The safehouse was quiet when Capol and Pat returned.
The hour was deep, that strange slice of night where even the streets seemed to hold their breath. Rain had swept through earlier, leaving Eastgate slick and reflective, the sodium lamps bleeding orange across puddled asphalt. The night rumble faded to a silence that felt heavier than it had ever been.
Neither of them spoke as they walked, their boots crunching gravel. The adrenaline that had kept them sharp through the chase still hummed under their skin. Every shadow on the block felt like it could move, every whisper of wind over a gutter like the echo of footsteps.
Inside, the air was warmer but no less tense. Vince had passed out in a chair, bottle at his feet. Julian’s laptop glowed faintly in the corner, the screen saver painti
