Page 50 of Blade's Sheath
"The housing?"
"Lights off in all three buildings, but I'm seeing movement in the center one. People awake, or people who can't sleep."
"Probably both," Ghost said, and something in his voice—a weight that didn't belong on someone his age—made me glance at him. But his face was unreadable in the darkness.
I keyed the comms. "Diego, Irish. We move on the next rotation. Once Ghost and I are in the trailer, you have green light on the housing."
"Copy. Ready when you give the signal."
"Declan?"
"Clear." The sniper's voice, flat and economical. "Eyes on both guards. They go sideways, I handle it."
"Non-lethal."
"Legs, not lungs. I heard the briefing."
The guards completed their circuit and disappeared around the south side of the barn.
"Go," I breathed.
We came down the hillside in a low crouch, using the terrain to mask our approach. The dry grass crunched under our boots no matter how carefully we placed our feet—a sound that felt enormous in the silence but would dissolve before it reached the compound. The cool air burned in my lungs. I controlled my breathing the way I'd controlled it on a hundred approaches—slow and even despite the adrenaline building in my bloodstream. The world shrinking to the next ten feet, the next five seconds.
We reached the storage shed at the compound's edge and pressed against the corrugated metal. Cool enough to feel through my jacket. Ghost was beside me, Glock drawn, his breathing so quiet I could only confirm he was there by the warmth of his exhale against the night air. I could smell the cattle now—the heavy musk, the sharp tang of manure, the dusty sweetness of hay, the diesel from a generator humming to our left. The burnt-coffee-like smell of a recently running vehicle.
I checked my watch. Thirty seconds until the guards reappeared.
"Move."
We crossed the open ground to the trailer in a quick rush that left my heart hammering. The trailer sat on cinder blocks, door facing the central compound. We slid underneath—tight crawl space, damp, smelling like rust and rodent droppings—and emerged on the far side where a window offered access away from the guard routes.
Ghost produced a thin metal pick from his vest and worked the latch. The window slid open with a faint scrape of old paint against the frame.
He went through first, pulling himself up and over the sill like he'd been doing it his whole life. I followed. Less graceful, but quiet enough.
The office was small and cluttered. Old paper, stale cigarette smoke, and the chemical bite of industrial cleaner. A desk buried under stacks of files. The four filing cabinets along the far wall, drawers labeled with dates going back years. A corkboard above the desk held schedules, names, numbers. All paper. Either they didn't trust digital records, or they wanted something that could be burned.
"Photographs first," I said, pulling out my phone. "Everything we can get in sixty seconds. Then we signal Diego."
Ghost was already moving, his phone out, capturing images of the desk files. I went for the cabinets. Pulled drawers open as quietly as the metal runners allowed. Shipping manifests. Worker logs. Financial records. Names that weren't names—worker numbers, just like the card I'd found in the duffel bag on my ranch. Dates of arrival. Distribution locations. Dollar amounts attached to human beings.
I photographed everything I could reach. The anger was there—hot, tight, pressing against the inside of my ribs—but I'd learned to put it somewhere else during operations. There would be time for rage later. Right now there was only the mission.
"Contact," Ghost whispered.
I froze. Through the window I could see a guard passing within twenty feet, his flashlight sweeping in lazy arcs. The beam crossed the window, illuminating the room for a fraction of a second. Ghost was pressed flat against the wall beside the cabinets, perfectly motionless. The light moved on. The footsteps faded.
I exhaled. "We're good. Another thirty seconds, then we?—"
My earpiece crackled.
"All teams." Tyler's voice came through with a sharpness that cut through everything. "Multiple vehicles approaching from the east. Operation compromised. Get out now."
My body went cold. Compromised. Either Whitfield had ordered an evacuation of her sites, or she'd known we were coming. Either way, the clock that had been working in our favor was now working against us.
"Ghost." I was already moving toward the window. "We need to?—"
Headlights.
