Chapter 7

The staging lot held two Humvees, a command pickup, and the kind of organized chaos that happens when a guard unit kicks into motion without warning. Reyes had made two calls, and by the time she reached the nearest vehicle, the first sergeant of the line was already briefing a fire team, their rifles cased but their gear on.

Whitfield followed her with the property book clutched to her chest, not sure if she was part of the movement or just a witness to it, but unwilling to be left behind. Hector stood at the edge of the lot beside his cart, and he did not move.

Pruitt walked past them both, toward the pickup, his boots finding the gravel with a determination that had replaced the morning's bluster. He stopped at the truck's door and looked back at the cart, at the county line seam in the asphalt, at the man behind the grill.

"You coming?" he asked Hector.

Hector wiped his hands on the apron. His face was unreadable in the falling light, the laugh lines deep as dried creek beds. "I'm the one with the card," he said. "You need the card."

Pruitt's mouth opened, then closed. He looked at the property book in Whitfield's arms, at the index card that had started all of this, and then he looked at Hector with a different expression than any he'd shown all day. He looked at a man who'd been right when everyone else had been busy being loud.

"Get in," Pruitt said.

Hector climbed into the truck's back seat. Whitfield slid in beside him, the property book on her lap, her phone in her hand, the burner number glowing on the screen.

The convoy moved out with gravel flying. The gate apron emptied behind them, and the cart sat alone in the falling dusk, steaming gently, the hand-painted sign swinging on its wire.