And the town square? Too quiet. No birds. No distant chatter.
Just... waiting.
I scan rooflines as we approach—the old bank building with its decorative cornices, perfect for a sniper's nest. The water tower rising behind Main Street. The church steeple that overlooks the square.
So many angles. So many blind spots.
"Talk to me, Asa," I murmur into the comm. "What are you seeing?"
"No active signals yet," he replies, fingers still dancing over his tablet. "But there's interference. Someone's running counter-measures."
"Locals?"
"Higher grade. Military spec."
Of course it is.Granger never did anything halfway.
We round the corner onto Maple Street, and Iron Hollow Books comes into view. The historic brick building stands three stories tall, with large display windows showcasing leather-bound classics and local authors.
And there—crouched on the front step—is Dana Fletcher, the owner of the bookstore.
My heart rate kicks up as I watch her reach for a plain brown package, her fingers brushing the twine wrapped around it.
"Contact," I bark into the comm. "Move now."
I'm out of the truck before it fully stops, boots hitting pavement as I sprint forward. "Dana! Step back!"
She startles at my voice, the twine slipping from her grasp.
Smart woman—she doesn't argue, just stands and steps away from the package.
Knox and Ryker fan out, securing the perimeter with practiced efficiency. Asa's already scanning rooftops while Caleb blocks both ends of the street with the second truck.
"What is this?" Dana asks, her voice steady despite the tension I can see in her shoulders.
Sloane moves up beside me, her borrowed gun held low but ready. "You didn't order anything?"
"Not that I remember," Dana replies. "It was just... there when I arrived."
I crouch beside the package, studying it carefully. The brown paper is unmarked except for Dana's name written in precise block letters.
No return address. No postage stamps. No tracking numbers.
Just like Echo-13.Clean. Clinical. Calculated.
"It's bait," Asa mutters as he joins me, his tablet scanning for electronic signatures.
"Or worse," I reply, because I know Granger. Know how he thinks. This isn't just about fear—it's aboutcontrol.
The team locks down the street with practiced precision. Knox and Ryker establish a perimeter while Caleb and Eli clear nearby buildings. Asa keeps scanning, looking for digital tripwires.
A quick sweep with handheld detection gear shows no immediate explosive threat.
I slice through the twine carefully, unwrapping the paper with slow, deliberate movements.
Inside?
A newspaper—dated the day of Echo-13.
