The drive back was uneventful. Evansville's streets were quiet at this hour, the few vehicles he passed paying him no attention. Just another car on another road, invisible in its normalcy.

  Harris was awake, propped up against the headboard—an old western droning in the background—when Evan let himself into their room. The beer on the nightstand was empty, replaced by a half-gone bottle of water. The sidearm now lay beside him on the mattress.

  "How'd it go?" he asked as Evan dropped the backpack on his bed and sat down.

  "The hacker took off running the second he saw what was on the laptop."

  Harris's eyebrows rose. "Running from what?"

  "A group called Skytrace." Evan rubbed his face with both hands, exhaustion settling back into his bones. "He said they're like the mafia with better tech. Paranoid on a level we can't imagine. Apparently, having their laptop in my possession means I'm already dead, I just don't know it yet."

  "Comforting."

  "It gets better. When I mentioned the Umbrals and Red Scar, he said I'd just name-dropped two of the most powerful organized crime groups on the planet."

  Harris processed that, his expression darkening. “Sounds ominous.”

  Evan pulled the laptop from the backpack and set it on the bed. "Let's see what we can learn."

  The screen glowed to life when he opened it, the desktop exactly as the hacker had left it. Evan began clicking through folders, his eyes scanning file names and directory structures with methodical patience.

  "Anything useful?" Harris asked after a few minutes.

  "Still looking." Evan found an email client and opened it. Messages populated the screen, dozens of them, all written in English but with a clipped, formal style that read like military communications. No personal touches. No casual language. Just information, delivered with cold efficiency.

  The sender's identity was obscured, the email address a meaningless string of characters similar to what the hacker had used to contact Harris. The recipients were equally anonymous. But the content told a story.

  "I found some reports," Evan said, scrolling through the most recent messages. "Tracking reports. They've been following my movements."

  Harris winced as he shifted on the bed. "The tracker?"

  "That's part of it." Evan's jaw tightened as he read. "But they've also been monitoring my credit card charges. CCTV camera sightings on the street. There's a digital footprint analysis." He looked up at Harris. "They know everywhere I've been since Louisville. Every purchase, every route, every time I passed within range of a traffic camera."

  "Professional surveillance." Harris's voice was grim. "That takes resources. Infrastructure. Either they've got people inside law enforcement databases, or they've built their own parallel system."

  "Maybe both."

  Evan scrolled further back, into older messages. The focus shifted from his movements to broader intelligence gathering. Effigy sightings. Faction movements. The language remained cryptic, using code names and abbreviations he couldn't decipher, but the pattern was clear.

  "They're watching everyone," he said. "Not just me. They're tracking the other groups, too. The Umbral Empire, the Red Scar Empire. Monitoring their activities, their operations."

  "Makes sense. Know your enemy." Harris reached for the water bottle, taking a long drink.

  Evan closed the email client and began exploring other folders. Documents. Spreadsheets. Image files. Most of it was incomprehensible without context, data that meant nothing to someone who didn't know what they were looking at.

  Then he found it.

  A folder labeled with a string of numbers, buried three levels deep in the directory structure. Inside were dozens of photographs.

  Satellite photographs.

  Evan studied the first one. An aerial view of what looked like a large estate, buildings clustered around a central structure, surrounded by open land that stretched to the edges of the frame. The resolution was impressive, good enough to make out individual vehicles parked near the main building.

  "Harris. Look at this."

  He turned the laptop so his friend could see the screen. Harris leaned forward, squinting at the image, his expression sharpening as recognition flickered across his features. "IMINT," he said.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yeah. Imagery intelligence. Satellite surveillance photos." Harris gestured at the screen with his good hand. "See the angle? The resolution? This isn't commercial satellite imagery, Marsh. This is the kind of stuff intelligence agencies use. Military-grade surveillance."

  Evan scrolled through more images. Different angles of the same property. Different times of day judging by the shadows. Some showed vehicles moving along the access roads. Others captured people walking between buildings, their features too small to identify but their presence undeniable.

  "This is targeting data," Evan realized.

  "Target materials," Harris agreed. "Someone at Skytrace was putting together an assault package on this location. Pre-strike reconnaissance."

  "Another faction?"

  "Has to be. Why else would they be this thorough?" Harris studied the images more closely, his tactical mind clearly working through the implications. "They were going to hit this place. Maybe they still are. Any idea where this might be?"

  Harris was quiet, trying to make sense of the geography as Evan scrolled through the images. Rolling terrain. Patches of forest. A river or creek visible in one corner. The main building looked substantial, with multiple stories and smaller structures scattered around the grounds.

  "The vegetation looks right for the southern United States. Texas, maybe. Or somewhere in the Southwest. See how the land spreads out? Big sky country. And those trees near the water, that's the kind of growth you get along rivers in that part of the country."

  "That's a lot of territory to cover."

  "Check the metadata." Harris nodded toward the laptop. "Photos this detailed usually have GPS coordinates embedded. The intelligence community likes to know exactly where their imagery comes from. They'll have a timestamp too. Give us an idea how old this planning is."

  Evan right-clicked on one of the image files, navigating to the properties menu. The metadata was there. "Timestamp is from the day before the attack at the barn. These other numbers look like coordinates."

  "Three days ago."

  He turned the laptop back toward him and opened a browser, navigating to Google Maps and typing the numbers into the search field. The satellite view loaded, and the location materialized on his screen. A mansion on a sprawling property, surrounded by the Texas Hill Country west of Austin.

  "Got it." Evan turned the laptop back toward Harris. "Hill Country, Texas. Looks like a private estate, at least a hundred acres judging by the property lines."

  Harris studied the map, then looked up at Evan with an expression that mixed concern with resignation. "You're not thinking about going there."

  "Right now, this is our only lead."

  "You haven't finished searching the laptop. There could be more."

  Evan gestured at the battery indicator in the corner of the screen. "We don't have a charging cable for this thing, and the battery's at thirty-two percent. It won't last forever. If I come up empty, we're shit out of luck. But this is something we can work with."

  Harris was quiet for a moment, his jaw working. "What about Lars' place? You said you had his home address."

  "They'll be waiting for me there."

  "And you think they won't have this mansion under heavy guard?" Harris's voice carried an edge of frustration. "If Skytrace was planning to hit it, they could have already moved. Or they could be in progress when you arrive."

  "Worst case, I'm too late," Evan replied. "Best case, I'm early. At least the mansion is private and remote." Evan met his friend's gaze. "I don't have to be careful discharging a firearm."

  The words hung in the air between them. Harris understood what he was saying. At Lars's house, in a residential neighborhood, Evan would have to move carefully, avoid civilian casualties and minimize collateral damage. At an estate in the Texas Hill Country, surrounded by nothing but open land, the rules of engagement changed significantly.

  "Okay," Harris said slowly. "Say you're right. Say this place is worth checking out. How are you planning to get there? Either one of us buys a plane ticket, they'll be waiting at the airport. You saw the reports, they're monitoring credit cards, cameras, everything. The moment you show up at a terminal, they'll know."

  "I'll take the bus." Evan had already thought this through. "Pay cash. Use a fake name if they ask. It'll take me a couple of days to get there, but bus stations don't have the same level of surveillance as airports."

  Harris stared at him for a long moment, the silence stretching between them. His expression cycled through several emotions, frustration giving way to reluctant acceptance.

  "This isn't going to work," he said finally. "You know that, right? One man against whoever's in that mansion, with nothing but a pistol and a prayer."

  "Maybe not." Evan closed the laptop and slid it back into the backpack. "But these are target materials. Skytrace was planning to hit this place for a reason. Whatever's there, it's important enough that they were willing to commit serious resources to taking it."

  He stood, slinging the backpack over his shoulder.

  "Let's try to hit the target before they do."

  11

  The Greyhound pulled into Austin just after seven in the evening, the city's skyline catching the last orange light of sunset as the bus rumbled to a stop at the downtown terminal. Evan gathered his backpack from the overhead compartment and filed off with the other passengers, keeping his head down, his movements unhurried. Just another traveler arriving from somewhere else, headed somewhere that wasn't anyone's business.

  The terminal was busy but not crowded, people moving through the space with the distracted purpose of those focused on their own destinations. Evan found a bench near the exit and sat down, pulling out the burner phone he'd bought at a gas station before leaving Indiana.

  The text to Harris was brief.

  Arrived. Starting recon tonight.

  The response came thirty seconds later.

  Copy. Watch your six.

  Ten-four. Stay off your feet.

  He got back an emoji—one finger straight up.

  Smirking, Evan pocketed the phone and sat for a moment, watching the flow of people through the terminal. Two days on a bus had given him plenty of time to think, to plan, to second-guess every decision he'd made since Louisville. The route had taken him through St. Louis, Oklahoma City, Dallas, and finally Austin, with layovers that stretched his patience and tested his ability to remain anonymous in crowds.

  Before leaving Evansville, he'd driven Harris to a new, more upscale motel in Nashville, in a different part of the city from his previous choice. The move was probably unnecessary, but unnecessary precautions had a way of becoming necessary when you weren't looking. He'd also called Sadie, asking if she could check on Harris in a few days if Evan wasn't back by then. She'd agreed without hesitation, her voice carrying that same steady practicality he'd appreciated at the vet clinic.

  The clothes he wore now were different, too. Dark jeans. A black hoodie, with a gray t-shirt underneath. All purchased from another thrift store, all chosen for their ability to blend into shadows rather than stand out in daylight. The backpack held the essentials—the effigy, the laptop with its dwindling battery charge, a couple of changes of underwear and socks. Nothing else. He'd left the tracker hidden in Harris' room, reasoning that if anyone was still using it to hunt him, they'd find an injured man recuperating in a Nashville motel room—a man with no ID and no idea of who they were looking for—rather than Evan himself.

  He stood and walked out into the Austin evening. The city felt different from the Midwest towns he'd passed through. Younger, somehow, despite its share of vintage brick buildings. There was more energy in the air and more movement on the streets despite the hour. Music drifted from somewhere nearby, a live band playing rock music with a bass thump heavy enough to vibrate through the pavement. Groups of people clustered outside bars and restaurants, their laughter carrying across the warm Texas air.

  Evan moved through it all like a ghost, present but not participating, his attention split between the immediate surroundings and the task ahead. According to the satellite photos, the mansion was maybe an hour west of the city. Getting there was the challenge. Public transportation wouldn't take him close enough, and the surveillance reports on the Skytrace laptop had made clear just how thoroughly his movements were being tracked. Credit cards, cameras, digital footprints. Every transaction left a trail that his enemies could follow.

  He needed transportation that couldn't be traced back to him. Something anonymous. Something that wouldn't raise questions.

  The RV caught his attention as he wandered through a quieter neighborhood near the edge of downtown. A small Class C motorhome that had seen better days but looked mechanically sound sat in a small parking lot behind what looked like a barbecue restaurant. Texas plates. A fishing rod visible through the rear window. It was the kind of vehicle that belonged to someone who used it regularly—definitely not a rental or a showpiece.

  Evan scanned the area, checking for witnesses, cameras, or anything else that might complicate what he was considering. The parking lot was nearly empty, just a handful of cars clustered near the restaurant's back entrance. No one was paying attention to this corner of the lot.

  He approached the RV with the unhurried gait of someone who belonged there, keeping his body language casual even as his eyes catalogued every detail. The curtains in the windows were drawn. No light was visible from inside. It could be empty, or someone could be sleeping inside.

  Only one way to find out.

  He knocked on the door. Three firm raps, loud enough to wake someone if they were dozing but not so loud as to draw attention from passersby.

  Silence.

  He waited thirty seconds, then knocked again. Still nothing. No movement from inside, no shuffle of feet, no muffled voice asking who was there.

  Empty, then. The owner was somewhere else, probably inside the restaurant judging by the location.

  Evan found a bus stop bench across the street, partially shaded by an overgrown oak tree. He sat there and waited, his posture relaxed, his eyes tracking every person who passed within view—all without being obvious.

  Forty minutes later, a man emerged from the barbecue restaurant. He was older, maybe mid-sixties, carrying the extra weight that came from years of good food and declining motivation to work it off. Cowboy boots. Worn jeans. A pearl-snap shirt that strained slightly across his midsection. A Stetson hat sat on his head at an angle that suggested years of practice getting it just right. He moved with the unhurried gait of someone who'd stopped rushing through life a long time ago. He headed straight for the RV, keys already in his hand.

  Evan stood from the bench. He pulled a black surgical mask from his pocket and fitted it over his nose and mouth, then raised the hood of his sweatshirt to cover his hair and shadow his features. The Glock came out of its hidden holster. He held it low against his thigh where it wouldn't be visible from a distance and crossed the street at an angle. He timed his approach to intersect with the man just as he reached the RV's driver side door. The older man had the key in the lock, turning it and pulling the door open when Evan stepped up behind him and pressed the gun's muzzle into the small of his back.

  "Don't turn around," Evan said, his voice low and even. "I'm sorry about this. I really am. But I need to borrow your camper."

  The man's entire body went rigid. His hands froze where they were, one on the door handle, the other holding the keys. Three seconds of absolute stillness while he processed what was happening. Then he spoke. His voice was controlled, but there was an edge to it.

  "Easy now. Nobody needs to get hurt here."

  "Nobody will, as long as you do what I say." Evan kept the pressure of the barrel steady against the man's spine. "Get in. Move past the wheel, over to the passenger side. Don't try anything cute. If you make a move for the passenger door, you'll catch a bullet before your hand touches the handle."

  "Understood."

  The man climbed into the RV, moving with deliberate care, his eyes cutting briefly toward Evan before he settled into the passenger seat. His hands went to his knees, fingers spread, visible, his key ring looped around his left middle finger. The posture of someone who'd been in situations where showing your hands could mean the difference between living and dying.

  Evan followed him up, pulling the door closed behind him. The interior was cluttered but clean, the living space of someone who spent real time in the vehicle rather than just using it for occasional trips. A small kitchen area, a fold-down table, a sleeping compartment visible in the back.

  "Keys," Evan said.

  The man handed them over, his jaw tight. Evan slid into the driver's seat, keeping the Glock trained on his unwilling passenger while he started the engine. Obviously well maintained, the RV rumbled eagerly to life, the vibration settling into the frame like a steady heartbeat.

  He pulled out of the parking lot, navigating toward the western edge of the city. The man in the passenger seat watched him with hard eyes, his earlier cooperation giving way to a calculating stillness that put Evan on edge.

  "Where are you taking me?" The question came out flat, stripped of emotion.

  "Hill Country. West of here."

  "And then what?"

  "Then I let you go."

  The man said nothing, but his expression made clear how much he believed that particular promise. His eyes tracked Evan's movements, cataloguing details. The way he held the weapon. The way he drove. The surgical mask. The hood. Building a description for later, assuming there was a later.

  They drove in tense silence for several minutes, the Austin suburbs giving way to open highway. Finally, the man spoke again.