Page 122 of The Last Call Home
Relief flashes through me so fast it nearly knocks the wind from my lungs, but it’s tainted—immediately followed by a new kind of dread.Because this?This is our chance.The margin.The narrow space between too late and just in time.We either seize it, or we fail her.
The picture of the docks fills the screen, and something in my chest pulls tight.
It looks abandoned, but nothing about it feels empty.
Trees crowd the perimeter like they know what’s coming.Old cranes sag toward the water.The pier sprawls into the bay like an invitation to disappear.
Salt thickens the air the moment we descend—coiling around the scent of rust and oil, the tang of seawater mixing with rot and diesel.It clings to the back of my throat and makes my hands twitch as I pull on my gloves and reach for my weapon.
Malerick’s already moving, dropping from the chopper with practiced ease, barking orders to the advance team without looking back.His movements are tight, precise, but I can see the tension working through his shoulders.
He’s not breathing right, either.None of us are.
We move through the trees, boots skimming over damp earth.No one speaks.
The docks unfold in front of us like something from a crime scene photograph—half-sunken boats slouched against the pilings, tarps whipping in the breeze like torn fabric from another life.An old security tower blinks red in the distance, the bulb flickering like it’s down to its last heartbeat.
I glance at the satellite overlay on my screen.One vessel.Large.Docked at the far end.Unmarked.No lights.
No crew visible.
Perfect.
“This is it,” I say, my voice low.The words feel like they’ve been waiting in my chest for hours.“This is where they’re going to arrive.”
And this—right now—might be the only moment we have to stay ahead of them.
Because once that boat opens, everything changes.
ChapterFifty-Seven
Malerick
We spread out fast.Every second we buy now is one we might not have later.
The advance team fans left, moving through the tree line like they were born there, boots muffled against the wet earth, weapons angled low but ready.The second unit slips toward the service road that cuts through the back of the property, a route likely to be used if the convoy attempts to enter discreetly.I keep my pace tight, body low, eyes scanning everything—not just for movement but for signs that someone’s already here watching us.
It’s too quiet.
The bay isn’t exactly still, but it feels ...held.It’s as if the wind is waiting for something to go wrong.
I raise a fist—signal to pause—and crouch behind the crumbling shell of an old supply shack, its roof slanted and rotting, the siding curled from salt and years of neglect.Across the clearing, the boat looms over the dock like a sleeping animal.Still no lights.Still no movement.
But that doesn’t mean it’s empty.
“Team Bravo, hold perimeter north.Thermal scan says clear, but no assumptions,” Cassian says into the earpiece.“Eyes up.We’re not walking into a goddamn trap.”
He’s behind me, maybe ten feet back, scanning the opposite ridge with his rifle braced tightly.I can feel the tension radiating off him even from here—controlled, but barely.His finger taps a pattern against the grip of his weapon, a habit I’ve seen him fall into when he’s trying not to think about the worst-case scenario.
Delilah.
She’s not here yet, but I can feel her getting closer.It’s not logical, not something I can explain, but it’s there—that wired pulse in my chest, the certainty that time is slipping away quickly and if we miss this window, we lose her.
For good.
I duck into a lower crouch and pull up the latest drone feed.Three vehicles are all heading southeast, with the lead just passing the turn-off to the secondary road that snakes down toward this side of Eastmoor Bay.We’ve got maybe thirty-five, forty minutes before they roll in.Maybe less if they’re driving hard.
“Let’s get the snipers in position.”Cass points toward the right.“Tower.South crane.Rooftop above the loading bay.We cover them before they make it out of the vehicles.”
