Blake had not slept in twenty-four hours.
He sat in his rental car in the Marriott parking lot, watching the Hyatt through the rain, drinking cold coffee from a gas station thermos. His hands were shaking slightly—from caffeine or adrenaline, he couldn't tell anymore. The distinction between physical states had become irrelevant.
It was 7:15 AM. James and Sarah had checked in yesterday evening. Blake had watched them through the lobby windows—Sarah looking tired, James looking alive for the first time in weeks. They'd gone up to their separate rooms and Blake had waited through the night, watching.
At 6:30 AM, James's light had come on in room 312.
At 7:00 AM, Sarah had emerged from her room and they'd met in the hallway, talking briefly before heading downstairs.
They were going to have breakfast. Blake was certain of it. The weather was clearing. They would eat and gather their energy and leave. This was Blake's window. This was the moment he'd been preparing for since the moment he'd walked out of Rockview prison.
Blake checked the gun in his holster. The safety was off. The chamber was loaded. Everything was ready.
He'd driven through the night from Ithaca, pushing the rental car hard, following James and Sarah's route by tracking Sarah's ex-husband's SUV through rental company GPS alerts that Frank had taught him how to access. It was a skill Blake had learned in Vincent's operation—how to move through digital systems undetected, how to find information that was supposed to be hidden.
Blake had followed them through Pennsylvania and into Ohio. He'd watched them stop at a motel. He'd waited while they slept. He'd continued following them through Indiana and Illinois and into the Midwest.
And then, last night, he'd finally caught them. The SUV pulling into the Hyatt parking lot. James and Sarah getting out, looking exhausted and rain-soaked and alive.
Blake had been so close. Half a mile away. He could have driven directly to them. He could have ended it in the parking lot.
But he hadn't. Because this moment—this final moment—needed to be done right.
Blake had spent the night thinking about what he would say.
He'd imagined a dozen different versions of this conversation. In some, he just pulled the gun and fired. In others, he took time to explain why he was here, what James had done, how Blake had spent ten years in prison thinking about nothing else.
But as the night progressed and the exhaustion accumulated, Blake realized he didn't need to explain. James already knew. Once Blake appeared, once James saw his face, everything would be understood in an instant.
The only thing Blake needed to do was finish what he'd started.
At 7:45 AM, Blake saw movement in the Hyatt lobby.
James and Sarah were heading toward the breakfast room. They were both moving slowly, like people who were still processing the previous day's chaos. Sarah was gesturing toward the window, pointing at the clearing sky. James nodded.
Blake's heart rate accelerated. This was it. The moment was here.
He checked the gun one more time. He ran through the scenario in his mind. Walk into the breakfast room. Find James. Pull the gun. It would be quick. It would be efficient. It would be over.
Blake got out of the car.
The parking lot was wet from the previous night's rain. The air was cool and fresh. Across the lot, the Hyatt stood like a monument to chance—the random convergence of circumstances that had brought Blake and James to the same place at the same moment.
Blake walked toward the connecting corridor. His legs felt steady. His mind was clear. The exhaustion and caffeine and ten years of planning had brought him to this precise point, and now there was nothing left but action.
He moved through the hallway between the two hotels. No one was here. The corridor was empty and sterile and silent except for the hum of air conditioning.
Blake pushed open the glass doors that led into the Hyatt lobby.
From where he stood, Blake could see into the breakfast room through the large windows.
James was there. Sarah was there. Other guests were scattered around the room. A cop sat two tables away—Blake registered this fact but didn't yet understand its significance.
Blake stood in the lobby for thirty seconds, just watching.
This was the threshold moment. Once he walked into that breakfast room, there would be no going back. Once he pulled the gun, everything changed. His life would either end in the next few minutes or it would disappear into whatever came after.
Blake had already died ten years ago. He'd died in that prison cell when he'd accepted that revenge was the only thing worth living for. Everything since then had been a ghost moving through the world, waiting for the moment to become real again.
That moment was now.
Blake checked the gun one final time. Safety off. Chamber loaded. Ready.
Then he opened the door to the breakfast room and walked inside.
The fluorescent lights seemed impossibly bright. The smell of coffee and eggs hung in the air. James was visible at his table, animated, telling Sarah something. Neither of them saw Blake yet.
Blake walked toward the coffee station. His movements were calm and deliberate. No one paid attention to him. He was just another guest, just another person getting breakfast.
He poured coffee that he didn't intend to drink.
Then he turned and faced the moment that ten years had been building toward.
His hand moved to the gun.
His feet began moving toward James's table.
And in that instant before the violence would begin, Blake felt a strange sense of completion. Everything he'd done—the robberies, the work with Vincent, the months of tracking, the nights in his car watching—all of it had led to this single point in time.
He was finally about to become real again.
Blake started walking toward James Patterson.