Page 37 of Damian
River groaned. “Do I want to know?”
Cyclone looked straight at me, then at the others. “What if all this—these breadcrumbs, the notes, even the damn recorder—is her way of stockpiling material? What if Morgan’s just… writing it into a book?”
River barked a laugh. “Wouldn’t that be something? Us, bleeding and sweating our asses off, and she’s sitting there writing chapter titles.”
I frowned, the muscle in my jaw ticking. “If she’s using this for a story, we shut it down. This isn’t fiction. It’s real. And it’s dangerous.”
We drove for a few hours and found her at the cottage, awake, the recorder sitting right there on her desk like anaccomplice. She jumped when she opened the door, guilt flickering across her face before she straightened her shoulders.
I crossed my arms. “Tell me straight, Morgan. Is this—everything you’ve been sending us—just research for your next book?”
Her eyes widened. “What? No! I would never—” She stopped, sighed, and then a smile tugged at her lips despite the tension in the room. “Besides… I switched genres.”
River blinked. “Genres?”
Morgan nodded, almost sheepish. “Cozy mysteries. Small towns, quirky neighbors, cats who solve crimes. No traffickers, no guns, no—you guys.”
The room went silent for a beat. Then River let out a low whistle. “Well… thank God for cats.”
Cyclone muttered, “Unbelievable,” but I saw the faintest smirk pulling at his mouth.
I stepped closer, lowering my voice so only she heard. “You promise me, Morgan. None of this—what we’re doing now—goes into a story.”
Her gaze locked with mine, steady and sure. “I promise, Damian. This isn’t about a book. It’s about keeping Ruby safe. And maybe… keeping you safe, too.”
My chest tightened. She meant it. And for the first time since leaving her at this cottage, I believed her.
Cyclone’s laptop beeped again, sharp in the quiet. He glanced down, then back up, his expression all business. “Third breadcrumb. And this one… looks big.”
I squeezed Morgan’s hand once before letting go. “Then we follow it.” I bent my head and kissed her goodbye. This kiss was different. I turned her in my arms and held her tightly. “I’ll return soon, love. This is the last breadcrumb; it’s not safe.”
46
Damian
Morgan’s promise echoed in my head as we loaded up.No books. No twisting this into fiction. Cozy mysteries, cats, quirky neighbors.I almost smiled at the thought—almost. But the truth was, she’d just proven something none of us could ignore: Morgan wasn’t dabbling. She was in this fight.
And now she was guiding us. I told her to stop, but I had my doubts that she would.
Cyclone’s laptop pinged with the third breadcrumb as we pulled away from the cottage. He zoomed in on the coordinates, his brow furrowing. “Abandoned textile mill. Been shut down for years. But…” He tapped the screen. “There are heat signatures. At least half a dozen moving inside.”
River leaned forward between the seats. “Finally. A real lead.”
Roger’s eyes narrowed, steady as stone. “Could be a trap.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “We’re going.”
The mill rose like a skeleton against the night sky, its windows busted out, rust eating through the metal frame.But the faint glow of lights inside said it wasn’t as empty as it looked.
We slipped through a side entrance, boots silent on cracked concrete. The smell of mildew and machine oil clung to the air. Cyclone checked his tablet, pointing toward the far end of the building. “Movement—north wing.”
We crept closer, weapons up.
Voices echoed faintly further away—low, rough, men talking in a language I didn’t need to understand to know it was trouble. Then the metallic clatter of crates being stacked.
River flashed a grin. “We’ve got ’em.”
But when we swung around the corner, weapons ready, the space was bare. Empty pallets. Cigarette butts still smoldering. A back door swinging shut against the night air.
