Page 23 of Reckless: Corruption

My muscles remember other vigils, other rooftops where I learned that understanding patterns meant survival. The familiar weight of the rifle grounds me in now rather than then, though sometimes the scope reveals ghosts among the living.

Through my scope, Sterling Labs’ west entrance pulses with data—each pattern a heartbeat, each deviation a story. My mind catalogs it all with the same obsessive precision that once earned me doctorates I never bothered to claim. In another life, I might have been teaching in some Dublin university instead of watching killers through crosshairs. But that life ended in blood and fire, along with any illusions about academic detachment.

Between tactical observations, I reach through the pack bond, seeking Cayenne. Where the connections to my packmates burn steady—Ryker’s iron resolve, Jinx’s volatile energy, Theo’s artistic warmth—the thread to Cayenne stretches thin but unbroken.

Each connection tells a different story, but unlike my packmates, who experience bonds as pure emotion or physical sensation, my beta mind processes the connection as data patterns, frequencies of feeling that I can analyze but never fully immerse in. Still, I can sense her—faint but distinct, like a signal fighting through interference.

Alive. In pain, but alive.

Guard rotation every four hours, precise as a Swiss watch. Delivery trucks at 0600, 1400, and 2200—a waltz of diesel engines and security checks. Security cameras sweep in ninety-second intervals, mechanical eyes searching for threats.

Everything perfect. Everything precise. Too perfect.

But there, on the third floor north side, a pattern breaks. Every night at 0300, a light flickers to life for exactly seventy-three seconds. Someone in this temple of routine dares to seek shadows between the seconds.

“Status?” Ryker’s voice whispers through my earpiece, barely disturbing the air.

“Pattern holds.” The words form without moving my lips, a skill learned in places that don’t officially exist. “Our friend in accounting is stress-smoking again. Fourth cigarette in three hours.”

“His hands shake when he lights them.” Theo’s observation flows from his position at the cafe across the street, where he plays the role of bored barista with Oscar-worthy dedication. “Fear spreads like cancer here.”

“Sounds like an extraction target,” Jinx suggests, that eager edge in his voice making my skin prickle.

“Negative.” I track another guard’s path, noting the slight favor to his left leg. Old injury, probably knee. Exploitable. “Too obvious. But his fear is a marker. Sterling’s people know we’re here.”

“Let them feel it,” Ryker responds. “Anxiety makes people sloppy.”

A black sedan purrs into the underground garage, its occupants moving with the distinctive grace of professional killers. “New variables,” I report. “Israeli training, based on formation and vehicle approach. Sterling’s importing talent.”

“Good.” Jinx’s smile carries through the comm like a promise of violence. “I like professionals. They break so beautifully.”

Theo’s soft laugh holds no humor. “You just like how they cry prettier than amateurs.”

“I contain multitudes.”

But beneath our quiet banter, we wait. We watch. Because somewhere in that maze of concrete and steel, Cayenne is breathing too. That’s the thing about the psycho squad that everyone forgets—it’s not the violence that makes us dangerous. It’s the willingness to become living ghosts, to haunt the edges of our target’s world until we know them better than they know themselves.

A shadow crosses the third-floor window—too graceful for security, too deliberate for accident. My breath catches as I adjust my scope’s focus.

“Movement in our mystery room,” I key my comm. “Subject appears female. Omega, based on movement patterns.”

“Interesting.” Theo’s voice carries that particular note he gets when pieces click together. “The cafe’s busboy mentioned an omega who visits every Tuesday. Orders everything with whipped cream, then never eats it.”

The light clicks off at exactly seventy-three seconds, same as every night. But this time, I catch it—a flash of somethingpink stuck to the window. Bubblegum, maybe. The deliberate irregularity triggers old instincts, ones honed in Belfast backrooms where every casual gesture carried coded meaning.

My fingers trace the worn edge of my notebook—another habit inherited from my father, who documented every pattern until the very end. His last entry detailed the very security rotation that failed him. Seven packs gathered for peace talks at our family compound outside Dublin, and my father believed in the sanctity of parley. He died still believing in reason while I cataloged the attack patterns from my hidden position in the library rafters.

“I have a theory,” I offer. “Our mystery omega. The timing, the patterns—they’re too precise to be random. She’s marking time for someone.”

“Or showing off,” Theo muses. “Like a cat bringing dead birds to its favorite person.”

“The question is why?” Ryker asks. “Who puts on a show for surveillance teams?”

“Someone who wants to be seen,” I answer. “Someone who might be useful.”

“Or someone setting a trap,” Jinx adds, but I hear the intrigue in his tone.

“Either way,” I make another note in my log, “we just found a wild card in Sterling’s deck.”

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