SHE GRABBED HER KIT, RAN FOR THE SINK COUNTER, AND BOOSTED herself through the hole in the ceiling and into the crawl space. She dragged her kit behind her, strap looped around her ankle, elbowing forward over insulation and around wiring in a tight race for the boiler room at the far end. Scratches and shuffling told her Holden had followed her up.

He headed in the opposite direction, to a small access window Jack had created beneath the eaves. He’d already been up here twice, confirming and modifying.

The dude was thorough, she’d give him that.

She caught herself, and cut herself off.

Having him in her head would be like having another Clare. There’d be time for sorting out emotional baggage later.

She reached the marker, slid the ceiling tile aside, dropped her supplies down, and squeezed between bracing and clambered over pipes in an attempt to avoid getting burned in the fight to get to the floor.

Her toes touched ground.

She cinched her pack, inched the door open, scanned the walkway, and stole out into the dark. Twenty feet separated her from the next building. She scurried across the gap, sidled against the cinder block, and slid along the wall for the corner and a better view of the compound’s center. Security lighting cast a glare over the shadows.

She studied them, searching for motion.

Bodies came into focus.

She counted four in tactical gear, with tactical weapons, creeping toward Jack’s motel room like a SWAT team about to flash-bang a house on a no-knock warrant, except they were overcautious, deservedly wary, hugging the edges to avoid a direct line of sight on the building. They all knew they were the bait to draw fire, but reluctance on the right flank said at least two of them were here against their will.

She observed body language, watching for hand signals, searching for the team leader, and found her on the right, and paused. Her. Team leader was a her.

Of all the detail Jack had laid out, much of which didn’t matter, he’d somehow failed to mention what actually did. Jill retreated for the de facto alley that ran between the two-story building and the fence, a five-foot strip of storage and clutter, and she snaked through the dark toward the exit. Movement stopped her.

She’d heard it more than seen it.

She froze, crouched in the dark, listening to the night.

The shadows moved again, two bodies at least, gauged and scoped, slipping over the fence with the grace of big cats on the prowl.

She tucked in behind a garbage can, calculating distance against risk.

Footsteps turned her way, and in her mind’s eye, she saw the shooter, scope swinging, hunting for anything with heat, anything alive.