Chapter 44
FORTY-FOUR
Gates sat alone in the kitchen of the safehouse, the old oscillating fan ticking back and forth above him. The boy was asleep on the couch, and Ryan and Lucía had retreated to the bedroom to… Well, he knew what they were doing, and it wasn’t something he wanted to contemplate.
He’d seen the way Lucía had watched him during the boat ride back. Not with thanks. With calculation. She hadn’t asked him anything directly, but her eyes had. How did you get here so fast? Why did you have supplies ready? Why are you always one step ahead?
He could feel her questions like pinpricks against his back.
Ryan hadn’t said much either, just kept one hand on the kid, the other close to his sidearm. Protective. Guarded. Watching Gates like he was still trying to decide if this was a trap he’d just walked into willingly.
Fine. Let them wonder.
Gates didn’t need their trust. He just needed a little more time.
He turned his attention back to the device in his lap—a matte-black satellite communicator, smaller than a paperback and far more dangerous. The screen glowed faintly, casting green light across his face. He typed without hesitation, fingers quick and efficient.
ASSET SECURED. FINAL TRANSFER PENDING.
He stared at the message for a moment before hitting SEND. The burst was encrypted, untraceable, routed through two proxy chains. No one reading it would know what or who the asset was.
But they would know Gates had delivered. Or was about to.
The message disappeared, burned by the device’s failsafe protocol. He watched the cursor blink three times. Then nothing.
He closed the cover and leaned back, exhaling through his nose.
This was the part he hated.
Not the lies. Not the covert drops or fake names or burner networks. Those were just tools. What he hated was the flicker. The thing that caught in his chest when the mission stopped being clean.
He’d told himself it was still about the job. Still about justice. Getting the ledger back into the right hands. Ensuring no more people died.
But the edges had started to blur. Ever since Inglis had walked back into the picture. Ever since Lucía Duarte became more than a name on a file.
He rubbed a hand down his face, then he stood, stretching his back, and crossed to the window. Outside, the moonlit coast was still. The ocean whispered in the distance, waves lapping against the rocks. It was almost peaceful.
He scanned the line of the horizon, checked the angle of the shadows. No movement. No lights. He waited another moment, then closed the curtain.
Tomorrow, everything would change.