Page 72 of The Final Cut

“Sabine Martel.”

Ever typed it before Deacon finished speaking. A personnel file appeared within seconds, pulled from one of the dirtier corners of La Rosa’s network. Early thirties. Security detail. Formerly assigned to Deacon’s unit, currently attached to house rotation under Isabel’s domestic guard. Dark hair, sharp face, clean record except for three small gaps that looked like administrative error.

“You trust her?” I asked.

Deacon’s eyes stayed on the screen. “Enough to meet away from the house.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the answer I have.”

“Was she your lover?”

Ever’s fingers paused again.

Deacon looked at me then. “Once.”

Great. I said, “Does she know where your loyalty sits now?”

“She knows enough.”

We left an hour later with Reva under Ever’s watch, hospital updates routed through Shiloh, and enough weapons on us to start a small, ugly war if things went wrong. Reva did not like the plan. She liked it even less when I refused to let her hear every detail. I told her what mattered: Deacon and I were going to confirm Delia’s location and meet a source. Ever would remain with her. Shiloh had Cal. Nobody moved on Delia tonight.

She stared at me as if she could set fire to my bones through eye contact alone.

Then she said, “Be careful.”

So here I am, in the dark outside Isabel’s house, trying to be careful. Trying to make sure we don’t spill any blood we cannot afford to spill.

Deacon shifts beside me.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Third floor. East corner.”

I move the lens. A curtain stirs behind one of the dark windows, not in the way fabric moves from air-conditioning. A hand touched it. Someone looking down without wanting to be seen.

“Delia?”

“No. Taller.”

The curtain falls still.

Ever says, “I caught movement, but no face. Heat signature on the third floor. One body. Two in the hall outside.”

“Isabel’s office?” I ask.

“Likely,” Deacon says. “She uses the upper study when she wants the house listening without admitting it.”

We watch another ten minutes.

Every patrol pattern gets marked. Every camera sweep gets timed. Every guard’s cigarette, limp, loose habit and lazy turn gets fed to Ever, who builds a living map from the cabin while Reva is twenty yards away from him and probably furious that she is not the one doing something reckless in the dark.

The urge to call and check on her sits under my ribs, but I don’t indulge it. She doesn’t need another man breathing fear into her ear because he can’t hold his own.

“Car leaving rear gate,” Ever says.

I angle the lens toward the service drive. A black SUV rolls through, headlights off until it reaches the street. Two men inside. No plates I can see.