Page 51 of The Maverick

Vanessa clenched her fingers in her lap. “It was him.”

He nodded. “It fits.”

She blinked hard, her voice steadier than he expected. “Then I want to be the one to end it.”

“You won’t have to,” Hawke said. “Because I will.”

He pushed open his door and stepped into the garage. Every nerve in his body was alive again. Finally, they had a name. A target. A direction. And that meant Brenner’s game was almost over.

Hawke swept the first floor of Vanessa’s house in silence—corner to corner, room by room. Lights on. Blinds closed. He didn’t bother with words. His presence said enough. He didn’t move like a guest. He moved like someone who belonged there, who had every right to be inside her space, inside her world, guarding what was his.

Once the perimeter was clear, he returned to the garage, opened Vanessa’s door, and offered his hand.

She took it, her fingers lacing with his without hesitation.

“I’ll feel better once the system’s synced,” he said.

“I’ll feel better once he’s in the ground,” she replied, dry as ever.

They stepped inside together, and he waited for the door to shut and lock before tapping his phone again. He’d already preloaded Reed’s secure patch system, which would run diagnostics on the house’s existing surveillance grid. Her place had a solid consumer-grade setup, but that wasn’t enough anymore. Not for a man like Miles Brenner.

As the sync began, the screen lit with an incoming message from Reed. One word.

Confirmed.

Hawke tapped to expand.

Brenner installed backdoor access through SpurNet six months ago. Rooted himself into archived security data. Schedules. Club logs.

He felt the burn behind his eyes before he processed the rest. This wasn’t just a leak. It was a pipeline, straight into everything they’d tried to protect.

Another message followed, this one a compressed file. Encrypted video logs. Access reports. A trail of digitalbreadcrumbs. Hawke thumbed through the data fast—partial footage downloads. Interior shots. Times. Dates.

Every one of them tied to Vanessa.

Her arriving at the club.

Leaving her house.

Crossing a parking lot after a reading downtown.

All with timestamps. All saved in a folder labeled with her name.

Vanessa stepped in behind him, close enough to read the screen.

Her voice came low. “He’s been watching me that long?”

“Longer than we thought.”

She didn’t ask for the device. Didn’t need to see more. She turned and walked into the living room, arms crossed, gaze flicking to every shadowed corner like she was seeing it differently now. Because she was. Hawke followed her, pocketed the phone, and waited.

“Months,” she said. “He’s had months to build whatever story he wanted.”

“We’re going to dismantle it.”

“Piece by piece?”

He stepped in front of her. “No. All at once.”

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