I stood there, pulse racing, words caught in my throat like jagged stones. My mind spun with logic and strategies. They were useless against the edgy emotion before me.
Underneath it, something older and more savage stirred. It was the realization that it wasn't only their fight. It was mine, too.
I saw how Marcus's jaw clenched. The space between them was like a chasm growing wider with every word left unsaid.
My heart thudded. I knew I couldn't stand by. Not now.
Before he could say anything else, I stepped in. "Let him come."
Both brothers turned to stare at me.
"James—" Marcus started.
"He's right." I kept my voice steady. "We're not only dealing with an arsonist anymore. This is someone who's studied you for years and who knows how to get inside secure locations. We need every tactical advantage."
Michael's expression shifted slightly—surprise, maybe even respect.
Marcus looked between us, shoulders rigid. Then, he yielded.
"Fine." He grabbed his water bottle from the counter. "But you follow my lead on this."
Michael smirked. "Sure thing, big brother. Right up until you do something stupid."
The familiar bickering almost masked the gravity of what we were planning. Almost. Beneath the surface, we all knew the trip to Idaho wasn't about winning a race.
It was about ending this: one way or another.
***
Night pressed against Marcus's apartment windows, turning them into mirrors that reflected our preparations. I knelt beside Marcus's race bag, intending one final equipment check.
The zipper caught slightly as I pulled it, snagging on something that shouldn't have been there. The small resistance sent warning signals firing through my nervous system.
"Marcus." My voice came out steadier than I expected. "Come here."
He crossed from the kitchen, reading something in my tone that made him move faster. "What is it?"
I didn't answer. Instead, I eased the zipper further, revealing a white envelope nestled between his race bibs and gear. Plain. Unmarked.
My fingers were suddenly numb, but I forced them to move. The envelope's seal parted with a whisper.
Inside was a single photograph. Cold dread settled in my chest. It was Marcus cutting through Lake Washington's waters this morning, captured from an angle that was simultaneously intimate and threatening. Too close. Too precise. The photographer would have been near enough to touch him.
I turned the photo over. The handwriting was elegant, almost artistic in its precision:
"See you at the finish line."
Marcus read it over my shoulder. "Son of a bitch."
"He was there. This morning. At the lake. While we were—" I stopped.
Michael moved from his position by the window, tactical training evident in how he cleared the room's corners with his eyes. "We're not sleeping here tonight."
Marcus hadn't moved. His gaze remained fixed on the photo, something dangerous building in his expression. "No."
"But he could be here—anywhere." I did my best to keep my voice from shaking
"No." Marcus's voice was soft but carried an edge I'd never heard before. "We're not running. Not anymore." He took the photo from my hands, studying it with the same intensity he brought to fire scenes. "He wants to finish this in Coeur d'Alene? Fine. But it ends on our terms."
