Page 46 of Falcon’s Forever

Sterling sends the update to the women’s house through the new security channel instead of calling. Once it goes through, Condor reads the message aloud from his screen.

Security Phone:

SECURITY UPDATE Evidence of surveillance found outside the perimeter. No breach detected. Patrols doubled and overlapping. Nobody is to leave the compound alone. The women’s house remains secure. Further update will follow after the perimeter sweep.

Harrier looks over Condor’s shoulder. “That’s shockingly readable.”

“I contain multitudes,” Condor replies.

Zip snorts. “You stole that line from me.”

“I improved it,” Condor informs him.

Vulture rubs a hand over his face. “I swear to God.”

Before the tension can settle over the room again, Sterling opens the feeder-company folder. He has a hit on one of the drivers, who has an active contract at a warehouse fourteen miles east. Two layers up, the ownership overlaps with the shell company we already know about.

Ice Pick looks toward Vulture. “Are we checking it out?”

“Not today,” Vulture answers.

Ice Pick’s expression hardens. “Why not?”

“Because somebody is trying to pull our attention away from the compound,” I explain.

Ice Pick studies me for a moment, works through the implications, then gives a reluctant nod.

"Nothing moves until we know whether the surveillance escalates," Vulture says. "We work. We don't chase bait."

Church breaks twenty minutes later. I stay behind with Zip and Vulture going over the overlapping patrol schedule, and by the time we're done the common room's filled with the ordinary noise of the compound trying to feel normal on top of everything else. Harrier's arguing with a prospect about eggs. Rook's checking his sidearm at the back table. Threat layered under regular life. Our specialty.

I’m checking the rear gate when the security channel sounds through my radio.

It’s the priority tone. Not routine.

Every muscle in my body locks before Sterling finishes his first sentence.

“Falcon,” Sterling says over the channel. “There’s a problem at the women’s house.”

“What happened?” I demand, already moving.

“Somebody tampered with the back window latch,” he reports.

“Did they get inside?” I ask.

“There’s no confirmed entry,” Sterling answers.

My pace quickens. “Is anyone hurt?”

“Unknown,” he replies.

That’s the wrong fucking answer. I break into a run and key the radio. “Lock down the compound.”

“On it,” Zip confirms over the channel.

I switch to the next line and issue the orders without slowing. “Rook, take the south line. Ice Pick, cover the north approach. Condor, get on the cameras now. Vulture, meet me at the women’s house.”

“I’m moving,” Vulture answers without hesitation.