Page 18 of Damian
Cyclone slid the tracker into place on the underside of the nearest truck. Green light blinked once, then vanished. Hemsley wouldn’t know he was carrying a leash until we pulled it tight.
“Two minutes,” Cyclone warned. “Camera sweep’s coming back.”
We started to fall back when a guard rounded the corner. His eyes went wide — ours narrowed.
River moved first. One hard strike, the man crumpled before he could shout. We dragged him into the shadows, breath tight.
Not clean. Not perfect. But still silent.
We slipped out the way we came, vanishing into the fog as the cameras clicked back into place. By the time we reached the van, my pulse was steady again, though my jaw was locked hard enough to ache.
“Tracker’s live,” Cyclone confirmed, eyes on his screen.
“Good,” I said. But my mind wasn’t on Hemsley’s blinking signal.
It was on Morgan, back at the safehouse, whispering promises into that recorder of hers. Promises she meant with every ounce of her being.
And for the first time in years, I felt the dangerous tug of something I couldn’t name.
Hope.
18
Damian
The tracker pulsed across Cyclone’s screen, a steady green heartbeat leading us through the sprawl of the city. We followed at a distance, headlights dimmed, River muttering directions while I kept my eyes on the mirrors.
Hemsley’s truck wound through industrial streets before turning onto the highway. It rode heavy, like the weight in the back was more than paper manifests and pallets.
“Heading south,” Cyclone confirmed. “If he keeps this pace, he’ll hit the border by dawn.”
River gave a low whistle. “Moving people through the charity shipments. Clever bastard.”
My hands tightened on the wheel. “Not clever. Coward’s trick. Hiding evil behind good works.”
We tailed him for another thirty minutes before peeling off — we had what we needed. Pushing further risked exposure, and exposure meant losing the thread.
By the time we reached the safehouse again, dawn had painted the horizon pale gray. The farmhouse sat quiet, but not empty — I could feel it, the presence of someone awake inside.
I pushed through the door, weapon low but ready. What I heard froze me in place.
Morgan’s voice.
Low, steady, threaded with the cadence of a storyteller.
“…the men meet in warehouses with broken lights. They talk in half-sentences, like the truth is too heavy to carry whole. They keep their faces shadowed, but their hands always give them away — the way they flex when money changes pockets, the way they tighten when girls are mentioned like cargo. They hide in charities, in logistics firms, in names no one remembers once the ink dries. That’s where the rot lives. Not in darkness, but in the places everyone thinks are safe.”
I stepped into the kitchen. She sat at the table, recorder in hand, eyes half-closed as if she could see the story playing out behind her lids. Papers were spread around her, coffee half-empty, hair tangled from a night without sleep.
River shot me a look — surprise written plain on his face. Cyclone leaned against the wall, listening, his usual stone expression cracked with something like respect.
Morgan opened her eyes and froze when she saw us. Color rushed to her cheeks. “I was just… working on my book.” She fumbled to click the recorder off, as if it had betrayed her.
“You call that a book?” River asked, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Sounds more like an op brief.”
Cyclone gave a single nod. “She’s describing the network like she’s been in it.”
Morgan hugged the recorder to her chest. “I haven’t. I just… piece things together. Make it into a story.”
