Page 33 of Damian
Back in the truck, the cab felt heavier than before. Cyclone started the engine, but didn’t shift into gear right away. River glanced at me from the backseat, his usual sarcasm gone. Even Roger was quiet.
“You okay?” Cyclone finally asked.
I stared out the window at the cottage, the warm light glowing through the curtains. “No. But I will be—once Luthor’s in a cell.”
No one argued. They knew better. And as the truck rumbled back down the drive, I swore to myself that nothing—no mission, no enemy, no shadow from my past—was going to keep me from keeping that promise.
39
Damian
The farmhouse felt different without Morgan. Too still. Too quiet.
We spread out around the table, maps and files scattered across the wood. Cyclone already had his laptop open, fingers flying as he pulled up surveillance feeds. River paced, restless energy vibrating off him. Roger leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, but his eyes were sharp, tracking every move
But the thing I noticed most wasn’t on the table or the screen. It was what wasn’t there.
No soft scratch of Morgan’s recorder. No clear, steady voice piecing together threads we hadn’t even seen. The silence was louder because of it.
“Feels off,” River muttered, running a hand over the back of his neck. “Like we’re missing a piece.”
“You mean her,” Cyclone said without looking up.
River snorted but didn’t deny it. None of us did.
I lowered into a chair, dragging a hand over my face. “She had a way of cutting through the noise. Saw angles we didn’t. We’ll just have to manage without her, for a while.” My chesttightened as I said it, because I knew damn well it wasn’t just her instincts we all missed.
Roger leaned forward, his voice steady. “Luthor’s still out there. Which means the clock’s ticking. We can’t afford to drag our feet.”
Cyclone spun the laptop around. “I’ve got chatter on a warehouse near the docks. Could be nothing, but the timing lines up. If Luthor’s moving product, this might be our shot.”
River stopped pacing. “Then we hit it.”
I exhaled slowly, staring at the map spread across the table. Every line, every marker reminded me of the promise I’d just made. Morgan’s face, the way her voice had broken when she whisperedplease, burned behind my eyes.
“We’ll hit it,” I said. “But this time, we finish it.”
The farmhouse felt too big without Morgan. The hum of Cyclone’s laptop, the shuffle of boots across the floor, even River’s constant pacing — none of it filled the quiet she’d left behind.
We geared up quick, every man driven by the same thought: end this before it circles back to her. Cyclone had picked up chatter about a warehouse near the docks. It wasn’t much, but it was all we had.
The place stank of oil and rust. Empty pallets stacked high, tire marks fresh in the dirt. But no bodies. No product. No sign of Luthor.
“Son of a—” River kicked a crate, the crack echoing through the hollow space. “They were here. Hours ago, maybe less.”
“Too clean,” Roger muttered, scanning the corners. “They stripped it before we even got close.”
Cyclone crouched with his laptop, pulling up surveillance feeds, fingers flying. “They’re moving fast. Every time I get a ping, they’re already gone.” His voice was sharp, frustrated.
I walked the length of the warehouse, boots crunchingover broken glass. My chest was tight, not from the chase — from the silence. No soft click of a recorder. No calm, steady voice piecing things together while the rest of us burned through adrenaline. Morgan’s absence pressed in on me like a weight.
Back at the farmhouse, we spread maps across the table. Cyclone hammered at the keys, River swore under his breath, and Roger Grant leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. We were all happy Roger decided to join The Golden Team.
But all I heard was what wasn’t there.
Morgan.
Her voice.
