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In my side mirror, the headlights of the first SUV appear at the corner behind me and brake to check the cross street. I ease off the gas, letting the distance stay even. Kain and Petra’s vehicle follows a beat later. All of them smooth, unhurried. People who know what they’re doing.

I slip into the business district ahead of them, passing shuttered storefronts under yawning streetlamps. Here the streets widen, and I tap on the gas, letting Orien’s headlights drift further back in my mirror. Too much distance, and I lose them. Too little, and I’m made.

I pull over a block short of the address and cut the engine, turning off my headlights. From here, the two-story gray office building remains visible, metal gates covering the windows and faded letters spelling Allerton & Co. above the locked glass door. A narrow fire escape climbs the side wall.

In my mirror, Orien’s SUV rolls past, close enough for me to distinguish the outline of his jaw before I drop below the dash. A moment later, Petra and Kain follow.

I straighten enough to peer through the windshield as Orien rolls to a stop half a block farther on, while Kain and Petra park across the street. Orien slips out first, followed by Kain and Petra, all three moving toward the building. Orien takes the corner, back to the mouth of the alley, and goes still.

My heart is loud in my ears as they fan out, and I fix every position, timing, and sightline to memory, so I’ll be able to recall it later in my report.

The file on Orien Bellamy described a cold-blooded killer, a man who made problems disappear for his boss. The kind of person who’d walk in the front door with guns blazing, or at the very least, an intimidating show of force. Not this methodical surveillance or patient attention to detail.

With the numerous discrepancies in my dossier on the man, I have to wonder if our surveillance team is shit or if someone doctored the file before passing it along to me.

Kain returns first to give his report. Petra arrives moments later, and the three hold a brief, murmured conversation before Orien gives final instructions.

They separate again, Orien remaining where he is while Kain takes up position across the street and Petra disappears into the darkness behind the building.

I huddle deeper into my hoodie, the cold settling into my bones while Orien studies the building. His stillness is eerie, the kind of patience that comes from knowing how to wait. His breath doesn’t cloud in the air as he leans on the brick wall, and only his eyes move, scanning the building, the street, and the surrounding area.

A car passes, headlights sweeping across the darkness before continuing on. No one emerges from the building. No movement at any of the windows.

My toes have gone numb in my thin sneakers by the time Orien shifts position, straightening from his casual lean to pull out his phone. The blue light illuminates his face as he types, then puts it away again.

A text, maybe. To Kain or Petra, or both.

I check the time. Forty-five minutes have passed and not once have I seen evidence of the kind of operation I was briefed on. Why haven’t they entered the building? There’s something happening here I don’t understand, and every passing moment leaves me less certain of what I’m seeing.

My breath fogs as I blow out a frustrated sigh. The temperature has dropped another few degrees, the cold sinking deep into my muscles. I shift position, trying to restore circulation to my legs.

On the street, Orien’s head turns toward my hiding place, his pale eyes seeming to find me in the darkness. I freeze, not daring to breathe as his focus lingers on my van.

A heartbeat passes, then another. My pulse hammers in my throat as I wait for discovery, for whatever comes after.

But Orien only turns away, his attention returning to the building. He lifts his hand in a small gesture, and Kain crosses from his position to join him in the alley.

I let out a quiet breath of relief.

Across the street, headlights sweep across the building as a van turns onto the street from the north. It slows as it approaches the target building, the brakes squealing slightly as it pulls to a stop in front of the entrance.

The passenger door opens before the engine cuts, and a tall figure in a dark coat emerges. He scans the street, then the alley, before approaching the locked front door.

My heart kicks hard. This wasn’t part of the plan.

I need to get closer.

I climb between the seats into the back, where my go-bag is wedged behind the wheel well. I pull the Glock from it, check the chamber, and tuck it into my belt at the small of my back. The strap for the microphone goes across my body before I ease the rear door open wide enough to slip through and drop onto the asphalt without a sound.

I wait, watching Orien’s back. He hasn’t moved. When his attention shifts toward the building’s entrance, I dart across the open stretch of sidewalk and duck between two buildings, keeping close to the wall until I can crouch behind a dumpster with a clean sightline to the entrance.

The rusty chain on the service ladder gives way with a single rake of the pick I snap free from the sparkle hair clip in my pocket.

I test the first rung before committing my weight and slowly climb, hand over hand, until I haul myself onto the gravel roof and belly-crawl to the edge.

Moving with care, I open the microphone case and fit the headphones over my ears before pulling out the shotgun mic and easing it over the edge of the building. With my free hand, I click the recorder on, then aim the mic at the van, adjusting the angle until the feed crackles to life in my ears. An engine idling, voices too faint to decipher, and the metallic scrape of a cargo door being unlocked.

I flatten myself on the freezing gravel, suppressing a shiver as the winter air seeps through my hoodie, and focus on the scene unfolding below.