A blade appears in my hand just before we step out the door.
It wasn't Rafe. Just one of his people. A small gun, neat, clearly looked after, passed across like a wrench handed mid-repair - no drama. The chamber gets my attention first, then the safety, how it sits in the hand - the balance. Each move slow, sure, done before but not flaunted, the kind of motion that speaks of habit, not show.
A person might know what to do without ever practicing it. Skill comes from doing, not just understanding. One picks up knowledge by thinking things through. Experience shapes ability more than facts alone. Knowing feels different from having done.
I present competent.
That look again. Gregor stays quiet while I test the gun. He tucks things away behind his eyes. Not surprise exactly, more like a small shift - one of those moments when someone updates their idea of you but doesn't start over. I catch it happening. The way his gaze settles just different.
Fingers release the grip as it returns to its owner.
"I'd rather stay close to someone who knows the terrain," I say.
Without a word, he accepts it. Off we go toward the vehicles.
Four sit parked ahead. Not black, exactly - but dark enough to swallow light. These aren't cars so much as quiet messengers, loud only to those who know how to listen. Inside the second rides Rafe - still, watchful. I climb into the third along with Gregor, plus a pair beside me. Names unknown. Faces already fixed in memory like landmarks after midnight.
Through the city we walk, shaped by those who walked like this long ago. Slow steps, never drawing eyes. It feels like power setting the rhythm, not panic chasing a moment - one path leads to escape, the other knows escape isn't real.
I watch the city through the window.
Now I piece together the path as I go. Side roads appear one after another. Surveillance lenses watch from above. It's the space - between the second car and the third - that gives it away: Rafe's team holds steady at nine meters during city driving. Just before some crossings, the front car eases off the speed a touch, almost nothing, yet enough to suggest eyes scanning what lies ahead instead of just following a set plan.
Good discipline.
A wall that resists cracks. Still, a way through exists.
A building site waits close to the water's edge, down south. Not far off, metal structures stand grouped together. This is where we come to rest. The place hums low, quiet but busy. Containers stack high nearby. A path ends right here.
Outside it seems empty, maybe forgotten. Yet stepping in tells another story altogether. Three times now, in just under a year and a half, I've come across such spots. Before even crossing the threshold, something clicks - walls split the space oddly, light falls on purpose, never by chance. Those inside? They always know more ways out than you do.
A door swings open, Rafe steps down onto the ground. The car sits silent behind him.
Out of nowhere, he steps ahead of the group. Others shift position, like ripples parting around a stone dropped in stillness - not told to move, just responding to shape and space. Before speaking, before acting, presence fills the air where he stands. The room tilts toward him, quietly, as if pulled by unseen lines drawn at arrival.
Far from the center, I stand just outside the circle.
Here is the place for hurt birds to rest. Near enough to watch them clearly. Not so close they seem studied - more like guarded, instead.
A crack in the wall lets us slip inside.
Four minutes pass. Efficiency shows up quiet, like a routine already lived many times before. Not flashy. Just steps taken without pause. Rafe's team flows through the area, each motion shaped by repetition until nothing feels uncertain anymore. Surprise isn't needed when timing fits perfectly. Those stationed in the warehouse find doors blocked too soon. Escape paths cut off before they can even think about them.
A shadow holds me still. Light shifts across the street. I stay where the wall meets the frame. The air waits too.
I'm watching the operation but I'm also watching Rafe.
He stands like that on purpose. Not up ahead, where everyone notices him first, yet not lagging behind, missing what's said. Somewhere in between instead. Always there. A spot where sightlines stay clear, where others in his group catch glimpses of him - close enough to trust - but far from crosshairs meant for someone more visible.
Right there - that spot matches my own view perfectly.
Not saying what this filing stands for, I put it forward anyway. This goes in unnamed on purpose, left open by design.
Afterward, Rafe walks the area without hurry. Instead of relying on summaries, he looks with his own eyes - one more clue, a fragment fitting into place. Trusting his team comes naturally, yet he still steps in to confirm. Someone who shaped power through devotion, though knowing full well such bonds need tending, not only planting.
He reaches the doorway where I'm standing.
On he goes. No glance my way. Moving past me into the next area, near enough that I feel the shape of him nearby - really notice it - for the first time when we're both standing, walking, not just sitting across from each other.
It is different out here.
Quiet filled the room, as if silence had been chosen on purpose. Not empty, but shaped. Meant to be that way.
Out here it feels like nature.
A thing standing on its own, untouched by choices to display it.
Right there, motionless. My breath stays steady, just like it had been when he was still here. He goes into the next room, steps quiet. Then it hits me - a shift, something changes. Important enough to note. Time to revise what I thought.
A shot rings out, coming from up high. Someone is shooting, their position hidden overhead. The sound cracks through the air without warning.
Far from Rafe. In the gap that stretched, quiet, right there in front of our feet.
Movement comes before hearing finishes. Not diving for shelter. Closing in on the line of fire instead - since that line points to position, and location maps the quickest way through. The shot hasn't faded yet I'm already there.
Eleven seconds is all it needs.
The moment ends. The shooter lies still. From afar, Rafe stares - his face different now, showing something unfamiliar.
Not surprise.
Another layer beneath astonishment.
Close around him now, his security team. Sounds rise - murmurs, footsteps. A report sparks before the scene settles.
Rafe keeps his eyes on me without shifting them elsewhere.
Back at him my gaze goes, breath held tight under control while thoughts drift to eleven seconds - how much they carry when someone's been watching, measuring, ever since we first spoke.
Now there's no turning around.
"Quick on your feet," he remarks.
"I got lucky," I say.
For a full minute, his eyes stay on mine.
Quietly, he replies, "No." "You did not," comes after.
Back he goes toward the trucks, step after step. Behind him I move without speaking. My mind catches on the space between knowing what to do and actually doing it - how thin that line now feels in his eyes.
The goal remains unchanged.
The gap has shrunk since earlier today.