Page 5 of Falcon’s Forever

"Wasn't."

"Sure."

"You enjoy being alive?" He’s annoying me today.

"Most days."

I finish my breakfast while Sterling watches me from across the room, and when he finally waves me over, I take my coffee and cross to him. Cara's still at the table. She steps back as I approach, giving me exactly enough room that the movement feels deliberate. I hate noticing that. I hate knowing why she does it even more.

"Falcon. Got a minute?" Sterling asks.

That tone means business, so I follow him a few feet off, out of earshot. He slides a folder across the table.

"Condor found something last night. One of the companies connected to the Castellano network renewed a transport contract."

I flip it open. Security logistics, cargo transfer, private freight protection, it’s all clean on paper, and three shells removed from anything obvious.

"Who owns it?"

"That's what Condor's working on at the moment. Trail runs through two states and an offshore parent."

"What makes him think it's connected?" I’m looking through the paperwork, trying to get all the answers.

"Same accounting firm Castellano used. Same warehouse software. Two of the drivers already show up on routes we tied to trafficking."

My appetite disappears somewhere around the second sentence. "You think they're rebuilding?"

"I think we dismantled a major operation. I don't think we were stupid enough to believe one arrest wiped an entire network off the map."

Neither do I. I close the folder. "Does Vulture know?"

"That’s why he called Church."

Of course he did.

Sterling watches me for a second too long before he says the next part. "Whatever you're doing right now. Stop doing it alone."

"There's nothing to do."

"Falcon."

"I'm handling it."

"I didn't ask if you're handling it."

My jaw tightens, because he's not wrong and I don't have anything to say that isn't a lie. I tuck the folder under my arm instead. "Have Condor send me everything. I'll go through it before Church."

I turn to leave, and Cara's standing right behind me. She’s not close enough to trap me against the table, but not far enough that I can pretend she wasn't coming over either.

"Morning," she says.

"Morning." Five years apart and we've apparently regressed to the conversational skills of teenagers.

Her eyes drop to the folder. "Club business?"

"Yeah."

"Something bad?"