"Negative. Hold the perimeter. If this is wrong, we need eyes everywhere."
A pause.
"Understood. Watch your six."
I glance at Sloane. She's already moving—reading my intent before I voice it.
We descend the far side of the ridge in controlled slides, using the terrain for cover. The shelter grows clearer with each step.
It's old. Pre-war maybe. The kind of place hunters used to use before the land went Federal. Weathered wood, tin roof, single door with a rusted handle.
Perfect box canyon setup.
Perfect kill zone.
I motion Sloane to hold position while I clear the angles. No fresh tracks. No trip lines. No obvious surveillance gear.
Too clean.
We close the final distance in absolute silence. I press against the wall beside the door, straining to hear any movement inside.
Nothing.
Just dead air and settling wood.
I meet Sloane's eyes. She nods once—tight, controlled.
Ready.
My boot hits the door just beside the handle—wood splintering inward as I breach with my rifle up.
The interior rushes at me in snapshots:
Single room. Low ceiling. Dirt floor.
Table against the far wall.
Empty shelves. Broken chair.
No windows. No back door.
No Lucia.
But on the table?—
A single sheet of paper.
I edge closer, my eyes sweeping the room in quick arcs—checking corners, shadows, ceiling beams.
The paper beckons from the table.
Something about its scent hits wrong. I unfold the sheet to find three red words.
You're too late.
-G
The paper crumples in my fist before I realize I've moved.
