The morning after was a study in brittle calm. The safehouse was quiet, but it wasn't peaceful. Every member of the crew moved with a deliberate, tense energy, the silence between them a tangible thing. Pat stayed on her cot, cleaning a handgun with slow, meticulous care. Julian sat hunched over a laptop, his face lit by the screen's pale glow, his knuckles white against the keys. Vince methodically polished the glass of a sniper scope, his actions a form of silent protest. They were all there, but they were still divided, a family split by a betrayal that had left a fresh, bloody wound.
Capol watched them from the kitchen, a mug of black coffee in his hands. The air was thick with their silent judgment, a poison he had to endure. He felt the sting of it in every unspoken word, every aver
