Page 44 of Falcon’s Forever

Frankie's words come back to me again. Watch what he does when you tell him. I am. That's the problem, because every time I watch Falcon listen instead of command, stay instead of run, trust someone else instead of carrying everything alone, the wall I built around my heart loses another brick.

I'm still afraid of him breaking again. Maybe I always will be. But fear isn't the only thing I feel anymore, and that might be the most frightening change of all.

Chapter 7

Falcon

By six the next morning I already know the SUV wasn't a one off. Condor's got three sightings pulled up across two monitors in the common room, all inside a forty-eight-hour window, all spread far enough apart to look like coincidence if you only ever saw one of them. Put together, they're a pattern. South road, east service lane, the county route near the old quarry, different times, same vehicle profile, and the same habit of vanishing before anyone gets close enough for a plate.

Zip's standing over Condor's shoulder with coffee in one hand, glaring at the screen like he can intimidate the pixels into cooperating. Ice Pick's against the back of the sofa, arms folded. Rook's at the table with the patrol logs from last week.

Vulture walks in, takes one look at the room, and raises an eyebrow. “Do you all sleep in here now?”

“Ask the nerd,” Zip replies without looking away from the screen.

Condor swivels his chair toward him. “You’re the one who came down at five thirty.”

“Because you texted me,” Zip points out.

“I sent you information,” Condor corrects him.

Zip finally looks away from the screen. “At five seventeen in the morning.”

“It was time-sensitive,” Condor says, entirely unapologetic.

Vulture sets his mug on the table with a heavy thud. “Can we skip to the part where somebody tells me why half my officers are awake before sunrise?”

I slide the printout toward him. “The same SUV has appeared three times in two days.”

Vulture picks it up and reads without speaking.

Rook turns a patrol sheet toward him. “We also found tyre marks near the south access fence this morning.”

That gets everyone’s full attention.

Vulture lowers the printout. “Were they inside the fence?”

“No,” Rook answers. “They were outside the line, about twenty yards back.”

“How fresh?” Vulture asks.

“Overnight,” Rook confirms.

I’m already heading for the door. “Show me.”

We take the tree line instead of the main path, moving quietly and leaving the bikes behind. The prospects near the garage don’t try to stop us.

At the south fence, Rook crouches and points to the ground. The marks aren’t deep, but once I know where to look, the tread is clear and unmistakably fresh.

“A vehicle sat here,” Zip says, studying the ground.

Ice Pick scans the surrounding trees. “They were either watching the fence or timing the patrols.”

Vulture looks toward Condor. “Do we have any cameras covering this section?”

Condor checks the security map on his phone. “The outer range misses it by about eight yards.”

“Fix it,” Vulture orders.