Chapter 7 #2
The minutes crawled past. Grant watched the feeds, watched the sky outside darken from purple to black, watched the lights of the model unit grow brighter against the night.
Somewhere out there, Caine was moving through the darkness, checking her weapons, planning her approach.
Somewhere out there, FBI agents waited in empty rooms with fingers on triggers.
“Tell me something,” Liza said, breaking the silence that had grown too heavy. “Something good. Something that has nothing to do with any of this.”
Grant thought about it, sorting through memories for something untainted by violence or loss.
“When I was sixteen, Blaze and I found a cave up near Mirror Lake. It was hidden behind a waterfall—you had to climb through the water to reach it, get completely soaked. But inside, it opened up into this huge space. Stalactites hanging from the ceiling, a pool of water so clear you could see straight to the bottom.”
He could almost feel it—the cold spray of the waterfall, the echo of their voices in the stone chamber, the sense of discovery that had made them feel like explorers charting unknown territory.
“We spent the whole day there,” he continued. “Brought sandwiches that got soggy, told stupid jokes, made plans for all the adventures we’d have.”
“Did you go back?” Liza asked softly.
“Not since that summer. But I want to.” He looked at her. “I want to take you there. Show you all the places that made me who I am.”
“I’d like that.” She moved closer, resting her head on his shoulder. “Tell me more. Tell me everything.”
So he did. He told her about the ranch where his uncle had lived, about learning to ride on a horse named Thunder who was as gentle as a lamb despite his name.
About catching his first fish in Forgiveness River and being so proud he’d wanted to have it mounted.
“Blaze laughed his head off. It was only a five pounder. Not even big enough to eat.”
“Those are great memories.”
“Yeah.” Grant’s arm tightened around her. “That’s what I want for us. For our kids someday. I want them to have friends like Blaze. I want them to have places like that—places where they feel free and safe and completely themselves.”
“They will,” Liza said with certainty. “We’ll make sure of it.”
At eight fifteen, the radio crackled to life. “Movement on the south perimeter. Motorcycle approaching, single rider, black Kawasaki. Could be our target.”
Grant’s entire body went taut. He watched the exterior camera feeds, searching for movement in the darkness. There—a motorcycle cruising slowly past the building, the rider’s face hidden by a dark helmet.
“Visual confirmed,” Morrison’s voice said through the radio. “Rider matches Caine’s description and known vehicle. She’s scouting the location.”
They watched as the motorcycle made another slow pass, the rider’s head turning toward the lit windows of the model unit. Then it disappeared around the corner.
“She’s circling,” Grant said. “Looking at sight lines, checking for surveillance, planning her approach.”
“Or looking for the trap,” Liza added.
“Both.”
The motorcycle appeared twice more, each pass slower than the last, each time pausing near the building. Grant could read the calculation in those pauses—Caine weighing risks against opportunities, suspicion against obsession.
At eight forty, the motorcycle parked two blocks away in the shadows of the construction site across the street. The rider dismounted, pulled something long and dark from a saddlebag.
“She’s got a rifle case,” Morrison reported. “Setting up position on the construction site. Elevated platform, clear sight line to the model unit.”
Grant and Liza watched the feed, barely breathing. The figure moved with professional efficiency—assembling the rifle, settling into position, sighting through the scope at the lit windows above.
Minutes passed. Five. Ten. Fifteen. The figure remained motionless, a shadow among shadows, patient as stone.
“She’s not taking the shot,” Morrison observed, his voice thoughtful. “She’s watching, analyzing. She can’t confirm her target.”
On the screen, they saw the figure lower the rifle, pull out binoculars for a longer look. Even through the grainy camera feed, Grant could read frustration in the set of her shoulders, in the way she moved the binoculars from window to window, searching for something that would give her certainty.
“She knows something’s wrong,” Grant said. “The movement’s not quite right, the shadows aren’t convincing enough. She’s too good to take a shot she’s not sure of.”
As if hearing him, the figure began breaking down the rifle with quick, efficient movements. She packed it away, disappeared from the construction site camera feed.
“We’ve lost visual,” Morrison said. “All teams, stay alert. She’s mobile and she’s not satisfied with what she’s seeing.”
Grant’s hand tightened on Liza’s. They watched the exterior camera feeds, searching for movement in the pools of shadow between streetlights.
“There,” Liza said, pointing at the screen. “Southeast corner, ground level.”
A figure in black moved through the darkness with purpose now, no longer the patience of a sniper but the determination of someone who’d decided to take a risk. She approached the building’s main entrance, tested the door. Locked. Moved to the side entrance. Also locked.
“She’s going for the parking garage entrance,” Grant said, tracking her path. “Least visible, easiest to breach.”
“Copy that,” Morrison confirmed. “Team Two, move to intercept position at garage level. Silent approach, do not engage until she’s fully inside the building.”