“And now I’m learning.”
The ordinary sounds of Stella’s kitchen lasted only minutes.
Then Cullen appeared in the hall.
“Rafe made a call.”
Ronan’s blood went cold.
“When?”
“Twenty minutes ago. Short call. Cell phone.”
They had been in Stella’s house thirty-five minutes. Mercer now had their location.
Ronan sent Elena and Noah to the basement with Cullen.
Then he confronted Rafe.
The twenty-six-year-old had the look of a man caught too late. Ronan took his phone. Unknown number. Thirty-eight seconds.
Rafe had been a standby asset. Mercer had approached him months ago. Offered money and a place in his network. Activated him the moment a clean location appeared.
“There are cars coming,” Ronan said.
Rafe said nothing.
That was answer enough.
Stella handed Ronan a key and told him about the tunnel behind the water heater. It connected the basement to the garage on the next property, where a blue Ford waited under a registration Ronan would not recognize.
Of course Stella had a tunnel.
Of course she had a bag packed.
Elena wanted to stay when Ronan told Cullen to take her and Noah through.
“Noah goes through that tunnel right now,” Ronan said. “Everything else is negotiable. That isn’t.”
She looked at him for half a second full of things they had no time to say.
Then she took Noah.
Ronan watched his son disappear behind the water heater.
Then he went upstairs.
The first SUV arrived four minutes later. Another came from the opposite direction. Eight men, maybe more, bracketed Stella’s house.
Then Mercer came himself.
Sixty-one years old. Straight-backed. Deliberate. A man who still carried himself like fear was an insult.
Rafe opened the door and tried to sell his lie.
Mercer listened. Then his eyes scanned the street.
They stopped where Ronan hid.
One word from Mercer, and the street erupted.
Ronan ran.
Shots cracked against the night. He cut through yards, vaulted chain-link, tore his palm, and moved through side streets with a stolen radio in his pocket. Cullen texted one word: moving.
Elena and Noah were clear of the tunnel.
That was the only fact that mattered.
Ronan climbed a walk-up, took down an elevated shooter on a fire escape, took his weapon and radio, and left him zip-tied to the railing rather than kill a young fool who had taken Mercer’s money.
Then he called Holt.
“Mercer is physically present,” Ronan said. “Woodside. Minimum eight men.”
“Federal assets are twelve minutes out,” Holt said.
Twelve minutes was too long.
Ronan circled back, used Mercer’s own radio channel to send a false sighting on Denton Avenue, and pulled three men away.
Mercer did not fully believe it. But his men moved anyway.
Now the numbers were smaller.
Ronan ran open ground.
A shot from the sedan driver passed so close he felt the air beside his ear. He slammed behind the stone pillar at Stella’s front steps, pain exploding through his shoulder.
Mercer stood fifteen feet away.