Page 56 of Sawyer
“Talk to me,” Riggs says without looking up.
“Rourke,” I say, spitting the name like a tooth. “Ex-military. Likes toys—jammer, flash-bang. Hates boundaries. Vale wanted a crescendo; Rourke took the whole orchestra.”
“Motivation?” Rae asks. “Money? Leverage?”
“Control,” I say. “Men like him jerk on strings because they like the dance.”
“And Gregory,” Riggs says, voice knifing dry. “You gonna punch him later?”
“I’m going to deliver his daughter breathing and then decide whether my fist needs a conversation.” I glance in the mirror, catch my own eyes—cold, unblinking. “Right now he’s a problem for tomorrow.”
Rae flicks me a look. “Cam’s going to be wrecked.”
“I know.”
The words scrape like gravel. I said I’d keep her whole. If I’m too late, the thing in my chest that’s just starting to believe in a future will cauterize shut.
We arrive at RiverfrontIndustrial. A grid of anonymous beige boxes and roll-up doors, numbers stenciled in stuttering logic. A few semis. Silence bouncing hard. We cruise once, eyes casual;Rae’s drone lifts, slips high, owl-quiet. A white panel van sits crooked near Unit 312, nose pointed out. My mouth goes dry. Passenger door low-dent. A peeling orange triangle sticker clings near the bottom seam.
Rae whispers, “Gotcha.”
“License plate?” Riggs asks.
“Paper temp. No state emblem. Fake.”
“Heat signatures?” I murmur.
She checks the IR overlay. “Two, maybe three bodies in 312. 314’s cold. One heat goes vertical then crouches. Could be on a mezzanine.”
I park two buildings down, behind a stack of pallets. We gear. Gloves. Nods. We move—fast and low. At the corner, I hold up a fist. We freeze. A man in coveralls smokes beside Unit 318, completely oblivious. Riggs angles his body, hiding our kit. We slip past in the echo of a truck backfiring three blocks over.
At 312, paint flakes from the padlock. I can smell bleach and rubber and the faint iron of fear. My fear. Hers.
I tilt my head toward Rae. She lowers the drone, perches it on a gutter for an overwatch view.
Riggs positions on the hinge side with bolt cutters, and I crouch lock-side with the wedge. My ear to the metal. There’s a murmur, a shift, and then a muffled thump. I close my eyes; there’s a sound I know better than any: Cam’s breath when she’s holding it to stop tears.
I nod. Three… two… one.
Riggs bites the lock as I set the wedge and crank. Metal shrieks. The door jumps. I rip it up and duck left as a shape barrels forward—Rourke or not, I don’t care—he hits the wedge, stumbles while reaching for his belt—flash-bang—no you don’t—I shoulder into him, drive him into the concrete, my forearm pinning his throat as his fingers fumble the pin.
“Hands,” Riggs roars, boot stamping the man’s wrist. Bone cracks. The pin skitters. We shove the canister under the rolling door; it detonates outside, light and sound bleeding harmlessly into the lot.
Another figure lunges from the back—skinny, fast. Rae plants him to the ground with a knee in the spine and a zip tie that sings shut.
“Cam!” I shout, moving into the dim.
She’s there.
On the floor against a stack of crates, wrists tied, tape smeared across her mouth, eyes red and bright butalive. The scream that detonates behind my ribs is the opposite of fear; it’s something older, wilder.
I’m at her in three steps. I cut the zip ties, peel the tape gently, hissing when it takes a layer of skin. She gasps, chokes, then grabs my neck like a lifeline. I tuck her under my chin and breathe her in—turpentine, salt, and glue. My Cam.
“I’m here,” I say, again and again, until her shaking slows enough for words.
“I counted turns,” she whispers against my throat, voice shredded but fierce. “I tried to make it loud. I?—”
“You did good.” I cradle her face in my hands, pressing my forehead to hers. “You lit the sky.”
