8. Saint
Chapter eight
Saint
T he sun beats down on my G Wagon as we cruise through the quiet streets back toward my uncle’s house. The afternoon traffic is light still, mirroring the atmosphere inside the car, which is relaxed yet tinged with anticipation, the four of us winding down after another day of classes and lectures.
"So, any plans for tonight?" Gen asks from the backseat, her voice cutting through the chatter as she leans forward, curiosity sparking in her eyes.
"Not sure yet," I reply, glancing at her through the rearview mirror. "Probably just the usual."
Dre grunts in acknowledgment, sinking deeper into his seat, his gaze fixed on the passing scenery outside. Chess, sitting shotgun, taps away on his phone, his mind already drifting towards the evening's potential mischief.
"I heard there's a party at Jackson's place," Chess chimes in, his fingers flying over the screen as he scrolls through messages. "Could be worth checking out."
"Maybe," Dre mutters, his gaze flicking to the side mirror as I change lanes. "Depends on who's gonna be there."
The car falls into a comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional beep of Chess's phone or the distant hum of traffic outside. Gen, sitting in the backseat, watches the passing cityscape with a thoughtful expression, her eyes scanning the streets for signs of life.
The moment the wheels of my truck grind to a stop in front of Mason's looming house, I can feel it—the shift in atmosphere, the unspoken command hanging in the air like an expectant storm.
"Boys," Mason greets us from the doorway, his voice as sharp as the lines of his suit. "Need you on deck tonight."
"Got it," I reply with a nod, feeling the weight of responsibility settle on my shoulders.
I motion for Chess and Dre to follow me, and we tramp up the stairs, our footsteps muffled by the thick runner—Mason installed it a few years ago, tired of “listening to our stomps echo at all hours”.
"Think we'll be in for another all-nighter?" Chess asks, his fingers flying over the screen as he navigates through messages and notifications.
"Most likely," I answer, glancing at him briefly before returning my attention to the stairs. “But, you know the drill. When Mason needs us, we show up."
We separate as we reach the top of the stairs, dropping our shit off in our respective rooms. Chess doesn’t actually live here, but he may as well. And, Mason had made it clear we were all welcome, always. It wasn’t like there wasn’t space for him to have a room even if he didn’t occupy it 7 nights a week.
I made my way back to the upstairs den, the scent of leather-bound books mingling with the faint aroma of coffee greeting me. This was our space too. Mason thought we deserved a hangout space that was just for us and he’d let me redecorate to my liking. It was just another kindness he’d bestowed upon me when he’d been forced to take me in.
I swivel in my chair, facing the boys, who beat me here. Chess’ fingers are already poised over his keyboard, itching to get started.
"Chess," I murmur, my voice a low rumble that fills the room with a sense of urgency. "Dig deeper into the Ice Princess's background."
It's not a mere suggestion; it's a command born out of necessity. The girl's elusive nature, her carefully guarded secrets, have become a persistent thorn in my side, gnawing at my curiosity like a relentless predator. Chess’ earlier searches turned up nothing. But, that was impossible.
He nods, hazel eyes focused as he cracks open his laptop. "I'm on it, Saint. But it's weird, man. It's like she doesn't exist beyond what we see at school."
"Keep looking," I urge him, leaning back, arms folded. "Everyone's got something to hide."
"Trust me, I'm trying." Chess's fingers fly over the keys, the click-clack of his hunt filling the room. "But it's clean, too clean. No socials, no online footprint—"
I stand behind Chess, watching the cursor blink on the screen. His frustration is palpable as he flips through tabs, each one as empty as the last. "That's every public record, social platform, forum... you name it," Chess says with a defeated slump in his shoulders. "Nothing sticks to her. It's like she's made of Teflon."
I lean in closer, my gaze narrowing on the pixels that make up Addy's digital ghost. "It's not natural," I muse aloud, thinking of the girl whose presence is as elusive as her past. "To be this invisible—she's hiding something."
"Or someone's hiding it for her," Dre chimes in from the corner, always the one to toss in a conspiracy angle.
"Can't hide forever," I mutter, more to myself than anyone else. "Her phone, you hacked into it?"
"Man, what do you take me for? I’m not some amateur." Chess rubs his temples as if the very thought gives him a headache. "There’s nothing. Surface level texts between her and her mother and those brainless bitches she hands out with. I mean, there could be another phone. A private one."
"Then we find it." My voice is sharp, decisive. "Set up surveillance on her current phone too. We have the tech for a reason."
"Got it." Chess nods, already mentally gearing up for the challenge. "I'll get Gen on it first thing."
"Good." I feel the edges of a plan shaping up in my head, as cold and meticulous as the task ahead. I can't shake the feeling that whatever Addy's hiding, it's crucial—not just for our curiosity, but for the game we're all unwittingly playing.
"Let's do some digging then," I say with finality, my mind already moving to the next phase of our operation. "Everyone has secrets, Addy. Time to spill yours."
"Saint. Boys." Mason's voice cuts through the quiet tension downstairs, authoritative and patient. "Conference time."
"Wrap it up, Chess," I say, pushing away from the wall. A silent communication passes between us. This isn't over; it's just on pause.
"Copy that," Chess responds, closing his laptop with a soft snap.
We file out of the room, descending the staircase to answer the call of duty. Tonight, like many nights before, we'll slip into the shadows and play our part in Mason's intricate game of chess. And somewhere in all this, we’ll find the truth about Adelaide Winthrop.
"In the War room," he calls as we reach the bottom of the stairs.
We need no further prompting. The War room is his haven of strategy and surveillance; it's where the real game unfolds. We enter the dimly lit space, the glow from an array of monitors casting ghostly shadows across our faces. Each screen flickers with a feed from some corner of the city or another—a constant reminder that while high school hallways may hold their secrets, the outside world is far more expansive, and dangerous.
"Take a seat," Mason instructs without looking back. He stands before the main console, fingers dancing across the keyboard with practiced ease. The small conference room at the back remains empty, doors ajar, as if waiting for a clandestine meeting to commence.
"Got something new?" Dre asks, his tone holding the edge of anticipation he doesn't bother to hide.
"Always." Mason spins on his heel, facing us. His eyes are sharp, the slate gray of a storm brewing on the horizon. "You three are in for tonight's operation."
I fold my arms across my chest, nodding once. Mason's company handles everything from personal security to corporate espionage. Sometimes, lines get blurred—morality becomes a spectrum rather than a fixed point. It's in these shades of gray where we find ourselves most often, doing what needs to be done.
I don’t mind. It’s not like we don’t cross lines every day with the shit we get up to at school. These elitist snobs think they’re above everyone else. They need people like Mason, people like me and the boys to remind them that their shit stinks too. Sometimes even worse. I live to air their dirty laundry.
But, this… this is different. Mason isn’t playing petty games, he’s building an international brand that speaks for itself. In here, we’re not Saint, Dre, and Chess. No, we’re Halo, Wraith, and Rook. Mason doesn’t like real names out on the comms, so everyone is assigned a call name and those are ours.
As tonight’s main team files in I nod at the familiar faces and wait for Mason to start briefing us on what’s expected. I know this isn’t everyone, that there will already be a team in the field. Still, I’m surprised at the small number trickling in.
"Rook, you're on comms and tech support. I need eyes everywhere," Mason says, pointing to the station bristling with equipment.
"Got it," Chess replies, already moving towards his designated post, his gaze alight with the thrill of the hunt.
"Wraith, you're intel and analysis. Keep track of any shifts, patterns, anything out of the ordinary." Mason hands him a tablet loaded with data streams.
"Will do," Dre confirms, settling into a chair and swiping through the screens, his focus immediate and unwavering.
"And Halo," Mason turns to me, his expression unreadable, "you're overseeing coordination. Make sure everyone's in sync and the op runs smooth."
"Understood," I respond, the weight of responsibility settling on my shoulders—a familiar burden I've come to accept.
He addresses the rest of them, laying out the op and everything we already know. He pulls up plans and schematics, assigns everyone else their positions, and dismisses us.
"Remember, we're after information. No direct engagement unless absolutely necessary," Mason adds, his gaze sweeping over each of us. "Keep it clean, keep it quiet."
"Like always," I say, the words more of a vow than a statement. In this world, we can't afford slip-ups or second chances.
"Good." Mason nods once, sharply. "Let's get to work."
As Mason strides away, probably to oversee other elements of tonight's job, I take my position. I'm the eye in the sky, the one who sees all the moving parts and knows how they fit together. It's a role I've grown into—one that suits my need for control, for understanding the chaos that surrounds us.
"Halo, you ready for this?" Dre asks without looking up from his tablet.
"Always ready," I reply, because when it comes to the shadows we navigate, readiness isn't just a state of mind—it's survival.
The monitors glow with a blue hue, casting our faces in stark relief against the dim room. I lean back in my chair, arms folded across my chest, watching the feeds flicker with images of places that hold secrets not yet whispered to us.
"Alright, Rook," I murmur, glancing over at Chess who's already working his magic on the keyboards, "What have we got?"
"Running facial recognition now, Halo," Chess responds, his voice laced with the usual edge of excitement as he taps into streams of data, "And cross-referencing with known associates."
Dre is hunched over another monitor, tracking movements with an eagle eye. His scars shimmer briefly under the artificial light as he shifts, giving him a ghostly quality that fits his codename all too well.
"Any hits?" I ask, keeping my tone neutral but internally coiling for action.
"Patience, Halo," Dre chides without looking up, "Art takes time."
Chess snorts, and the sound breaks the tension like a crack of thunder in a clear sky. "Yeah, and so does hacking into high-security networks. Give me a sec."
I let out a slow breath, forcing patience. These situations always put me on edge, the need to control every variable clashing with the reality of unpredictability.
"Keep digging, both of you," I command quietly. We're a unit, a brotherhood formed not by blood but by circumstance and mutual necessity. We know our roles—Wraith, the silent stalker; Rook, the digital mastermind; and me, the one who holds it all together.
"Anything specific we're looking for?" Chess asks, pausing momentarily, hazel eyes seeking mine.
"Patterns. Anomalies." I scan the screens, each showing different angles, different lives unknowingly observed. "We find the thread, we'll find the way to pull."
"Got it, boss," Dre says with a half-smile. It never reaches his eyes, though; nothing really does anymore.
"Remember," I add, the weight of leadership pressing down on me, "we stay sharp. We watch, we listen, we gather. No engagement unless it comes to us."
"Copy that, Halo," they respond in unison, their voices a low hum in the quiet intensity of the War room.
Hours pass, our eyes glued to the screens, our minds running through the infinite possibilities of what might lie behind the pixels and code. It's a waiting game—a game that requires nerves of steel and the patience of saints.
"Surveillance is set," Chess finally says, fingers flying over the keys in a final flurry of activity. "If this bitch so much as blinks in the direction of something interesting, we'll know about it."
"Good work, Rook," I acknowledge, offering a nod of approval. In this shadow world we inhabit, trust is hard-earned and even harder kept. But these guys, these brothers-in-arms, have proven themselves time and again.
"Let's keep it tight," I reiterate, feeling the onset of a long night ahead. "We're the eyes in the dark, the whispers in the silence. We see everything."
"Roger that," Dre murmurs, his voice resolute.
"Ready to catch some ghosts," Chess adds with a wry grin.
"Then let's hunt," I say, settling in. And with those words, we sink deeper into the shadows. Adelaide Winthrop isn’t even a blip on my radar.