Three hours later, the smell of Pine-Sol and stale coffee hung heavy in the precinct War Room.
Sarah Vance stood before a corkboard that spanned the entire north wall. It was a chaotic mosaic of crime scene photos, maps, and red string.
She pushed a thumbtack into the map. The Docks.
She pushed another. The Warehouse.
And another. Club Vane.
"You're looking for a soldier," Agent Miller said from the corner. He was leaning back in a chair, cleaning his glasses with a microfiber cloth. "Pattern analysis suggests Special Forces. Ranger, maybe. Or a wet-work operative gone rogue."
Sarah stepped back, rubbing her eyes. The image of Noah spilling soda all over Marcus Sol kept playing in her head. It was humiliating, but it had bought her space. Thorne was so busy apologizing to Sol that he
