Page 117 of The Final Cut

Small things matter when everything big is on fire.

I move back to the office and start pulling footage, signal data, telemetry traces, whatever the drones gave me before they pulled back. Deacon follows, still holding the gun, while Shiloh stays with the women in the living room. Through the open door, I hear him tell Reva to put the cat down before she bruises his ego, and I hear her tell him Homer’s ego is load-bearing and deserves the pressure.

I bring up the drone feed, capture fragments, signal bounce, direction of retreat. They came from three origin points, probably launched from boats or portable cases on the far side of the marsh. Whoever controlled them knew the general location before the first pass. They did not just stumble onto us.

Deacon stands beside my chair. “Sabine?”

“Maybe. Maybe someone saw the extraction route. Maybe they tagged the van. Maybe Isabel let Delia go just long enough to track it.”

His face goes still. I regret the last sentence as soon as I say it, but I do not take it back because we have no time for softer guesses.

Behind us, Delia speaks. “She didn’t let me go.”

We turn. She stands in the office doorway with Reva and Shiloh behind her. Reva is still holding Homer. Shiloh has one hand near her back, not touching now, just ready.

Delia’s face is pale, but her voice holds. “Isabel doesn’t let people go. If she had planned this, she would have hit while I was still half-broken and you were congratulating yourselves.”

Reva flinches at half-broken. Delia sees it and looks away.

I lean back from the keyboard. “What’s your theory?”

Delia steps into the office and looks at the screen. “Show me the route the drones took.”

I glance at Reva. She lifts her chin in a silent don’t you dare shut her out.

I pull the map wider and trace the flight path. Delia studies it, eyes narrowing on the south marsh, the service road, the old drainage canal.

“There,” she says, pointing with two bandaged fingers. “That canal connects to a maintenance path behind Sainte Aurelia.”

Deacon leans closer. “Old convent route.”

“Yes. Mostly forgotten, except by people who move things they don’t want seen.”

“Like people,” Shiloh says, voice light without being unserious.

Delia ignores the comment. “If they had someone watching the convent from that path after the extraction, they wouldn’t need to tag the van the whole way. Just get the general direction and then conduct an aerial search.”

I stare at the map. She’s right. That annoys me because I should have thought of it first.

Reva looks between us. “So she knows Delia is here.”

“Yes,” I say. “And you. And Deacon.”

Her mouth presses together.

Deacon’s gaze moves to the living room windows, then to the impact marks. “How long before they come harder?”

“Depends on what they learned.”

Shiloh asks, “And what did they learn?”

I look at the screens, at the cabin schematic, at the feeds still glowing green. The house is strong. Strong enough to take bullets from drones. Strong enough to stop a small team if they come stupidly. Strong enough to make us comfortable if we let it.

That’s the danger.

“They learned the glass holds,” I say. “They learned we have cameras, quick response, and at least two shooters on-site. They learned Reva and Delia are both inside.”

Reva’s hand settles on Delia’s sleeve for half a second before she pulls it back.