Chapter 55
Boone
Which tells me everything I need to know.
Calls at this hour aren’t mistakes.
They’re decisions.
I’m already dressed when I answer.
“Grant,” I say.
The voice on the other end is calm. Too calm.
“We have a problem,” the handler says.
I step out onto the balcony, the city still dark beneath me, lights scattered like fallen stars.
“You always do.”
“This one has history.”
That gets my attention.
“Define history.”
A pause. Just long enough to mean someone is choosing words carefully.
“Sentinel-adjacent,” the voice says. “Not him. Since Logan killed him. But something he set in motion. ”
I close my eyes.
Of course he did.
Sentinel never built operations. He built ideas. Systems that learned. Networks that survived their creators.
“What kind of operation?” I ask.
“Slow-burn,” he says. “Quiet. Surgical. Someone is building a pipeline in northern Montana. Small towns. Church groups. Veteran outreach. Search-and-rescue charities. They’re not kidnapping people.”
“Then what?”
“They’re recruiting them.”
That’s worse.
“Recruiting for what?”
“We don’t know yet. That’s the problem.”
I lean on the railing and scan the horizon like the answer might be written in the dark.
“We’ve got seven confirmed disappearances,” he continues. “All clean records. All people who wouldn’t trip alarms. Former medics. Ex-military logistics. Drone techs. Comms specialists. People who make operations work but never make headlines.”
“Support spine,” I murmur.
“Exactly. And once they’re gone, they’re gone. Phones left behind. Bank accounts frozen. No digital noise. Like they walked out of the world.”
“Who’s running it?”
“We don’t know that either. But the structure looks familiar. Compartmentalized. Cellular. Trust-based entry. Same bones as Sentinel’s early recruitment architecture.”
I exhale slowly.
“So he taught someone how to build a ghost army.”
“Yes.”
I glance back into the room where my go-bag waits, already packed like it never stopped expecting this.
“Where?”
“Montana. Three hours outside Missoula. A town so small it barely exists on maps.”
“Why me?”
Another pause.
“Because the last time we saw this kind of structure,” he says, “you were the one who burned it down.”
I almost smile.
“Who’s the analyst?”
Silence.
Then—
“Wren McKay.”
My jaw tightens.
“That’s a mistake.”
“She requested you.”
I laugh once, sharp and humorless.
“Then she hasn’t changed.”
“No,” he agrees. “Neither have you.”
I hang up and stare out over the waking horizon.
Montana.
Sentinel’s shadow.
And the one woman who knows exactly how I think—and exactly how to break it.
“Damn it, Wren.”
I grab my bag.
Because whatever this is—
It’s already personal.