Chapter 19 Breadcrumbs
Breadcrumbs
The twenty-one names had yielded thirty-two locations, nineteen confirmed kills, and one phone.
One phone that changed everything.
I stared at the device in the evidence bag, unremarkable except for what it represented.
A burner, naturally. Probably meant to be destroyed after use.
But the trafficker we'd taken it from—a middle-management piece of shit who'd tried to bargain his way out with information—had been sloppy.
Or maybe just arrogant. The phone still had data. Messages. Call logs. GPS history.
"You need to breathe," Nathan said from across the hotel room.
I realized I'd been holding my breath, chest tight with possibility. "Run it again."
"Bunny—"
"Run. It. Again."
He sighed but pulled up the data on his laptop. I'd already memorized every detail, but I needed to see it again. Needed to be sure. The GPS coordinates painted a picture—Moscow for three months after his supposed death, then carefully orchestrated movement. Prague. Berlin. Montreal. And finally...
"Boston," I whispered. "He's in Boston."
"Was in Boston," Nathan corrected. "Three weeks ago. The trail goes cold after that."
Three weeks. Twenty-one days. Five hundred and four hours. He could be anywhere by now, but it didn't matter. This was the first real proof that Gabriel was alive. Not just alive—active. Running operations. Rebuilding.
My hands shook as I paced the room. Energy crawled under my skin like insects, making it impossible to be still. I'd barely slept in forty-eight hours, running on rage and possibility and whatever pills I'd stolen from the last warehouse.
"We need to go," I said. "Now. Tonight."
"You need to sleep."
"I can sleep when he's dead."
Nathan closed the laptop with deliberate calm. "You're not thinking clearly."
"I'm thinking perfectly clearly." The words came out too fast, tumbling over each other. "Boston's only six hours away. We could be there by dawn. Check the coordinates, canvas the area—"
"Bunny." He stood, moving into my path. "Look at me."
I tried to focus on his face, but my thoughts kept scattering like startled birds. Boston. Gabriel. The possibility of finally, finally ending this. My fingers tapped against my thighs in rhythm with my racing heartbeat.
"When's the last time you ate?" he asked.
"Doesn't matter."
"When's the last time you slept more than two hours?"
"That doesn't matter either." I tried to step around him, but he blocked me. "Move."
"No."
The word hung between us, simple and absolute.
I could have fought him. Part of me wanted to—the part that had been breaking faces and peeling skin needed the outlet.
But underneath the mania, some functioning piece of my brain recognized he was right.
I was spiraling. Had been spiraling for days, maybe weeks.
"He's out there," I said, and hated how my voice cracked. "Right now, he's out there making more of me. More broken dolls. More experiments."
"I know."
"Then why aren't we moving?"
"Because you're no good to anyone like this." His hands found my shoulders, steady and grounding. "You're running on fumes and whatever cocktail of uppers you think I don't know about. When we find him—and we will find him—you need to be sharp. Focused. Not coming apart at the seams."
I wanted to argue, but exhaustion hit like a physical weight. The room tilted slightly, and I had to lock my knees to stay upright. When had I gotten so tired? The mania had been keeping it at bay, but now...
"Twelve hours," Nathan negotiated. "Sleep for twelve hours, then we plan properly. Use the Boston lead smart, not desperate."
"Six hours."
"Ten."
"Eight, and I get to review the data again first."
He studied me, then nodded. "Deal."
I sat on the bed with the laptop, pulling up the files again. The GPS data painted Gabriel's movements in digital breadcrumbs. Each coordinate a place he'd been. Each timestamp proof that he existed in the world while I'd been reshaping myself into something that could destroy him.
"The Moscow safe house," I said, pointing to the cluster of locations. "Look at the pattern. He goes back to the same three blocks repeatedly. That's where he was staying."
"Past tense," Nathan reminded me. "He's not there now."
"No, but it tells us something about his habits. He likes familiarity. Control. Even in hiding, he establishes routines." I scrolled through more data. "Same thing in Prague. Berlin. He finds a base and creates a territory."
"So we look for that pattern in Boston."
"Exactly." My fingers flew over the keys, cross-referencing the Boston coordinates with property records, business licenses, anything that might give us a starting point.
"He needs infrastructure. Medical facilities for his experiments.
Secure locations for holding products. Networks he can tap into—"
The laptop disappeared from my hands. I blinked, disoriented, as Nathan set it on the desk across the room.
"Eight hours," he said. "We agreed."
"But I'm not tired—"
"Yes, you are. You're exhausted and manic and probably halfway to a psychotic break.
" He sat on the edge of the bed, not touching but close enough that I could feel his warmth.
"I've watched you take apart thirteen operations in three weeks.
Thirteen, Bunny. You've tortured information out of more people than most special ops soldiers see in a career.
You're running on violence and vengeance and some misguided idea that if you just push hard enough, you'll find him before you completely lose yourself. "
The words stung because they were true. I pulled my knees to my chest, making myself smaller. "What if the trail goes cold again? What if this is our only chance?"
"It won't be." His voice held certainty I didn't feel. "He's sloppy now. Overconfident. He thinks you're dead or broken beyond repair. He doesn't know what you've become."
What I'd become. The phrase echoed in my skull, mingling with older programming. Good girl. Perfect pet. Daddy's favorite experiment.
"I dream about him," I admitted quietly. "Not... not nightmares. Not anymore. I dream about him being proud of me. Of what I've done. What I've become. Like this is all just another test and I'm finally passing."
Nathan's jaw tightened, but he didn't speak.
"Sometimes I touch myself thinking about it." The confession spilled out, raw and shameful. "About showing him. Look what your pet learned. Look how well she hunts. Look how beautifully she breaks things."
"Bunny—"
"Is that fucked up?" I laughed, high and brittle. "Of course it's fucked up. Everything about me is fucked up. He programmed responses so deep I can't dig them out. I'm hunting him and getting wet thinking about his approval. How's that for conditioning?"
The room felt too small suddenly. Too hot. I stood abruptly, pacing to the window. Boston was northeast. Six hours. Three hundred miles. I could steal a car, be there before—
"Come to bed," Nathan said quietly.
"I can't. I'm too..." I gestured helplessly at myself. At the crawling energy under my skin. At the broken thing wearing my face.
"Then let me help."
I turned to find him watching me with that careful expression he'd perfected. The one that said he saw how close to the edge I was. How easy it would be to tip over.
"You can't fix me," I said.
"I'm not trying to. Just... let me help you rest. No pills. No violence. Just sleep."
But I couldn't. The moment I closed my eyes, I'd see Gabriel. Not the monster who'd kept me in chains, but the careful programmer who'd rewired my brain. The one who'd made me need his approval like a drug.
My fingers moved without conscious thought, unbuttoning my jeans. Nathan went very still.
"You don't have to watch," I said, shoving the denim down. "I just... I need..."
I didn't know how to finish. Need to get him out of my head. Need to feel something besides rage. Need to remember I owned my body now, even if my mind was still partially his.
I lay back on the bed, one hand sliding between my thighs. My eyes closed automatically, and there he was. Not a memory but a fantasy. Gabriel watching me work. Watching me hunt. Seeing what his conditioning had become when twisted into something new.
"Such a good girl," the fantasy whispered. "Look what you've learned. Look how perfectly you've evolved."
My fingers moved in familiar patterns, chasing sensation and shame in equal measure. I bit back a whimper, caught between arousal and self-loathing. This was wrong. Sick. But my body didn't care about morality, only the programming carved into my nervous system.
The bed dipped. I opened my eyes to find Nathan stretched out beside me, not touching but present. Witnessing without judgment.
"Don't stop," he said quietly when I hesitated. "If this is what you need, don't stop."
Fresh tears leaked from the corners of my eyes as I continued. The fantasy shifted, became confused. Gabriel's voice praising my violence. Nathan's hands steady on my shoulders. The warehouse victims begging for mercy I couldn't give. All of it tangled together in my breaking mind.
"I'm here," Nathan murmured. "Right here. Not him. Me."
His voice became an anchor, something real to hold onto as I chased release. When I came, it was with a broken sob, body arching off the bed. No satisfaction in it, just a momentary pause in the endless cycle of rage and need.
Nathan's hand found my hair, stroking gently as I shook apart. "There you go. Just breathe. I've got you."
"I hate him," I whispered when I could speak again.
"I know."
"I hate that he's still in my head. In my body. In every response." I turned my face into the pillow, ashamed. "I hate that part of me still wants his approval. Still needs to be his good girl."
"That's not weakness," Nathan said. "That's survival. You did what you had to do to survive, and those patterns kept you alive. They don't define you now."