Fated in New Orleans

13

They pulled into the compound without ceremony — the truck idled while River killed the engine and they climbed out, boots crunching on gravel. Salem and River shared a look that said, you’ll want to hear this, before heading inside.

Rhea was at the console, half-sorting through takeout boxes, gesturing at code like she was conducting an orchestra. She glanced up, expectant. “Well? Spill. Did you hunt him down or did he drop a breadcrumb and sprint?”

River didn’t waste time. “Major Dalton Pryce. He’s the supplier — ex–R&D, went private. He’s moving the compound.”

For a second, the room stayed still. Then Rhea’s face changed — like someone lit a match under her. Her chair squealed back so fast it nearly toppled.

“Pryce?” she barked. “That son of—” She shoved to her feet. “Say that name again.”

“Pryce,” Salem repeated, voice steady but edged. “He was our handler.”

Rhea froze, eyes flicking to her. “You’re not gonna say that like it’s casual.”

Salem didn’t. Her tone had cooled into steel. “He trained us both — recruited us out of the orphanage, taught us how to vanish, how to blend, how to follow orders we shouldn’t have. Then he sold those tricks to the highest bidder.”

Rhea’s laugh came out sharp and cracked. “He’s the reason I sleep with one eye open and a crowbar in reach.”

Beau folded his arms, part amusement, part worry. “Careful, cher. You sound like you’re gonna wreck a man.”

“I am gonna wreck a man.” Rhea planted her fists on the desk. “Salem — you still got dirt on him? You keep a file? A little Pryce souvenir?” Her eyes glittered. “Because if you do, I need it, like yesterday. And while we’re at it — can you hack his stuff like you did that newbie who wouldn’t take no for an answer? The one who kept trying to get in your pants, so you rerouted his GPS to a bridal shop and filled his texts with cat memes?”

Miles barked a laugh, elbowing River. River’s face stayed calm, but a twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed amusement. “You did that?” he asked Salem, trying to sound professional.

Salem’s smirk was brief, almost fond. “I did. He cried for three days and swore off dating apps forever.” Then her tone darkened. “But Pryce isn’t some newbie. He’s meticulous, ruthless. He trained people like Rhea and me — and he knows exactly how we think.”

Rhea’s grin didn’t fade. “All the better. I want him rattled. If you’ve got logs, aliases, whatever — hand it over. If he’s that careful, we’ll have to get creative. Lucky for us, creative’s my specialty.”

Beau shook his head, impressed. “You two really are dangerous. I like it.”

Miles leaned in, eyes sharp. “Before we go full chaos — tactic. River?”

River crossed his arms. “We don’t bait Pryce without a plan. He’s a handler; he’ll expect tricks and counters. If we tip him off, he disappears and the trail goes cold. Salem, if you’ve got dirt, we use it to build a cage — not throw rocks through his window.”

Rhea’s fire collided with River’s calm, the room humming with tension. “Fine,” she snapped. “Cage. I like cages. But when he’s locked in, I want him to know it — and why. I want him to see who he trained and how bad he messed up.”

Salem’s expression hardened. “He’ll come violent or vanish. We need access points, safe extraction, and suppression plans for any assets he calls.”

River nodded once. “Miles and Beau — perimeter and intercept. Rhea and Salem — dig into Pryce’s aliases, channels, contacts. I’ll handle council clearance once he’s boxed in.”

Rhea waved a hand. “Council clearance, sure. You say the word and I’ll write him a hate letter in binary.” She grinned. “Salem — you still got something?”

Salem dug a hand into her jacket, pulling a battered thumb drive and a packet of printed notes — the kind of ghosts you don’t throw away because one day they come back. She dropped them on the desk. “Kept enough. Not everything, but enough to make him flinch.”

Rhea grabbed the drive like a prize. “Perfect. Let me smell his sweat through the code.”

Miles rolled his eyes, grinning. “Don’t actually smell anything. That’s gross.”

Beau gave Salem an approving nod. “You always keep a trick up your sleeve, huh?”

Salem’s gaze softened for a second, then turned sharp again. “I keep what I need. Pryce is different — not for jokes. We do this surgical. River’s right.” She looked to him. “I need clearance to hit his channels hard enough to shake his network. If he pulls, we move.”

“You have it,” River said evenly. “But you don’t hunt him alone.”

Before anyone could argue, Rhea jammed the drive into the console, fingers flying as code filled the screens. “Ooh, secrets,” she murmured. “Let’s see what skeletons he’s sweating about.”

Salem crossed her arms, watching her with fond exasperation. “Don’t burn the place down. I kinda need it intact.”

Rhea grinned without looking up. “No promises.”

River’s voice cut through the hum, steady. “We move quietly and smart. No fireworks until the trap’s set.”

Miles tipped an imaginary hat. “Methodical. My favorite dirty word.”

Beau headed for the armory with a grunt and a grin. River lingered a moment, watching Salem and Rhea side by side — two ghosts who’d outlived their handler, still fighting the shadows he’d left behind. Salem caught his look, and for the first time that night, she let herself consider that maybe she didn’t have to protect Rhea alone anymore.

“Okay,” Rhea said, eyes gleaming. “Got a hit. Alias from ’17 — ran through a Houston broker. Pryce wanted deniability, but he left breadcrumbs.”

River folded his hands. “Then follow them. No noise until we’ve got him cornered.”

Rhea saluted, dangerous and bright. “You got it, boss.”

Salem’s smirk returned. “And Rhea?”

“Yeah?”

“Save the cat memes for after Pryce cries.”

Rhea laughed, fingers flying. “No promises.”