Malachi stops in his tracks. I freeze, the sound cutting through the quiet.
“What is that?” I whisper.
He pivots on his heel and strides back toward the basement. I follow, heart thudding.
The beeping grows louder as we descend the steps.
Malachi drops to his knees in front of the box, yanking away folders until his hand closes around a small black device nestled deep in the center. The LED on its face pulses red.
“Shit,” he mutters, holding it up. “It’s a tracker. This box—it’s not records. It’s bait.”
A cold rush spreads through my chest.
“We need to go.” He’s already on his feet, rushing past me toward the stairs. “Now.”
I snatch my jacket off the couch, fingers trembling as I shove my arms through the sleeves.
“They know we have it,” I say, frantic.
“And they’re coming to take it back,” he says, voice sharp. “That sound—the tracker beeping means they’re close.”
I whip my head toward him. “Who’s close?”
My mind’s already scanning for allies. Irina is halfway across the country or still on a plane—either way, unreachable. Rain and most of Solace are headed west, gone with the last convoy. Cade and Aurora are tucked away in the goddamn mountains.
We’re alone.
I glance out the nearest window, the snow outside drifting peacefully.
“Malachi,” I say, stepping closer, “who the hell did your father send?”
He spins toward the hall closet, yanking it open and grabbing a black tactical pack. He tosses in whatever supplies he can grab. I can barely see with all the lights off and don’t know how he can tell what all this stuff is.
I stand there like an idiot, empty-handed. Shit. I haven’t even changed clothes. Still in these all-black safe house sweats, no boots, no weapon. My eyes flick to the kitchen. A knife block sits on the counter, maybe eight feet away.
I take one step, but a soft sound stops me cold. Malachi freezes too and turns to me, lifts one finger to his lips.
The next sound is a faint click.
The handle of the front door turning, slow and careful. Someone’s picking the lock.
No—not someone trying to get in.
Someone trying not to be heard. If it were Orin, he’d kick the damn door in. No subtlety. No games.
And that makes it so much worse.
Malachi slips the backpack over his shoulder and reaches for my hand. His grip is tight, steady. He doesn’t speak as he guides me through the house, bare feet silent against the hardwood.
I try not to breathe.
Every creak, every distant shift of weight sounds like thunder in my ears.
We reach the back door as the front door creaks open behind us.
They’re inside.
Whoever or whatever is here, and they’re in the house.
