Page 112 of Priest

On the fifth pass he could have sworn he heard the words, “…north end…”

Clear enough to spike his adrenaline.

But when he isolated the segment and stripped it clean, all that remained was water and static.

He swore under his breath and scrubbed through the file again, frustration tightening his jaw.

Then something else flickered through the noise—a baby crying. Not Sadie’s. Different pitch. Different echo.

He froze and ran the filter again.

Nothing.

The shower cut off. The file went dead.

Ghost leaned back slowly in his chair, headphones still pressed tight over his ears. His breathing felt shallow, his pulse too loud in the quiet room. Sadie wasn’t panicking. She wasn’t spiraling. She was reporting—careful, measured, waiting.

He opened the message window to Priest again.

Sadie’s talking to someone. Hiding it.

His thumb hovered over send. He pictured Ledger’s arm around Lena, Cage running across the yard earlier that afternoon, laughing without a clue what might be shifting under his feet.

Two possible betrayals. One club.

He deleted the message again.

Not yet. He needed more.

Ghost pulled up tower activity logs from the last twenty minutes around the clubhouse perimeter. If there was a burner, there would be a ping—a brief handshake with a cell tower. Signals didn’t just disappear.

His fingers steadied as he began mapping the data, tracing every unknown device that brushed too close to home. The pressure in his chest didn’t ease. He hadn’t told anyone he was watching Lena. He hadn’t told anyone about Sadie. He was carrying both alone.

Somewhere downstairs, laughter broke out at the bar—normal, unaware.

Up here, the air felt thin.

Ghost stared at the lines of data crawling across his screen, jaw set, exhaustion pressing against him from all sides. He didn’t need sleep.

He needed proof.

And he wasn’t stopping until he had it.

37

Priest

The sterile scent of antiseptic hung heavy in the air as I stepped off the elevator, my footsteps echoing ominously down the deserted hospital hallway. The unsettling flicker and faint buzz of the fluorescent lights above were my only companions in this too-quiet world.

I had memorized the path to room 417, the routine of these past few days etching it into my memory so deeply I could navigate it with my eyes closed. As I pushed open the door without bothering to knock, I was met with a familiar scene: Deacon, propped up against his stark white hospital pillows, his gaze fixed on some mindless television show while he toyed absentmindedly with the remote control.

His attempt at humor broke the silence as he greeted me with a tired smirk and a playful jab about charging rent. This banter was our refuge, a way to keep reality at bay just a little longer. But as I crossed the room and laid the leather across his lap, reality came crashing back in. His eyes dropped instantly to it. "You kept it," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Of course I did.”

I’d taken it off him at the scene before anyone could ruin it trying to get to the damage underneath. I needed it saved. Safe. Waiting for him. Deacon was going to live through this, and when he did, his cut needed to be intact so I could hand it back to him. I unfolded it now and laid it across his legs, smoothing it flat like it belonged there.

His hand came up, thumb brushing over the patch without a word. His eyes stayed on it, and I saw the question form before he had enough voice to finish it.