Page 108 of Priest

The room fills with men waiting for something none of us can name yet. Chairs scrape. Leather creaks. Nobody postures, because there’s nothing to posture against. We’ve been laying bait and watching the water stay smooth, which should feel like patience but instead feels like a hand hovering over the back of my neck.

I take my spot at the head of the table, knuckles pressed flat against the wood, and let the quiet stretch. Let them feel the weight of it. Sometimes a room needs silence before it’s ready for truth.

Ghost breaks it first. He looks like hell, eyes rimmed red, his face carrying the kind of exhaustion he usually buries behind screens and shadows.

“Three routes,” he says. “Coastal, southern, industrial. We laid the tracks. And for the most part… nothing.”

I study him a second longer than I mean to. Ghost doesn’t show wear easily. He hides behind quiet and lets people mistake stillness for distance. If it’s showing on his face, it’s worse underneath. I make a mental note to corner him later, because Ink and Ghost both like to pretend they don’t need watching.

They’re wrong.

Rook leans forward, jaw tight. “Should’ve stirred something. Dead Man’s Hand doesn’t sit quiet unless they’re bleeding.”

Ink’s arms are crossed, gaze sharp. “We layered it clean. No cross-contamination. Each piece stayed in its own circle. If a word got out, we’d hear it back by now.”

There’s something under that. Protective instinct, maybe. Ink takes breaches personal. Always has. I don’t ask why. Some scars you let a man carry until he offers them up himself.

Nomad rests his forearms on the table, expression calm in a way that makes him look more dangerous. “Or they’re letting the bait float because they don’t like the hook.”

Graves shakes his head slowly. “Hand’s always hungry.”

Ghost exhales through his nose, attention fixed somewhere in the middle of the table like he’s watching a screen only he can see. “It wasn’t dead quiet. That’s the part I keep circling. Industrial stretch, north end near Iron Cut. One of our guys clocked two Dead Man’s Hand patches parked off the main drag. They didn’t follow. Didn’t approach. Just… there.”

That lands differently.

Ledger tilts his head slightly. “Could be coincidence. That corridor’s open enough.”

Ink’s jaw shifts. “Could be.”

Nomad taps two fingers lightly against the table. “Industrial was one of the threads we floated.”

A pause moves through the room. Quiet. Aware. Nobody says more than that, because the whole point of a trap is knowing which pieces belong where without dragging the map into the open.

“Yeah,” I answer evenly. “It was.”

Rook leans back in his chair. “So either we’re reading too much into two bikes parked on a public road, or somebody’s got long ears.”

Ledger’s mouth flattens, but his voice stays calm. “Or we’re jumpy because we expect movement.”

That steadies the room enough to keep it from leaning too hard in one direction.

Ghost nods once. “I’m saying the overlap exists. That’s all.”

Overlap. Not accusation. Not yet.

Ink looks at me. “You want to shut down the industrial run?”

“No,” I say. “We stay steady. We don’t twitch because of a maybe, and we don’t hand anyone proof that we’re watching the same thread they are. If they were there for us, they saw exactly what we wanted them to see.”

Nomad nods slowly. “We stay boring.”

“Exactly.” I sweep the table with my gaze. “If it’s coincidence, it dies here. If it’s something else, whoever’s paying attention will tip their hand eventually.”

Ghost’s shoulders ease just a fraction. “Still got digital angles I’m working. There’s something else I’m looking into. Nothing for the table yet, but if it pans out, you’ll know fast.”

I narrow my eyes. “You holding back?”

He meets my gaze, steady. “Not holding—just want proof before I stir the pot.”