Chapter 60 The Hunt

• The safehouse hums low — the old heater rattling like bones in the walls while the storm that is Knox Maddox paces the floor, boots heavy, every step echoing sharp in Bishop’s skull where he clicks through screens that keep multiplying like ghosts that won’t stay dead.
• Decker’s at the table — sleeves rolled, gun oil spread out like an altar. He’s halfway through cleaning the same piece for the second time — slide, snap, barrel, click — his fingers moving on muscle memory while his eyes keep drifting to Knox’s back every time the pacing stops.
• “She’s good at this,” Bishop mutters — voice low, all that dry humor burned out at the edges. “You know that, right? She’s better than me when she wants to be gone.”