9. Falcon
Falcon
Iget four hours of sleep, which apparently counts as an improvement these days.
When I come down just after six, Harrier's already behind the bar muttering at a toaster that's personally offended him. Zip's at a table with his laptop open. Condor's got enough screens around him at the far end to qualify as a small surveillance department.
Nobody looks surprised when I walk in, which probably means they expected me to get even less sleep than I did.
Harrier glances up from the counter. “Are you hungry?”
“Coffee first,” I tell him.
“That wasn’t the question,” he replies.
He pours me a mug anyway, then points toward a foil-covered plate. “Eat.”
I take the coffee and eye him suspiciously. “Are you and Cara starting a club?”
“What club?” Harrier asks.
“The one for people who enjoy telling me what to do,” I explain.
“Pretty sure Vulture founded that one years ago,” Zip says without looking up from his paperwork.
I turn my attention to him. “Did anything happen overnight?”
“No SUV and no movement on the outer cameras,” Zip reports. “Rook found fresh tracks near the east road around four, but they could be unrelated.”
“They could be,” I agree, although neither of us sounds convinced.
Condor swivels one of the monitors toward us. “I got another match on the rental. Not the plate, but the VIN class. The same rental chain hired out another black SUV under a false identity three months ago. The rental location is six miles from one of the warehouse addresses Sterling found.”
I study the information on the screen. “Is it connected to Vance?”
“Not directly,” Condor answers. “But it’s close enough to bother me.”
“Do we have anything actionable?” I ask.
“No,” he admits.
“Then we watch,” I decide.
Zip gives me a sideways look.
I turn toward him. “What?”
“You’re getting disturbingly sensible,” he remarks.
“Fuck off,” I tell him.
“There he is,” Zip says with a satisfied nod.
Vulture calls Church for nine.
At eight thirty, Knox finds me near the garage. He looks exhausted, but Knox always looks exhausted. He holds out a folded sheet of paper.
“Prescription pickup,” he explains. “The pharmacy only has part of Rachel’s order in stock. The rest has to be collected from another branch.”
“Send a prospect,” I suggest.
“It’s a controlled medication,” Knox replies. “I’m not handing the authorisation to a prospect.”
“Were you planning to go?” I ask.
“I was,” he says. “Rachel had a bad reaction to a new antibiotic overnight, though, and I want to keep an eye on her.”
“What about Zip?” I ask.
“He’s coordinating the perimeter,” Knox answers.
“Rook or Ice?” I suggest.
“They’re sleeping before Church prep,” he tells me.
I stare at him. “You worked through the entire club before you came to me.”
“Pretty much.” Knox hands me the authorisation. “The pharmacy opens at nine. It’s twenty minutes there and back, and the compound is still on elevated alert.”
“I know,” I reply, taking the paper.
“Take backup,” Knox orders.
"Was going to." His suspicion irritates me enough that I say so. He looks unconvinced and suggests Hustler, since Harrier's doing inventory, and I take it, because it's a sound call and I'm out of reasons to be annoyed about it.
Church runs short, nobody's got new movement to report, which should be good news and isn't, because the longer somebody watches without acting, the more I wonder what they're waiting for. Before Church breaks, I tell Vulture about the prescription pickup.
His eyes narrow. “Why are you going?”
“It’s a controlled medication, and Knox needs to stay with Rachel,” I explain.
“Check in when you’re halfway there,” Vulture orders.
“I will,” I promise, and this time, I mean it.
Hustler is waiting beside the truck when Church finishes. He looks at the keys in my hand.
“You’re driving?” he asks.
“Yes,” I reply.
“Why?” Hustler demands.
“Because I like being alive,” I tell him.
“So do I,” he points out.
“Then get in,” I order.
At the pharmacy, the pharmacist asks too many questions until I show her the authorization. Then she apologizes three times because only half of Rachel’s prescription is available at that branch.
I call Knox from the parking lot.
“Fuck,” he says when I explain. “They only have half?”
“The southwest location has the rest,” I tell him. “It’s fifteen minutes from here.”
“Rachel needs the full course today,” Knox says.
He falls silent for a moment, mentally checking the route.
“That takes you toward the east corridor,” he warns.
“I know,” I reply.
“Don’t go alone,” Knox orders.
“I’ve got Hustler with me,” I assure him.
“Check in,” he reminds me.
“Yes, Mother,” I say.
“Fuck you,” Knox replies before ending the call.
Hustler’s expression changes when I give him the address for the second pharmacy.
“That’s close to the warehouse,” he says.
“Six miles,” I confirm.
“Close enough,” Hustler mutters.
"I know." I don't want it any more than he does, but Rachel needs the medication, and this isn't something you delay because a location makes you nervous.
I send the route change to the club channel and get Zip's copy, and stay main roads back inside a minute, followed by Vulture's check in after pickup.
The drive's normal right up until it isn't. I clock the black SUV four intersections in, three cars back, and tell myself it's nothing, Chicago's got thousands of them. It takes the same turn I do at the next light.
“You seeing that?” Hustler asks, watching the passenger-side mirror.
“Yeah,” I reply, checking my own.
“Is it the same SUV?” he asks.
“I can’t tell,” I admit.
I don’t have to wait long to find out. The SUV follows us through the next turn.
“Call it in,” I tell Hustler.
He grabs the radio and reports our location. Zip responds immediately.
“Do not engage,” Zip orders through the speaker.
I wasn’t planning to.
At the next stretch of road, the SUV suddenly drops back before turning off entirely. For a moment, I let myself believe that’s the end of it.
Hustler doesn’t relax.
“They’re turning around,” he warns.
The SUV disappears. Neither mirror shows a tail.
“Keep moving,” Zip instructs over the radio.
I drive another mile without seeing anything behind us before Hustler finally releases a breath.
“I hate this shit,” he mutters.
“Good,” I reply.
He turns toward me. “What?”
“If you ever start enjoying being followed, we need to have a different conversation,” I explain.
A minute later, Zip’s voice returns over the radio.
“The precinct is another mile ahead,” he says. “Pull in, wait five minutes, then return using the western route.”
“What about the medication?” I ask into the radio.
“Forget it,” Zip orders. “Knox can send someone else later.”
“That puts another brother on the road,” I point out.
“And?” Zip challenges.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. “Whoever was behind us already knows we’re moving.”
“Exactly,” Zip replies.
He means that’s the argument for turning around, and I know he’s right. It’s the smart call. It’s the same call I would tell anyone else to make.
I reach the intersection. The precinct lies west. The second pharmacy is east.
Before I choose, Hustler’s phone buzzes.
“It’s Knox,” he says, reading the message. “Rachel is getting anxious, and she’s started cramping. He can manage her through the day if he has to, but he’d rather not.”
Rather not isn’t the same as has to.
I know that the moment I hear it.
I turn east anyway.
“Falcon.” Hustler braces one hand against the dashboard. “Zip said to go to the precinct.”
“I heard him,” I reply.
“He’s going to lose his shit,” Hustler warns.
"He'll survive." And I know the second the words are out of my mouth that's exactly what old me would say, right before doing something old me would do, and I pick up the radio anyway. I key the radio. “Zip, we’re changing route. We’re going back for the medication.”
Silence fills the channel for a beat.
“No,” Zip replies sharply.
“Rachel needs it,” I argue.
“Knox can handle Rachel,” Zip reminds me. “You need to return to the compound.”
He’s right, and some ugly, honest part of me knows it.
Rachel doesn’t need me. She needs Knox to make a call he has already said he can make.
What I need is for one thing on this compound not to go wrong on my watch. Retrieving somebody’s medication is easier than sitting with the fact that I can’t control everything.
“So we send somebody else into the same area?” I challenge instead.
That part is at least half true, and half the truth is enough to keep me moving.
“Falcon,” Zip warns.
“I’ve got Hustler with me,” I insist. “We’re staying on the main roads, and you know exactly where we are.”
Vulture’s voice cuts across the channel. “Falcon, return to the compound.”
I should. I know I should. Instead the SUV appears again, not behind us this time, ahead, parked half a block off the main road with the engine running.
Hustler sees it the same second I do. "Fuck."
They didn't lose us, they moved ahead of us. Hustler was right when he said they were turning around. This isn't surveillance anymore.
I hit the brakes before the intersection. "Falcon?" It’s Zip, his voice is sharp over the radio.
"Vehicle ahead," I say.
The line explodes, Vulture asking for our position, Zip giving directions, Hustler's hand already on his gun. A second SUV shows up in the mirror, we are boxed in.
"Options," Hustler says.
The main road is ahead, where there are civilians, traffic, and a bad place for gunfire.
The side road to the right runs into an empty industrial stretch, it’s worse tactically, but safer for everyone who isn't us.
My old instinct rises fast, get them away from people, take it somewhere nobody else pays for it, and it sounds like the right call and that's exactly what makes it dangerous.
"We’ve got two vehicles, front and rear," I say into the radio.
"Hold your route," Vulture answers. "Brothers are coming to you."
"How far?" I ask, I can’t sit here for long.
"Eight minutes," Vulture’s voice comes over the radio.
A younger voice cuts in before Vulture's finished. "I'm three out. Took my own bike ahead of the truck."
Carrot.