Page 95 of Pack Me Up
“Yes. Or he already has.” I glance at Fox, who’s pale, mouth tight. “This could be a test. Or a distraction.”
Saint looks at Hunter. “Change in protocol: we stay within sight of Brittney at all times. No solo rotations, no split coverage. If she moves, we move. Copy?”
Hunter nods, grim. “Copy.”
Fox shivers, not from cold. “What if he’s not working alone?”
Saint answers for all of us: “Then we kill them all.”
No one laughs, not even a little.
He turns to me, eyes boring through. “You did well, Colton. You saw it. You called it. Now we finish this.”
He claps my shoulder, and I feel the tension leave my muscles, just a little. I never realized how much I needed his approval, but it’s like flipping a switch. I’m back in control, steady, every nerve tuned for the next move.
I look at Brittney who has been a little too quiet during this and ask, “Are you okay?”
She nods. “Scared, but he didn’t get close to me and he can’t hurt me from the crowd so all in all, I’m okay.”
I pull her in and press a kiss to her forehead. “You’re so brave. We won’t let anything happen to you.”
We break the huddle and head back to our posts, tighter now, never more than ten feet from each other, always with a line of sight to Brittney. I keep my eyes moving: crowd, exits, rooftops, anywhere a threat might hide.
The job isn’t over.
Not until he’s gone.
Not until every threat is ashes.
I square my shoulders, wipe the rain from my eyes, and start the scan again.
This time, nothing’s getting past me.
Fox
PHOENIX PACK SECURITY BRIEF #130
SEATTLE STADIUM PROTOCOL
May 16th
Saint, Colton, Cody, and Hunter file out of the bus to do a check over the venue we’ve just arrived at. It’s my turn to stay back with Brittney, and I’m looking forward to the time with her.
The bus door swings back open, and Saint pops his head back in. “Fox, there’s a package out here for Brittney. It looks like the electric violin she ordered, but you need to check it out before bringing it in.”
I nod and follow him outside, looking back at Brittney on the couch. “I’ll be right back.”
“Okay,” she says, bouncing on the couch, excited about the instrument.
The cardboard box is ordinary in every way: brown, branded, a crisp white label with Brittney’s name and the venue’s routing address.
I run through the checklist before I peel back the tape, slow and methodical.
I pop the last tab and flip the flaps open. Nestled inside, wrapped in bubble wrap, is an instrument case. Sleek, black,and zipped shut. A folded packing slip is tucked inside the case’s mesh pocket.
The bus rocks slightly as I go back inside. Brittney has Hunter’s hoodie zipped up to her chin while she sits there waiting for me.
“It’s here.”
