Chapter 79 — Shadows and Sawdust
(Clause & Ricky POV)
The night pressed cold against our skin, sharp as steel and heavy with the scent of sawdust, rusted nails, and mildew. We crouched low in the treeline, eyes fixed on a half-lit warehouse squatting in the clearing — a shell of concrete and corrugated metal belonging to one of the low-life contractors who’d built for Killian’s people. The air hung still, every breath we exhaled blooming into fog beneath the pale slice of moonlight.
Clause adjusted his night goggles, lenses glinting green. “Anything?” he whispered.
I scanned the yard, heart ticking steady. “No movement. We’ve been here a while — looks dead.”
“Just in case you’re wrong.”
He tossed me a small box of ammo and an extra sidearm, then clipped his haidias to his belt and slung his crossbow across his back. Clause never went anywhere unarmed — he hated surprises. Knowing him, he had at least a few blades hidden in those pockets too.
He pulled his mask up over his mouth, face vanishing into shadow. Typical. I kept my gear simpler — black from head to toe, quiet, practical. Together, we slipped from the brush, pacing slow toward the warehouse. Each step deliberate, weight balanced. One wrong move could blow the op, and Killian’s people didn’t forgive mistakes.
A twig cracked beneath my boot. I froze.
Clause turned, silent as smoke, and raised a finger to his lips. His eyes cut sharp through the night — that assassin calm that always grated me. Not all of us were ghosts.
We reached the edge of the property and dropped low again. I swept the perimeter through my goggles — nothing. “All clear,” I murmured.
The yard smelled of cedar and damp earth. We wove between stacked lumber, careful not to leave prints in the sawdust. The building loomed over us, half-swallowed by darkness. At the rear door, Clause crouched, drew his pick, and worked the lock.
Click.
The door groaned open.
We slipped inside, weapons drawn. The air was thick with dust and old oil. Our footsteps whispered across concrete. Clause signaled left; I took right. We cleared room after room — skeletal frames, overturned pallets, empty offices. The surveillance feed was already on a timed loop, thanks to Reggy’s magic. No one would know we were here.
Minutes later, we regrouped outside the main office. Clause leaned against the door, toothpick between his teeth, smirk tugging beneath his mask.
“What took you so long, brother? Losing your grit?”
“Shut up, asshole,” I shot back, grinning. “Let’s get this done.”
He chuckled, bent to the lock, and went to work. Precision movements, no wasted effort. The latch popped, and we slipped inside.
I headed for the desk, rifling drawers, sifting through scattered invoices. Clause swept the shelves and filing cabinets, flipping through folders.
“Nothing,” he muttered, frustration creeping in.
“There’s gotta be something here.”
I yanked open the trash bin, shaking out crumpled papers. Receipts, sketches, torn scraps — then, a small ripped corner with a name scrawled in ink: Melvin Belvechi.
“Wait. Got something.” I pulled out my phone. “Reggy, I need a trace. Name: Melvin Belvechi.”
The sound of rapid typing crackled through the speaker.
“Okay — Melvin Belvechi. Married, two kids. Construction worker. He’s got a record, small-time theft, some priors.”
“Address?”
“Yeah. Silvertips Apartments, Calhoon Street. Unit B12.”
“Got it.” I ended the call.
Clause was already resetting the desk. “We move fast. In and out.”
We ghosted back through the corridors, every sense alert. Outside, the cold bit deep, wind sliding icy fingers across our faces as we slipped back through the yard.
For the first time in weeks, the air felt lighter — not safe, but hopeful. We finally had a lead.
By the time we reached the car, the night had settled thick with silence. I slid behind the wheel, keyed the ignition, and fed the address into the GPS. The dashboard light painted Clause’s face pale blue.
“You ready for this?” I asked.
He nodded once. “Yeah. He better know something. Liam’s not gonna take another dead end well.”
“No, he wouldn’t. He’s holding it together, but he’s running on fumes.”
Clause exhaled through his nose. “The odds of that girl or Thomas being alive are—”
“Don’t.” I cut him off, jaw tight. “We all know the numbers. But Liam’s not stupid. He wouldn’t go dark unless he had something. You get that picture this morning?”
Clause’s voice dropped. “Yeah. Thomas looked bad. But breathing.”
“Then we keep grinding.”
He nodded, and silence filled the space between us. The tires hummed low on the asphalt, headlights carving pale tunnels through the trees. We drove steady, obeying every limit. Last thing we needed was a traffic stop.
When we finally pulled onto Calhoon, the street was washed in sodium light, flickering over cracked pavement and tired buildings. Silvertips Apartments loomed ahead — brick walls, fogged windows, peeling paint.
I parked across the street, engine idling. We sat in the quiet hum of the heater, eyes fixed on the windows.
“Rule stands,” I said. “No civilians. We wait ‘til he’s alone.”
Clause nodded. “Wife and kids inside, we walk.”
Killian’s crew never cared about collateral — but we did. Always had. And for all his sins, even Killian never crossed the line with kids. Maybe the last piece of humanity he still clung to.
Hours bled by. The radio murmured softly, static blending with the slow rhythm of our breathing. Shadows shifted behind the curtains — silhouettes, routine, life. We watched, patient, the clock grinding its blade into our nerves.
Then the lights inside flicked off, one by one.
Clause’s hand brushed his weapon. “Showtime.”
I nodded, every muscle coiled tight. “Let’s see what Melvin knows.”