Page 17 of Damian
I studied the lines, the angles, the exposures. Calculations ticked through my head — not if we could do it, but what it would cost.
“We go tonight,” I said finally. “Tag Hemsley, track his route. Get confirmation on what Caldwell’s moving through that hub.”
River nodded. “And Morgan?”
I looked toward the doorway, where faint light spilled from the room she’d taken. I could still hear the faint murmur of her voice, the way she couldn’t stop narrating her thoughts even when she tried.
“She stays here,” I said. My tone left no room for argument, but my chest tightened all the same. “Cyclone will rig a perimeter, motion sensors, and a back door exit if it comes to it. She doesn’t move until we’re back.”
River arched a brow. “You think she’ll actually listen?”
I almost smiled, bitter and reluctant. “Not bloody likely. But she’ll try. And sometimes trying is all you get.”
Cyclone slid the blueprint closer. “We’ll need her notes, though. She’s the one who saw the trail. If she spots something we don’t, it could cut the chase in half.”
“Then we take them with us,” I said. “But not her.”
River’s grin was sharp. “Funny. You sound like you’re convincing yourself.”
Maybe I was.
Because the truth I wouldn’t say aloud — not to River, not to Cyclone, not even to myself — was that Morgan Tatewasn’t just useful anymore. She mattered. And that made her dangerous in a way no enemy could match.
I tightened the strap on my rifle, pushing the thought down where it couldn’t touch me.
“Gear up,” I ordered. “We hunt tonight.”
17
Damian
The night smelled of salt and diesel.
We left the van two blocks from Hub 9, blending into the fog like shadows with teeth. River at my left, Cyclone at my right — we’d done this dance so many times the rhythm was second nature. But tonight felt different. Tonight the weight of Morgan’s scribbled notes pressed against my chest, folded into my vest pocket like scripture.
Every line she’d muttered into that recorder, every circle she’d drawn on a manifest, had led us here.
“North side,” Cyclone murmured, pointing to the chain-link fence ahead. “Maintenance gate. Blind spot between cameras. We’ve got thirty seconds between sweeps.”
“Copy.” My voice was low, clipped.
River slid the cutters into place, metal snapping softly in the fog. We slipped through, boots silent, hugging the shadows along the wall.
Hub 9 loomed above us — corrugated metal, floodlights buzzing, the thrum of machinery inside. Ordinary to anyone else. But my gut told me it was a wolf in factory skin.
At the north door, Cyclone tapped a code into his handheld, syncing with the camera feed. “Thirty seconds. Go.”
I shoved the door open, rifle raised. The corridor smelled of oil and mold. We moved fast, stacking against the wall, clearing corners.
Voices drifted from deeper in the building. Male, clipped, foreign accent. I caught fragments — “shipment… schedule… Caldwell.”
Caldwell. Morgan’s voice echoed in my head:Not sloppy. Not a coincidence.
We pressed closer, slipping into the shadows of a half-open storage bay. Through the gap, I spotted a cluster of men around a stack of crates. Pallets marked with Caldwell’s logo. And at the center — Hemsley.
He was older than the file photos, hair thinner, but his arrogance was intact. He barked orders like a man who thought the world bent to his ledger.
“Tag him,” I whispered.
