Chapter 23 Saint
Saint
The town is quiet again.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that settles after violence but never quite feels real. Sirens are gone. Fire trucks have rolled out. The smoke has thinned to a faint gray haze drifting over the rooftops.
To anyone else, it might look like the crisis passed.
To me?
It looks like the calm before the next strike.
The official story already made the rounds.
Gas line.
Bad timing.
An unfortunate accident.
I don’t believe in coincidences.
Not tonight.
Not with her.
I’m in the truck, heading toward the ridge road—the one that climbs above the old quarry.
It’s a perfect sniper nest.
Too perfect.
“Wolf, I’m checking the high ground,” I say into the comm.
There’s a beat of silence before he answers.
“Don’t go alone.”
“I’m not,” I lie.
The headlights cut through the dark road as I climb higher into the hills.
I tell myself I just want confirmation.
A quick sweep.
In and out.
But deep down I know the truth.
I’m hunting.
The quarry road is empty.
No headlights.
No movement.
Just wind whispering through the scrub brush and the distant creak of old mining equipment rusting in the dark.
My phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
Again.
I ignore it.
“Saint, report,” Wolf says in my ear.
“I’m in the hills,” I answer, my voice steady. “Five minutes out.”
“From what?”
I glance toward the dark outline of the quarry ahead.
“From answers.”
I kill the engine near the edge of the road and step out into the cold night.
The wind carries dust across the gravel.
The quarry stretches below me like a massive wound carved into the earth.
Deep.
Dark.
Silent.
Too silent.
I move in on foot.
Every instinct in my body is awake now.
I scan the tree line.
The ridges.
The shadows along the pit walls.
Nothing.
That’s worse.
I take another step forward.
And the world disappears beneath my feet.
The ground collapses.
Not an explosion.
A drop.
A concealed pit hidden under loose boards and gravel.
I fall hard.
Rock slams into my shoulder.
The air blasts out of my lungs as I crash against the bottom.
Pain explodes through my ribs.
For a second the world spins.
Then the red dots appear.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Laser sights dancing across my chest.
A voice drifts down from above.
Calm.
Female.
Cultured.
“Hello, Mr. Jennings.”
I force myself to look up.
She stands at the edge of the pit.
Perfectly composed.
Perfectly dressed.
And smiling.