Page 67 of Burn Patterns

James spoke in his analytical tone. "I'm certain he knew which room we'd be in. He's been planning this piece for weeks, maybe months."

"Let him plan." I curled my hands into fists at my side. "We've got plans too."

Michael crossed the room, pulling out his phone and laying it on the nightstand before speaking. "Here's the deal—we're not walking into this blind.

I've got Brenner's team stationed around the race perimeter. Two units are covering the transition area, and another is near the swim start. They're plainclothes, blending in with the crowd, but armed and ready.

He gestured toward the window overlooking the street. "Chokepoints here and here—narrow alleys where he could set an ambush if he wants to control your movement. We'll have eyes on both. The parking garage near the finish line is another risk—a perfect vantage point for surveillance or a sniper if he escalates. I've got Sharpe and Daniels covering that, snipers in place just in case."

James raised an eyebrow. "Are you expecting him to go that far?"

"With Raines? Expect the worst; hope for less," Michael replied flatly. "Also, there's a secondary team rotating near the medical tents. If he wants to hit you when you're vulnerable, post-race would be the time."

His gaze met mine. "And you'll have me shadowing you. Wherever you are, I won't be more than thirty feet away. Got it?"

I nodded slowly, absorbing the details. This wasn't a race anymore. It was a battlefield.

Through the window, I watched athletes arrive with bikes and transition bags, their faces bright with pre-race excitement. They had no idea they were walking onto a stage set long before they signed up for tomorrow's show.

The lake stretched beyond the buildings, its surface ruffled by an afternoon breeze. Somewhere out there, officials were marking a course with buoys and timing mats. Somewhere in this town, Raines was watching, waiting, and preparing for his masterpiece.

Let him watch. Let him plan.

Tomorrow would end one way or another, and I'd finished playing by his rules.

***

We found a small restaurant a few blocks from the hotel—the kind of place with wood-paneled walls, neon beer signs, and a faint smell of grease that clung to the air like it was part of the decor. It was the kind of joint that looked the same in every town: cracked vinyl booths, laminated menus sticky at the corners, and a server who'd probably seen more fights than the local cops.

James slid into the booth across from me like it was second nature, his shoulder brushing against the wall. Michael took the seat on the end, the one with a clear line of sight to the door. Typical. Always ready to react, even when there was nothing to react to.

James ordered burgers, fries, and iced teas for both of us without asking. I didn't bother correcting him. It was easier that way, like following a script we'd written together in some past life. Michael didn't order. He only sat there, flicking at the peeling label on a bottle of ketchup, his knee bouncing under the table.

The food came fast. Too fast. Like they were trying to get us in and out before we brought the property value down. I didn't eat. James said the burger was dry, and the fries looked limp.

For a while, he ate in silence. Then, he decided that silence was overrated.

"You know," he said, holding up a fry like it was about to deliver a sermon, "this place reminds me of that diner in Nebraska. You remember the story I told you? The one where the waitress tried to sell me her cat."

"What?"

Michael didn't even look up. "Was it at least a good cat?"

"Terrible cat." James grinned. "Looked like it had been through three lives already and was determined to make the fourth one hell for whoever owned it. She'd named it Satan."

A laugh snuck out of me before I could stop it. Short, rough around the edges, but real. "You considered it, didn't you?"

"For a minute," he admitted, popping the fry into his mouth. "I mean, who wouldn't want to own Satan? Think of the bragging rights."

Michael finally glanced up, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I think you already do. He's only missing the fur."

"Oh, look at you with the zingers." James tossed a crumpled napkin across the table.

The banter settled over us like a warm blanket, frayed at the edges but comforting all the same. For a few minutes, we weren't running from shadows or staring down threats we couldn't control. We were three guys in a crappy diner, laughing over bad food and worse memories.

Then it happened.

A flash of orange light streaked past the window, bright and jarring, followed by the faint crackle of fire. My heart stuttered, a split second of confusion before I realized what was happening.

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