Page 126 of Silent Shadows

His crew laughs, but not kindly. Not because they think I’m funny. Because they think this is a game. Men like this always do until they start losing.

Grant steps closer to the table. “You know, I’ve been wondering what your little team was doing out here. Thought maybe Adler finally got tired of chasing shadows.”

Miles’s voice is calm. Too calm. “We’re not interested in whatever this is.”

“No?” Grant glances around the booth. “Shame. We’re very interested in what you found.”

I feel the whole team lock down. Miles’s knee is no longer touching mine. His body has angled subtly in front of me. Not enough for anyone else to notice, maybe. But I do. And God, I hate how much I like it.

Taylor leans back, expression unreadable. “Then I guess you should do your own fieldwork.”

Grant smiles. “We are.”

One of the men behind him snorts. “You call what you’re doing fieldwork? Looks more like arts and crafts with all that plaster.”

Maya’s eyes go flat, understanding that they’ve been watching us.

Jax sets his glass down carefully, leaning his elbows against the table.

The man with the camera bag looks at him. “You got something to say?”

“Usually.”

“Jax,” Miles says. Quiet. Commanding.

Jax’s mouth closes, but his eyes stay bright with anger.

“Relax, man. We’re all friends here,” Grant says.

“No,” Taylor says. “We’re not.”

Grant’s smile falters for a second, then a shit-eating grin spreads across his face. “We could be more than friends, girl.”

“In your dreams, asshat.”

Grant takes a look at us. A table full of women, a film-school dropout, and Miles Adler with his maps and his restraint and his refusal to turn this search into a pissing contest.

Grant leans in. “We’re closer than you think. We’re going to get real footage. Real proof. And when we do,” Grant continues, “nobody’s laughing anymore.”

Miles’s face doesn’t change. “At what cost?”

Grant’s smile disappears.

“Whatever it takes,” he says.

Clearly. This crew is willing to slash tires, trash protected land, and threaten people.

This isn’t just a search. It’s a race. And I’m not sure the other team cares who gets hurt at the finish line.

The door opens again. Cold night air rushes in. Everyone turns.

For one wild second, I expect another man from Grant’s crew. Someone bigger. Meaner. Worse.

Instead, a guy steps into the bar wearing a dusty jean jacket, carrying a duffel bag, and looking like he’s paying for some recent bad decisions.

He pulls off a ballcap and dark, messy hair tumbles across his forehead. He pushes it back with one hand, and you can see his face is drawn with exhaustion. He scans the room once, spots our table, and lifts one hand.

“Hey,” he says.