Page 94 of Falcon’s Forever

Digger’s pride gives way to disbelief. “Seriously?”

“Knox’s rules,” I remind him.

“You’re all obsessed with Knox.”

“Because he controls the pain medication,” Vulture says as he passes us on his way out.

The rest of the morning disappears into work that doesn't involve riding until my head empties or finding the most dangerous thing on offer and volunteering to stand in front of it. Condor shows me how Merrick's payment structure runs through transport companies, and I understand about sixty percent of it and pretend it's closer to eighty. Sterling confirms one warehouse is still active. Zip maps the surveillance pattern against our patrol schedule.

At noon Rook reports that Maggie's house is quiet, all residents accounted for. At one, Knox calls Vulture, and I catch enough of his side to know the shape of it.

"No, don't move them yet." A pause. "She said that?" Another pause. "Yeah. Good."

He hangs up and looks at me. "Cara wants the plan brought to the women before anyone decides anything."

Pride and the impulse to stay out of it hit at the same time. "What does Maggie want?"

"She wants security. She doesn't want patched men sitting outside the house, though."

"Civilian vehicles, distance surveillance, a panic line to Condor," I say.

Vulture relays it, and whatever Knox says back gets a small smile out of him. "Yeah. Good." He hangs up. "Sterling can babysit that one."

"I heard that," Sterling says from across the room.

By three the compound feels steadier. The fence is finished. The women's house window has reinforced glass now. Condor's rebuilt the camera network with enough redundancy to make himself unbearable about it for the rest of the day. I spend the afternoon helping Ice Pick inventory the weapons, not overseeing, not ordering a prospect to do it. Actually standing beside him and doing the work.

He notices.

“You could assign a prospect to this,” Ice Pick says as he checks a serial number against the inventory sheet.

“Yeah,” I reply, placing another handgun in its case.

“But you’re doing it.”

“Apparently.”

He glances at me. “Redemption through ammunition counting.”

“That phrase is banned.”

“Harrier says it.”

“Exactly,” I tell him.

We work in silence for a while. Ice Pick checks the numbers while I sort the ammunition by caliber.

“You okay?” he asks without looking up.

“Depends.”

Ice Pick closes one of the cases. “Cara?”

“She needs space.”

“You giving it to her?”

“Yeah,” I say, stacking another box on the shelf.