Page 35 of Make Them Pay

“Juno went looking for help. Searched the dark web for a vigilante to help her. She found Arrow.”

“Did she know it was Arrow?”

Knight shakes his head. “No. She had no clue the man she’d hired was her best friend in hiding. We all wore masks back then.”

I smile, imagining Render in a mask. “Then what happened?”

Knight steps closer. “River was being harassed at work, and Gage helped her through it all.”

“How did Dean Maddox get involved.”

“Arrow was already working for Maddox Security when everything with Arby happened. Dean heard what we’d done and what we’d found. He could’ve shut us down. What we were doing was illegal in more ways than I can count, and Dean had the connections to make us disappear quietly. Instead he called a meeting. Sat us down in his office and said, ‘You’re doing good work badly. I can help you do it well.’”

“He gave you resources.”

“He gave us everything. His professional teams handle the legitimate side of the company. The protective work. The contracts that keep the lights on. And behind that, in the space between the official work and the public face, he built the crew. Us. The ones who started in an old printing store with borrowed equipment and Arby’s photograph on the wall.”

“And Lark.”

The stillness in Knight’s face changes. Not softer. Deeper. The stillness of a man standing at the edge of something that matters so much he doesn’t trust ordinary movement to hold it.

“Lark happened after,” he says, placing each word carefully. “She was part of the circle. Gage’s sister. I’d known her for years, and she started stalking me. She came on a job and things went sideways. We were on the run for a while. Things happened between us. Gage was pissed. Gave me a speech about never hurting her. And I never would.”

His story sounds familiar. Lark was attracted to her older brother’s best friend. I don’t look at Render. I feel him looking at me. The weight of his attention has become a physical presence in every space we share. A quiet warmth on my skin even when he’s across the room focused on a magazine or a screen.

“Lark’s in there,” I say. “In the facility. Along with Arrow and Gage and Poe and Ozzy and Orchid. These are our friends. More than just teammates. The people who started all of this because Arby Kate was killed on a livestream and no one with power moved fast enough to stop it.”

“Yes,” Render says simply.

“And tomorrow night you’re going to walk into a building and risk dying to get them back.”

“Yes.”

“Both of you.”

Knight nods once. “Absolutey.”

I close my laptop and set it aside. I look at both of them. These two men preparing to enter a fortified place with limited ammunition, a six-minute window, and a kind of resolve that doesn’t come from training manuals. It comes from Mrs. Kavanaugh’s desk drawer and a hardware store that closed and a building with a photograph on the wall.

“Then I’ll be on the radio,” I say. “Listening. Running the digital side. Making sure everything works the way it’s supposed to. And when you bring them out, I’ll be there.”

“You’ll be there,” Render confirms. Quiet. Like he’s placing the words somewhere safe so they won’t fall.

Knight stands as he folds the diagram into his jacket. He checks his weapon one more time with the automatic precision of hands that have done this thousands of times.

“I’m going to rest,” he says. “Four hours. Then final prep.”

He finds a spot against the far wall, sits with his back to the metal, and closes his eyes. Within two minutes his breathing settles into the steady rhythm of a man who apparently can sleep anywhere.

Render and I are alone at the table. The space between us is the new distance. Not the old careful two inches and not the zero gap of the kiss. Something in between. The space of two people who have crossed a line and are waiting for the right moment to acknowledge what’s on the other side.

“Thank you,” I say. “For telling me.”

“You should know the whole story.”

“I should’ve known years ago. Poe should’ve told me.”

“Poe was trying to keep you out of the blast radius.” He pauses. “He failed. But the intention was real.”