“No,” she says. “I don’t.”
“Good,” I reply. “Because neither do I.”
The tension spikes again, sharper now, but it holds.
“You’re insufferable,” she says.
“I’ve heard worse.”
She exhales, dragging a hand through her hair before refocusing.
“We follow his path,” she says. “Every contact, every route, every gap.”
“Yeah,” I reply.
“We don’t assume,” she adds. “We confirm.”
“Agreed.”
“And we don’t lose control,” she says.
I raise an eyebrow.
“You’re still talking to me.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She studies me for a moment longer, then nods once.
“Then we move,” she says.
I nod back.
“Together,” I add.
She doesn’t hesitate.
“Together.”
The word settles between us, heavier now.
CHAPTER 13
JOLIE
Shasha, the bay manager, does not like being cornered, and the moment I step into her line of sight, the reaction flickers across her face before she can stop it. The supply bay hums with low mechanical vibration, the kind that settles into the bones if you stand in it long enough, and the air carries the layered scent of heated metal, chemical sealant, and aging insulation that never quite loses its edge. Workers move in the background with forced casualness, dragging crates across the floor with just enough noise to mask conversation, but not enough to hide tension.
She stills mid-entry on her tablet, her fingers hovering for a fraction of a second before she resumes motion like nothing happened.
“Lieutenant,” she says, her voice controlled, her posture tightening just slightly as she turns toward me.
“Shasha,” I reply, closing the distance with steady, deliberate steps that make it clear I am not here for a passing check-in. “You’ve got a minute.”
Her gaze drifts past me briefly, scanning the edges of the bay as if she is measuring who might overhear, then settles back on me with a guarded expression.
“I’m working,” she says.
