25. Sloane #2
That hits.
Because it's not wrong.
Truth has always been my weapon—sharp, precise, cutting through lies and half-truths to expose what's underneath. I wield it without mercy, without regard for the wounds it leaves behind. Because that's what I've always believed: that truth is worth the pain it causes.
But standing here, in this quiet alley, with a bullet wound in my leg and a town full of frightened people just around the corner, I wonder if Logan's right. If sometimes, the truth cuts too deep.
I exhale, grounding myself. The tension in my voice softens—just enough.
"They deserve better, Logan."
"So do we."
A beat.
It lands harder than either of us expects.
Because he's right. We do deserve better. Better than running. Better than hiding. Better than waiting for the next bullet to find its mark.
Better than being pawns in Granger's game.
I nod once, acknowledging the truth in his words.
Then I turn and limp back toward the bookstore, noticing Rosa Calderón approaching, her daughter trailing a few steps behind.
"You should get that leg looked at properly," she says without preamble, eyeing the bandage visible through my torn jeans.
"It's fine," I reply automatically.
Rosa's eyebrow arches. "Sure it is. That's why you're walking like my grandmother after she broke her hip."
Her daughter Lucia smothers a laugh behind her hand, then goes serious again. "Was that really a sniper? Like in the movies?"
"Lucia," Rosa warns, but the girl's question hangs between us.
I meet her eyes—young, curious, but not naive. "Not like in the movies. Those make it look cool. There's nothing cool about someone trying to hurt people."
Rosa studies my face. "You know who did this." Not a question.
"I have a good idea."
She nods once, decision made. "The self-defense class meets at four. Behind the community center. You should come." Her eyes flick toward the Forge men standing guard. "All of you. People need to see you're not the threat."
Before I can respond, she touches her daughter's shoulder. "Come on, Lucia. We need to get home."
As they walk away, I hear Lucia ask, "Mom, are we still going to the lake this weekend?"
"We'll see, mija . We'll see."
The normalcy of the question hits me like a punch. This is what Granger is really threatening—not just lives, but the small, ordinary moments that make them worth living.
As I limp back to the bookstore, Dana is wrapping the box in police tape—not because it'll matter, but because it's protocol. Because sometimes, even empty gestures provide comfort.
Sheriff Lane Hale stands nearby, talking low into his radio, eyes shifting between the Forge crew and the town square. His posture is relaxed, but there's tension in his shoulders, in the way his hand never strays far from his weapon.
"He's calculating something," I mutter to Logan. "Trying to decide if he still trusts you."
"I don't need his trust," Logan says.
"You might. If this escalates."
And it will escalate. We both know it. Granger's not the type to take half measures. The shot was just the opening move in a much longer game.
Dana catches my eye from inside the bookshop. She motions me over. Quiet. Alone.
I glance at Logan, who nods almost imperceptibly. "Go. I'll keep watch."
Inside, the bookshop smells like old paper and peppermint oil. Cozy. Disarming. Shelves filled with worn spines stretch toward a high ceiling, creating narrow aisles that feel like sanctuary rather than confinement. Under different circumstances, I could lose myself here for hours.
But the look on Dana's face isn't cozy at all.
"That package?" she says softly, leading me toward the back of the store. "It wasn't meant for me."
I nod, limping slightly as I follow her. "It was meant for everyone watching."
"I know," Dana replies, stopping near a locked cabinet behind the counter. "But it still landed at my door. That means he knows the history. Knows I've seen these patterns before."
"You said you walked away from this kind of work."
"I did. But that doesn't mean it walked away from me."
There's a weight to her words that makes my spine straighten. Dana steps to the back of the counter and pulls out a worn key, unlocking the cabinet to reveal a battered, fireproof case.
She clicks it open without ceremony.
Inside: clippings, old military files, torn pages, two dog tags nestled among yellowed papers like artifacts from another time.
"I started collecting these after my sister disappeared," Dana explains, voice steady despite the grief lurking beneath. "Most of them trace back to black sites and ghost units. Stuff that was never meant to be public."
I scan the contents, heart pounding. This is a journalist's treasure trove—evidence of covert operations, military cover-ups, silenced voices. The kind of material people kill for. The kind I've risked my life to find.
"You think they're tied to Echo-13?" I ask, fingers hovering over a redacted file.
"I think your sniper isn't working alone."
My breath catches in my throat.
Logan steps into the doorway, silent as a shadow, watching both of us—quiet, unreadable. How long he's been there, I'm not sure. Long enough.
"You need to see this," Dana tells him, passing over a photograph tucked between two folders.
It's grainy. Years old. The edges worn from handling. But the image is unmistakable.
Granger—in uniform. Standing behind a man in a decorated military dress uniform. The posture, the proximity, the context—this isn't just a subordinate with a superior. This is something closer. Something familiar.
Logan's face drains of color.
"That's not possible," he mutters, taking the photo, studying it with intensity.
"You sure?" Dana asks. "Because if it is... then this isn't just one man with a rifle."
"It's the cleanup crew," I say, the pieces falling into place like dominoes. The larger picture emerging from shadow.
Logan's voice drops to a chilling baritone.
"Which means we've got more coming."
The implications hit me like physical blows. If Granger is just the first wave—if he's operating with official sanction, with resources, with backup —then what happened this morning wasn't just a warning shot.
It was an opening salvo.
Outside, the town bell chimes once. Twice.
Then cuts off abruptly, the final note hanging incomplete in the air.
The lights inside the bookshop flicker—once, twice—then stabilize. But something's wrong. The quality of the light has changed, dimmed somehow.
The comms unit in Logan's back pocket gives a short, staticky burst, then goes silent. He pulls it out, frowning at the dead screen.
Asa's voice crackles through for a brief moment?—
"Logan. Something's?—"
Then nothing.
I look up, meeting Logan's gaze. The understanding passes between us without words.
"That was power phase override," I say. "Coordinated. Someone's cutting the town's connections to the outside world."
Logan pulls his sidearm in one smooth motion. His movements are quiet, controlled, but there's no mistaking the cold resolve in his eyes.
"We're not alone anymore."
The words hang in the air like frost.
Granger has started phase two.
And this time, it's not just to shake the town?—
It's to bury it.