The Verance skyline was a jagged silhouette against the pre-dawn gray.
Slade stood on the rooftop of the headquarters, the cold wind whipping across his face. Sleep had been impossible. Cross was out there—alive, wounded, but still dangerous. The man who had been pulling strings from the shadows for years had finally shown his hand, and Slade had let him slip through his fingers.
The door behind him opened. Ember stepped out, a steaming mug of coffee in each hand. She walked over and handed him one.
"You've been up all night," she said.
"I couldn't sleep."
"Thinking about Cross?"
"Always." He took a sip of the coffee. It was bitter, hot, grounding. "He's out there. He's hurt, but he's not broken. He's going to try again."
"Then we'll be ready for him."
Slade shook his head. "That's
