Sleep was going to be impossible, despite what little of it he’d obtained the night before. That night it was all fun and recreational activities. It was Laurel. It was life. Tonight’s reason was the opposite.

He stayed at the crime scene for two hours, most of which he spent avoiding questions from the local police. Their vibe, from the very beginning, sent up red flags. Their aggression toward the FBI agents, the way they encircled the crime scene after being told countless times to back the fuck off. They hovered like wolves, staring at Matthias similarly. Hungry. Even just their body language, the way they seemed like crooked, backwoods cops at best, and colluding criminals at worst.

Matthias was a little more inclined to talk to the FBI agents. But he still kept pretty quiet. All anyone knew was that he was a friend of Ernesto’s, in town to work with a cybersecurity company. Someone, probably Ernesto, had tipped them off about his affiliation with DARC Ops, which, for better or worse, had a growing reputation with law enforcement agencies—which also made Matthias wonder if he should have a talk with Jackson when this whole thing was done with. Maybe it was time for a name change. A re-branding. A re-burying of a secret cybersecurity firm that had recently become not-so-secret through a few too many high-profile cases. Maybe it could be the promotion Matthias was asking for, to lead a new offshoot of DARC Ops. He felt strong enough for it. At least for now.

If not for the new DARC division, Matthias would still be coming back to Atlanta. He’d come on his own time, maybe rent a house, share it with a few trusted veteran friends, and then use it for the center of operations against an enemy that had been slowly materializing and revealing itself with each passing day. Whether or not it was sanctioned by DARC Ops, and with or without Jackson’s approval, he’d vowed to take care of business down here one way or another.

Taking care of business was on his mind as he drove through the early blue light of dawn, barreling down county roads through the farmland surrounding Atlanta. It was too early to show up at the office, and too late to sleep. But the time was just right for paying a visit to a certain coworker.

He’d found her info from his unfettered access to Sentry’s employees. And now he found her house, a double-wide mobile home set amidst the dogwood and the thick southern pines.

Even though his ride took half an hour, he hadn’t really thought out a plan. Normally that would be more than enough time. Normally, he wouldn’t set out on a mission without even knowing what the hell he was doing.

So what was he doing? Reconnaissance?

Throwing mud against the wall and waiting for it to stick?

Just being a loose cannon idiot?

It had to be one of those. Probably the last one.

The evidence from the crime scene was slim to nil. Dashcam video had captured nothing of the assailants. Only the horrific audio of gunshots and screaming. Ernesto had been sitting in the car, waiting, just like Matthias had done with him the night before. Only this time, he was alone. And when the loud thuds came, the weather was perfectly calm and clear. A cloudless night. The pale light from a full moon showing up on the video and stretching across the field, but nothing else. Just grass. Just nothing at all. And then smoke and chaos.

Aside from the bullet casings of both parties, the only other evidence left behind were several sets of tire tracks through the grass at the far end of the airstrip, cutting across and joining onto a dirt road where the tracks blended into the crushed-stone ghost trails of hundreds of other vehicles. But back in the weeds, the signature was obvious. Single tire tracks, like that of a motorcycle.

Caitlyn rode a bike.

It was a whim, traveling out to her house. A guess. A giant one. It was also incredibly desperate.

He doubted that she or her bike had direct involvement in what happened to Ernesto. But it was possible that she was part of a “community.” Maybe she went as far as being affiliated with the Southern Dragons, who were and always had been Ernesto’s prime target.

She was also way too connected to Laurel and Sentry Systems, not to mention the most likely suspect behind not only the file leak, but the subsequent frame job on Laurel.

If he was going to do anything, it might as well begin with her. And possibly, her friends who had just gunned down Ernesto and needed a place to crash for the night.

Matthias pulled his bike off the road a quarter mile from her shrub-hidden home. He walked it into the woods and left it behind a row of old pines, and then set out on foot, moving faster than usual, hurrying to finish the deed before the sun crested any higher.

It was a wild risk, especially taken alone and without anyone’s knowledge, but he was fueled by an anger that blocked out logic—even fear. He almost wanted something to go awry. A confrontation. A chance, or an excuse, to fire his gun.

But then there was that small part of his brain that still held onto logic, a small little voice that sounded vaguely like Dr. Smyth. A calm and persistent pleading that he stay patient. If he made all the right moves now, there would be plenty of time later to take his revenge. And more importantly, he would know exactly who it needed to be dealt upon.

For now he had to remind himself, or at least convince himself, that Caitlyn was still technically innocent. She just some country girl trying to get by. She just so happened to be a cybersecurity analyst who lived in a mobile home, who rode a Harley. And who most likely did some seriously shady shit against Laurel. It didn’t necessarily warrant him shooting up her house before 6 a.m.

No, he would try a more nuanced tactic, checking out the tire treads on the four bikes parked by the propane tanks at the side of the house.

Matthias crept up to them, good classic Harleys, feeling each of their exhaust pipes. They were cool to the touch, which didn’t exactly rule anything out. It had been hours since the shooting. He checked around the rims, in the fenders and the brakes, searching around for a blade of grass. The stuff at the airport was knee high-high and could have very easily gotten trapped up in the bikes and brought home. But it was just grass . . . maybe if he found some, he could run a sample on it, or get help from botanist, or—

There was a loud clang from inside the home, the sound coming through the open windows and carrying clean in the early morning stillness. What was it? The sound of a toilet seat?

Matthias reached for his camera and then tried to snap shots of the bike tires, but his hands shook. His fingers fumbling with the miniscule little buttons, sometimes hitting the wrong one, his head darting back to the mobile home, scanning the surroundings. All quiet. Back to the bikes he went, taking closeup shots of the brand names and the tread design on each tire. It was the last bike, right before he would flee into the woods, that he discovered several strands of grass sticking out between the rim and tire of a 1989 custom Softail. He tugged at it, but the grass was stuck firmly. He considered unscrewing the valve cap and deflating the tire . . .but it would be so loud.

Another sound came from inside, a man’s voice, garbled but yelling.

Matthias ripped out the grass and jogged toward the thick brush, his footsteps carefully placed in a strip of weeds to avoid the noise of crushed stone, his heart pounding.

His first mission, complete.

* * *

Halfway to the city, surrounded by strip malls and big-box stores, Matthias pulled into one of the vast networks of empty parking lots. He killed the engine, hopped off the bike, and then sat on the rim of a concrete planter. Inside the planter was a cluster of half-dead hydrangeas. Ahead, across the lot, seagulls swooped and smacked into each other, fighting over bits of fast-food debris that sat in the middle of a parking stall’s oil stain.

Morning in big-box Americana.

Matthias felt good. Like he’d done something. Stashed away in his bike’s compartment was perhaps a crucial piece of evidence, blades of grass he’d hoped could be matched up to that of the airport. The start of a long trail which led to his revenge on Ernesto’s assassins.

He pulled out his phone and checked an incoming text message.

It was from Jackson.

Where are you?? What’s going on??

And then another. This one newer.

No Sentry today?

Matthias held the phone down to his side. He stared across the empty parking lot, wondering how to convey his answer through a fucking text. There was no way he’d call Jackson. Not now, and for a few reasons. One of them being the need to settle a more important matter.

It was time. The sun had been up for an hour now. It must be okay to call. Still, he felt sick about it. Not even sure what to say, or how. Sure, only, that he had to try.

“Hello?”

Her voice, as weak and tired as it sounded, filled him with warmth. With hope. But also urgency.

“Laurel . . .”

“Hi . . .”

He could hear traffic in the background of her call.

“Where are you?”

“On the street,” she said. “I’m walking.”

“Where?”

He heard a loud commotion in the background, the whooshing sound of a passing bus.

“Matt, I’ve got a real busy morning.”

He held his tongue, not wanting to explain about the type of morning he’d had. It wasn’t even really a morning, but an extended night with all its blurriness and haze. All the new information washing into him, overwhelming him. And through it all, he needed her.

“We should talk soon,” he said. “Can we meet? Are you coming into work today?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“It’s about what’s going on with Sentry.”

“What about it?”

“I can’t say right now, but I think you know what I’m talking about.”

“Yes,” she said. “You’ve been sent to investigate me.”

Fuck.

She’d figured him out; at least she thought she had. His logical side tried to remind him it had probably only been a matter of time. The rest of him refused to listen. He couldn’t blame her in the slightest for her anger, which was all the more reason he needed to talk to her, and soon.

“It’s not like that, Laurel.”

“How can it be anything else?”

“No. I can explain.”

“You just need to stay away from me.”

“No.”

“Yes, Matthias. Maybe we’ll talk later, but right now, I . . . I can’t even . . .” It sounded like she was close to tears, her voice straining

His worst fear was materializing, becoming more of a reality with each word she mumbled to him. His heart choked with a physical pain from it. She thought he’d betrayed her, that everything had been a ploy for him to get closer to his target. That their night was just his first attempt to get inside her world, in her head, to suck out as much info as he could. She probably thought he was some kind of fucking cop or Fed.

“Laurel, I want to help you. And I really think you’ll want to talk to me.”

She sniffled.

“Where are you?”

“I might as well fucking tell you.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” she said. “You’re probably working for him anyways.”

“Who?”

“Your boss, Walter Smedley. District Attorney.”

“No.”

“Come on, Matt.”

“No, don’t.” Matthias wasn’t sure how, or why, but at the mention of the name he felt a certain gnawing horror. He didn’t know anything about the man, nor had he given any thought to how far the up the chain the corruption went, from the police through the state politicians who seemed, with each overturned rock, exceptionally corrupted. And dangerous.

“Laurel, please, you need to wait until I get there. We’ll talk.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Where are you?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“You’re at his office?”

“Leave me alone.”

“Laurel.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Wait. Please . . . I need to talk to you about Caitlyn.”

There was a pause. And then the sound of another whooshing bus.

“Matt, I’m hanging up.”