Chapter 14 #2
I cleared my throat. “Thompson’s… uh… side project. Didn’t expect that.”
The woman snorted. The man cackled. “Dude, Thompson’s gonna die when I tell him we finally found his karaoke folder.”
Their attention drifted again, amused now instead of suspicious.
Good. Humiliation successful.
“Alphabet,” I whispered. “You got what you need?”
“Got everything,” he said. “And Voodoo?”
“Yeah?”
“You realize you just assaulted everyone in a twenty-foot radius.”
“Occupational hazard.”
I removed the flash drive, slid it back into my pocket, and stood.
Time to leave.
I gave a friendly nod to the operators. “All set. Sorry for the… musical interlude.”
“Man,” the guy wheezed, “that was incredible.”
“I’m gonna have that song stuck in my head all day,” the woman groaned.
I stepped into the stairwell and let the door close behind me.
Alphabet’s tone sharpened. “Heads up. The spotter is moving. He’s breaking from his post.”
Of course he was. Bones, Grace, and Lunchbox were still out there. The spotter seeing me peel off probably shifted his calculus.
“I have him,” Bones said through the comms, low and tight. “He’s heading toward Grace.”
Of course the prick was. The stairwell vibrated under my shoes as I started down fast. Three steps at a time.
“On my way,” I said.
Then this wasn’t just recon anymore.
The hunt was changing shape.
Again.
I hit the bottom of the stairwell and shouldered out into the wind, boots slapping the boardwalk hard enough that a couple tourists looked over. Didn’t matter. Subtlety wasn't a priority.
“Lunchbox, status,” Bones demanded in my ear.
Lunchbox’s voice came back lazy if you didn’t recognize the current of tension running underneath, taut as tripwire.
“He’s cutting us off,” Lunchbox said. “Not a fan of our little sightseeing tour, apparently.”
“Distance?” I asked, lengthening my stride.
“Forty feet and closing,” Lunchbox said. “Grace is playing it cool.”
“Totally faking it,” Grace admitted with only a hint of humor. “I’m freaking out on the inside.”
A grin curved my lips almost involuntarily. That woman… Our woman. I didn’t care how many of these bastards we had to take apart, but I really wanted the threat to her eliminated. Period.
The pier stretched in front of me—tourists, benches, informational plaques about maritime trade. And at the far side, near the railing:
Grace, holding Goblin’s leash in a tight fist. Lunchbox at her left, posture loose but eyes sharp. The spotter moving toward them with a slow, deliberate angle—crossing the space like he owned it.
I felt my pulse pick up, not fast—just hard. Focus tightening down to a single point.
“Don’t intercept yet,” Bones said. “Let him commit.”
Of course Bones was a stone wall even now. Let him commit. Let him make the mistake.
I slid into the crowd, threading past a family with strollers. The wind caught my hat and whipped it sideways, but I didn’t stop to fix it.
“Lunchbox,” I murmured, “pull her three steps left. That gives Bones cover from the kiosk.”
“On it.”
I watched the shift play out in a beautifully natural progression.
Lunchbox “accidentally” angled himself so Grace and Goblin drifted left—still looking like tourists, but now perfectly aligned with Bones’ approach vector.
Bones materialized from behind a cluster of informational displays, blending into the foot traffic like he’d been born in it.
It was choreography. Dangerous, invisible choreography.
The spotter didn’t see a damn thing. Yet, he reached them—too close.
Grace stiffened, just a fraction. Goblin planted himself in front of her leg, hackles whispering upward beneath his vest.
The spotter lifted his chin at them, eyes hidden below the brim of a greasy ballcap. “Excuse me,” he said, voice too smooth to be casual.
Lunchbox didn’t blink. “What’s up, man?”
“You folks lost?” the spotter asked. “This area isn’t for visitors. Security only.”
Lunchbox smiled like a wolf on vacation. “Pretty sure the sign back there said ‘public access,’ bud.”
The man’s gaze flicked to Grace. Not her hat. Not her sweatshirt.
Her.
My blood heated.
Grace kept her sunglasses angled down, voice steady. “We’re just walking our dog.”
A lie. A good one.
Goblin leaned forward just slightly, reading the man like prey.
The spotter zeroed in on that, eyes narrowing—but not at the dog.
At her hand.
Her right hand.
Where her sleeve had ridden up just enough for him to see what? The faint scars from restraints. They were there. Faded, but not invisible.
My chest went cold.
He recognized something. Or thought he did.
Bones’ voice cut through the comms, sharp as a blade. “Voodoo.”
“On your right,” I said.
We hit the edges of the confrontation at the same time—
Bones from the blind side. Me from the flow of foot traffic behind the spotter.
Lunchbox straightened, energy shifting. Grace didn’t move, but her fingers flexed once on Goblin’s harness.
The spotter stepped a half inch closer to her—too close—and I saw Bones’ jaw lock like he was grinding stone between his teeth.
“Sir,” the spotter said, still speaking to Lunchbox but looking at Grace. “I’m going to have to ask you to come with me to security.”
“Nope,” Lunchbox said pleasantly. “That’s not happening.”
The man’s left hand slid into his jacket pocket.
Bones murmured, almost soundless, “Weapon.”
My muscles fired.
I stepped forward at the same moment Bones closed in from the opposite flank, our approaches tight enough to squeeze the spotter into a wedge he didn’t realize existed until it was too late.
But Grace—Grace got there first and Goblin growled—low, primal, a warning with teeth. The sound froze the spotter.
Bones’ hand clamped around the man’s forearm from the right, iron-hard. I grabbed the jacket fabric at the collar from behind, jerking him back just enough to disrupt his balance.
Lunchbox planted himself between the man and Grace, voice still a calm summer breeze over a field of landmines. “Hands where I can see them, amigo.”
The spotter panicked—tried to yank his hand free, but Bones’ grip didn’t budge.
I leaned in close to the man’s ear, voice low and warm. “Bad move.”
He froze.
His hand emerged from his pocket—not with a weapon, but a radio. A tiny one. Disposable. Already half-pressed from the motion he'd started.
He hadn’t pulled it to call security. He’d pulled it to call them.
Bones ripped it from his grip before he could speak into it. Lunchbox casually tipped it off the pier into the water.
Grace exhaled once—soundless. But her eyes behind her sunglasses were burning.
We had him. Which was good, but we also had an issue. He’d tried to report her.
And that meant Sarmiento’s people weren’t just here.
They were watching.
I tightened my grip on the man’s collar, lowering my voice. “We’re going to take a walk,” I told him. “Somewhere quiet.”
Bones met my eyes and nodded once. Lunchbox cracked his neck, ready. Grace didn’t move—but Goblin did, stepping back to heel at her side like he knew the choreography too.
Alphabet’s voice broke through the comms again, breathless with urgency.
“Guys—you need to clear the boardwalk now. I’ve got movement at Pier C. Not workers. Not security. You’ve got incoming.”
Of course we did.
The hunt wasn’t just changing shape.
It was about to hit back.