Chapter 13
Thirteen
Logan
Logan Black stands in the vacant motel room, his senses precisely cataloging every detail. He moves deliberately through the space, nostrils flaring slightly. The room still carries the scent of a woman's shampoo and a man's sweat.
Logan examines the bed. Graves was right. Just two people.
Logan crouches in the bathroom, examining tiny specks of color around the drain. Hair dye residue. Brown. Smart but predictable.
But what interests him most is what isn't here. No toothbrushes left behind, no crumpled receipts, no food wrappers. They left in a hurry but were careful not to leave any signatures. Ms. Barrett’s attention to detail fits her profile, but whoever is with her understands operational security as well.
Logan moves to the window, peering out at the motel parking lot.
The fire damage to the office is still visible.
It was a clever distraction, but an unnecessary and foolish one.
It didn’t raise any suspicions for the deputies who were here on a routine warrant, but it was the screaming red flag that brought Logan here.
He steps back, assembling a mental profile. The woman remains predictable enough: an analyst turned fugitive, scared but resourceful. But her companion... Logan feels a strange tingle at the base of his skull.
His phone buzzes. Graves will be demanding an update. Logan silences the phone, letting her stew.
She’s been useful these past few years. Putting him in places and positions to legally carry out the work he loves.
The work that he was made to do. Logan can begrudgingly admit that he needs her.
That she does, indeed, hold the leash. But sometimes Graves forgets that the leash is attached to a dog that’s bigger and has sharper teeth than her.
He stands in the center of the room one last time, absorbing the lingering presence of his prey. The woman is merely collateral damage. But her companion? Logan can feel it in his bones. This is someone worth hunting. Someone who might actually present a challenge.
A cold smile crosses his face. The prospect of worthy prey makes the blood in his veins sing. It’s the only time it does.
The phone buzzes again.
He ignores it again.
Logan leaves the room and makes his way to the motel’s office. He enters and begins to catalog every detail with clinical precision. The acrid smell of melted plastic and scorched coffee grounds hangs in the air. The fire had clearly started at the coffee maker.
This piques Logan’s interest.
The motel manager, a balding man with yellowed fingers and a stained shirt, sits behind the reception desk. "We're closed for repairs. Come back next week.” He doesn’t look up from his phone.
"I need to see your security footage," Logan says.
The manager's eyes narrow. "You a cop?" His gaze flicks over Logan's massive frame, dressed simply in jeans and a Henley, his weapon concealed at the small of his back. "You don't look like law."
"I need the footage,” Logan says simply. No emotion. No further explanation.
“Fuck off.”
Logan loves it when they make it easy. His lips curl into a smile that does reach his eyes, genuine pleasure at the coming pain.
With deliberate slowness, Logan pulls his gun from its holster. He gently places it on the counter, barrel pointing at the manager, and leaves his hand resting casually beside it.
The manager's eyes fix on the weapon. His throat works as he swallows. "What are you doing?"
"I want to see the footage." Logan's voice remains conversational, as if discussing the weather.
"You can't do that." The man's voice cracks.
"Do what?" Logan shrugs, enjoying the game.
"I have rights.”
Logan doesn’t move. Doesn’t need to. If anything, he’s quieter. "Do you? If I make you eat a bullet from that gun, what right is going to stop me?"
“There are security cameras all over.”
“Yes. I know. And I want to see them.”
“You’ll go to jail." His hands are shaking.
“Maybe. But you’ll be dead. And do you think anyone will care?”
"You can't just kill me." The manager's voice has shrunk to a whisper.
Logan shakes his head slowly. He’s disappointed that the man isn’t getting it.
"That’s what I’m trying to make you see.
Yes. I can. Right here. Right now. And nothing can stop me.
” Logan looks the man up and down. “You don’t look like whatever spawned you cared about you.
If anything took pity and fucked you, I doubt you were capable of keeping her or treating her right.
If you spawned a child, they don’t want anything to do with someone like you.
You’ve lived every second of your worthless life wasting it.
I can just kill you. And you know who will care?
” Logan leans in until they're inches apart, the manager's face now beaded with sweat. "Absolutely no one."
The manager's pupils dilate. Logan can see they’re filled with fear but starting to turn into something even more satisfying. A sharp, jagged self-loathing.
The manager’s Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "System's in the back," he mumbles, his body deflating to the shape of a question mark.
Logan makes his way to the back without casting another glance at the manager. He finds a dusty monitor sitting atop a cluttered, stained desk, connected to an outdated security system.
Logan hits a couple of buttons, and footage appears on the screen: grainy, black and white, but usable.
Logan fast-forwards through hours of nothing, punctuated by lowlifes booking their rooms. The night footage is so dark that it’s nearly useless. But the day footage begins, and Logan stops it as soon as the first person exits their room.
Logan leans closer. On screen, a broad, tall man in a cowboy hat keeps his face angled away from the camera as he heads toward the office.
Logan clocks how large the man is. Not as big as Logan but close. He moves with purpose. He moves like he knows how to handle himself. Logan can also see, even through the grainy footage and the cowboy hat covering the man’s face, that he’s scanning the doors and windows.
But there’s something else. Something that makes the tingle at the base of his skull he’s been feeling since he started tracking them ignite into a full burn.
His heart races.
It never races.
Logan fast-forwards while the figure has ducked into the office, out of the camera’s view.
He stops and plays the footage at normal speed when the cops arrive. But the man never exits the office. He must have gone out a back way after seeing the deputy's car pull up.
Soon, the man in the cowboy hat and Naomi Barrett with darker hair escape their room into a pickup truck. Logan can’t get the license plate.
He watches Naomi jump out and knock on doors, creating a panic they can escape in.
Clever girl.
The feeling is still nagging at Logan, but watching more footage isn't answering it.
Logan rewinds the footage all the way back to when the cowboy first exited the motel. Watches it. Rewinds. Watches. Rewinds. Again and again and again.
And then Logan finds it. Is able to name the feeling.
Recognition.
It can’t be.
Logan shakes his head, irritated with himself. His mind is playing tricks. The footage is shit. He can't make out the facial features or any defining characteristics beyond the basic physical dimensions.
Still, that nagging sense of familiarity persists. Logan ignores it. He's been in this business too long. After a while, all the prey he’s hunted begins to echo.
His phone buzzes. Graves, clearing her throat and insisting again.
Logan answers, keeping his voice level despite his irritation. "Black."
"When I assign you a task, I expect updates,” Graves snaps.
Logan doesn’t respond to that. His eyes stay on the monitor and the gray figure that feels terrifyingly familiar. He doesn’t mention that notion to Graves either. Instead, he simply says, "I’m only a day behind them now.”