Page 102 of The Viper
My blood ran cold.
The message wasn’t for Franklin or Benji or the crew, obviously.
It was for me.
34
LUCAS
The address Ethan sent led us to a neighborhood that straddled the line between respectable and forgotten—not the kind of place that made headlines, but not the kind you'd avoid after dark either. Middle-income Charleston, where people worked hard, kept their heads down, and minded their own business. The kind of place where a guy in a fake Navy uniform could blend in without raising eyebrows.
The condo building was three stories, brick and beige siding that had seen better days but wasn't falling apart. A few potted plants sat by the entrance, half-dead but still there, like someone cared just enough. Cars in the lot were practical—Hondas, Toyotas, a beat-up truck with a rusted bumper. No luxury, no squalor. Just people getting by.
Noah pulled the SUV into a spot near the back, his eyes scanning the building. "Unit 213," he said. "Second floor."
I nodded, already running through the approach in my head. "Four guys rolling in together will look suspicious. I'll go alone."
Noah glanced at me, then at the two operators in the back seat—both solid, both ready. "You sure?"
"Yeah." I checked my pistol, tucked under my jacket. "This is what we do."
He didn't argue. That's what I appreciated about Noah—he knew when to trust a man to do his job. "We'll be here if you need us."
I stepped out, the humid air hitting me like a wet towel. The building had an exterior staircase, the kind with metal railings that rattled when you climbed. I took the steps slow, casual, like I was just another resident trying to remember which unit was mine. A woman passed me on the landing, juggling groceries and a toddler. I nodded, gave her a polite smile, and she didn't give me a second glance.
Unit 213 was at the far end of the second-floor walkway. The door was old—wood frame, cheap lock, no security camera. Amateur hour. I glanced around, making sure no one was watching, then pulled my pick set from my pocket.
The lock gave in under thirty seconds.
I eased the door open, my hand already on my pistol, checking for trip wires out of habit. Nothing. The place felt empty, but I wasn't taking chances. I stepped inside, my boots silent on the worn carpet, and closed the door behind me.
The condo looked like it belonged to a bunch of college guys—lived-in, cluttered, but not disgusting. Clothes draped over chairs, a stack of pizza boxes on the kitchen counter, empty beer bottles lined up by the sink. The sofa had a blanket bunched at one end, like someone had crashed there recently. A gaming console sat under the TV, controllers scattered on the coffee table.
I knocked on the inside of the door, hard, my pistol raised. "Anyone home?"
Silence.
I moved through the space methodically—checking the bathroom, the bedroom, the closet. Empty. But the vibe was off.This wasn't abandoned. The clothes were clean, the trash recent. Whoever lived here had left, but they planned on coming back.
I returned to the main room, my eyes sweeping for anything useful. That's when I saw it.
Draped over a chair in the eating nook, a Navy uniform. Crisp, pressed, aviator wings pinned above the ribbon stack.
Gotcha, motherfuckers.
I moved closer, pulling out my phone to snap a photo. I sent it to Elias to confirm it was the same as the one in the Pelicangate video, even though I was 97% sure it was already.
My phone buzzed in my hand. Noah.
I answered. "Yeah?"
"There's been an another attack." His voice was tight, clipped. "At the set. Someone's hurt. We need to go. Now."
The world tilted.
Lexi.
My grip on the phone tightened, my knuckles going white. "How bad?"
