. Berk’s handiwork. She smirks when Ronan curses under his breath as he starts the engine.
“Can’t bring you anywhere nice,” she jokes, but her knee bounces from nerves and impatience.
I fire up the portable command screen, fingers moving fast. “I’ve got three traffic cams, one ATM feed, and two postal exterior cams already syncing. Give me five minutes and I’ll have the entire block mapped.”
“Make it three,” she says.
I do it in two.
Ronan weaves through traffic, knuckles white on the wheel. Emerson rolls his shoulders like he’s prepping for a fight, because he is. We all are.
As we pull into the outskirts of downtown, the tension thickens until it’s a living thing breathing down our necks.
Berk turns slightly, eyes tracking the maps blooming across my screens.
“Talk to me, Ro.”
“Postal cameras cover the lobby and half the PO box wall,” I explain. “Traffic cams pick up the street, sidewalks, and half the parking lot. If someone walks in, I’ll have them in a four-angle grid.”
“And if they’re smart?” Emerson asks.
“They’ll still fuck up,” Berk says coldly.
Ronan exhales hard. “We’re catching someone tonight.”
“No,” I correct, eyes narrowing as a new feed loads. “We’re catching the right someone.”
The van slows.
The post office sign looms into view through the windshield.
My pulse kicks.
“We’re here,” Ronan murmurs.
Berk’s lips lift—not a smile. A warning. “Then let’s hunt.”
The post office lot hums with its usual nothing-special energy. People shuffling in with envelopes, out with junk mail, cars pulling through like we’re all living normal lives. But under that bland noise is the thrum we’re hunting. The pulse of something wrong.
Ronan parks the van far enough away to avoid cameras but close enough that we can respond in seconds.
The four of us spill out, fanning casually in different directions like we’re just bored people killing time.
Berk hands each of us a comm, her fingers fast and precise.
She always works like her pulse runs on code instead of blood.
I lean against the concrete outer wall, hood up, pretending to scroll my phone.
Berk mirrors the angle from inside the lobby, posture loose but eyes razor-sharp.
Emerson blends into the line of customers at the counter.
Ronan stands near the stamp machines, tapping out a fake text while actually scanning every reflection he can catch.
Box 1013 sits halfway down the metal grid. Smaller than the chaos it controls.
Emerson murmurs through the comm, “No movement so far. Jory’s still at home, lazy bastard.”
“Give it a minute,” Ronan replies. “Patterns always show.”
I shift my weight like I’m stretching, but my stomach still knots tight. Six days of silence from Jory after his last drop. No messages. No pickups. Just porn searches and stupid videos as proof he’s still breathing. Six days of waiting for the next fracture in their system.
And today, the air feels wrong.
Berk’s voice cuts through the static. “Rowan… blue jacket. Left entrance.”
I lift my eyes without moving my head. A man strides in—late thirties, maybe early forties. Too clean. Haircut military-short. No ring. No hesitation. No wandering. He moves straight for box 1013.
Not Jory.
A new ghost.
He doesn’t bother checking his surroundings, which tells me he either believes he can’t be seen… or can’t be touched.
He unlocks the box, slips a small, padded parcel inside, closes it with the casual finality of someone filing a report, and turns out the door fast enough to avoid connection but not suspicion.
Emerson breathes one sharp word into my ear. “Fuck.”
Ronan counters with, “We’re not alone in this game anymore.”
I move as the guy exits, falling into step a block behind him. Berk joins me without being asked, her gait syncing with mine like we rehearsed it. We’ve never needed practice. When she’s beside me, my instincts sharpen instead of split.
“Ronan, Em,” I whisper. “He’s not just a dropper. The guy moves like he knows counter-surveillance.”
“So did Jory,” Emerson says dryly. “But only in the absolute bare minimum, dumbshit kind of way. This guy looks competent.”
“Stay on box 1013,” I order. “If Jory comes, keep him in sight. Let him pick it up. Do not stop him.”
Ronan snorts. “We weren’t planning to kill the little puke just yet.”
“Just follow him to the next drop,” Berk adds. “Then let him scurry home.”
“Copy,” Emerson says. Already shifting into the hunter he keeps tucked behind his softness for her.
Berk and I trail the new guy through the thinning crowd, keeping distance but never losing him. He walks with intention, cutting through side streets, avoiding cameras where possible. Definitely trained. Definitely a problem.
“What are the odds he’s ex-military?” Berk murmurs.
“Seems like it,” I answer. “Or cartel trained. Maybe security with protocols.”
He turns toward the industrial strip. Warehouses. Loading bays. Empty sidewalks. The city’s quiet underbelly.
My fingers twitch toward my knife without thinking.
The guy stops at a squat building wedged between two bigger ones. No sign. No windows. Just a steel door and a keypad so new it shines. He punches in a code, steps inside, and locks it behind him.
Berk and I duck behind a dumpster across the lot, the stench making my eyes water. She scrunches her nose in disgust, and I snort softly.
“Romantic, isn’t it?” I whisper.
She elbows me. “Shut up.”
We settle in and wait.
Minutes drag. The midday sun crawls across the metal siding. My muscles stay tight, ready to spring. Beside me, Berk vibrates with a barely leashed need to break the door down.
My comms crackle. “Jory picked up the package,” Emerson reports. “Heading toward the waterfront. Same general route as his last drop.”
“Stay behind him,” I say. “Do not interrupt the chain.”
“Tracking,” Ronan replies.
“Good.”
Twenty-three minutes later, our guy steps back outside. Same blank expression. Same clipped stride. But now there’s tension riding him—shoulders drawn tight, jaw locked.
Whatever waited in that building mattered.
“That’s our target,” Berk whispers. “He’s tied to something bigger.”
“Agreed,” I murmur. “We stay on him. See where he takes us.”
We peel off from the alley and melt back into the current of the city. The man keeps moving at an even pace, shoulders loose, stride unhurried. Too unhurried. Either he’s convinced he shook anyone tailing him from the drop… or repetition has dulled his caution into carelessness.
Berk matches my pace without hesitation.
Her steps are silent, measured. Focus sharp enough to slice through the noise of passing cars and early commuters, like she’s tuned to a different frequency altogether.
Her chin stays dipped just enough to avoid cameras catching her face. Habit. Precision. Art.
We trail him through two blocks of cracked sidewalks and sagging apartment buildings until the scenery changes.
He cuts sharply through a small community park, then turns down a side street lined with near-identical houses.
Beige paint. White trim. Patchy lawns. A neighborhood so aggressively ordinary it feels designed to bury secrets.
He stops at the third house on the left, pulls a key, unlocks the door, and steps inside without a single glance back.
Fucking amateur.
Or overconfident. Hard to tell.
We tuck in behind a parked SUV, both of us fixed on the silent front porch.
Berk taps her screen rapidly, muttering, “Give me a second. I want everything about this asshole before we move.”
My comm crackles softly in my ear. Emerson’s voice comes through steadily. “Jory made the drop at River Pier Twenty.”
Ronan adds, smug enough I can picture the stupid grin on his face. “Dipshit didn’t even look around.”