Page 81 of Borrowed Pain
"Header route matches the Seattle field office line Michael's used before," said Dorian. "Not proof, but maybe enough to gamble."
"Off-record," Miles repeated. "So—help from someone willing to bend the rules."
I turned to Miles. "I have to go after him."
"We have to go after him."
"No." The word tore out of me, raw with three years of buried grief and fresh terror. The thought of Miles in a container yard with armed mercenaries made something primitive and protective rear up in my chest. "I won't watch them destroy you like they destroyed Lucia."
Miles stopped halfway to the coat closet, his hand frozen on the doorframe. When he turned back to me, his eyes were bright with something that looked dangerously close to tears.
"Don't you dare," he said, voice shaking. "Don't you dare make this about her. About your guilt." He took a step toward me, then another, until we were close enough that I saw the pulse hammering in his throat. "You think I'm going to let you disappear into the night on some suicide mission because you're carrying three years of survivor's guilt?"
His hands gripped my jacket. "I'm not Lucia, Rowan. I'm not some ghost you need to protect or avenge. I'm right here and choosing to stand with you."
"Miles—"
"No." His voice cracked. "You don't get to love me and then try to save me by leaving me behind. That's not how this works." He pressed closer. "If something happens to you out there, what do you think that does to me? You think I just go back to my practice and pretend none of this mattered?"
Dorian cleared his throat softly. "He's right about the backup," he said quietly. "You'll need ground support, and I can coordinate from here. But—" He paused, fingers hovering over his keyboard. "This could be what they want. Draw us out, separate us, eliminate the threats one by one."
The three of us stood in the blue glow of multiple screens, each weighing terrible choices.
Dorian's monitors chimed with new alerts. Vehicle movement near the port district, facial recognition hits, and communication intercepts.
"Decision time," he said quietly.
I looked at Miles, the man who'd trusted me enough to drag his family into a festering conspiracy. He shared his bed, his secrets, and his stubborn determination to seek justice for the people who couldn't seek it themselves.
Impossible choices: abandon Rook and let our last witness disappear, or split our defenses and potentially get everyone killed.
Somewhere in the dark city, a terrified man ran for his life, carrying evidence that could save hundreds of future victims.
My phone buzzed a third time.
This time, it was Rook's voice, transmitted through layers of digital encryption that made him sound like a ghost: "Pier 91. Container yard. I'll wait one hour."
Dorian flicked to traffic. "Georgetown to Pier Ninety-One is ten to twelve minutes if the lights break our way."
I did the math. One hour minus twelve. Fifty-odd minutes to decide whether we were hunters or prey.
Chapter seventeen
Miles
The warehouse buzzed with tactical energy—Dorian's fingers flying across keyboards while Matthew paced behind him, medical bag already slung over his shoulder. Maps of the port district covered the dining table, and Marcus had two legal pads full of contingency plans written in his precise handwriting.
My work phone chimed against the table's edge.
Dr. C. Harrow:Authentication materials as promised - time sensitive.
The attachment showed a compressed file large enough to contain substantial documentation. Around me, my family dissected approach angles and extraction scenarios while a clock on Dorian's workstation counted down: fifty-one minutes until Rook's deadline.
"Miles?" Rowan's voice cut through the tactical chatter. "You're somewhere else."
"Work email." I stepped toward the kitchen area. "Let me catch up in a second."
The email required two-factor authentication—professional-grade security. Either Harrow was legitimately protecting sensitive research, or someone had invested serious resources in making the deception airtight.
