At the safehouse, Tyrone was stretched out on the couch, cleaning his pistol with slow, methodical motions. The faint smell of gun oil hung in the air.
Brooklyn emerged from the back room, pulling her jacket tight, her eyes red but steady. Tyrone looked up, one eyebrow raised.
"You're up early." he muttered.
Brooklyn didn't answer at first. She moved straight to the counter, checked the clips of her sidearm, and slid one home with a sharp click. Only then did she meet Tyrone's gaze. "I need your van."
Tyrone set the pistol down, leaning back in his chair. "Uh-huh. And where exactly you planning on going?"
"I've got a meeting." Brooklyn said, her tone flat. She tucked the pistol into the waistband of her jeans, hidden beneath her jacket. "I'll be back before dark."
Tyrone barked a dry laugh. "Oh-no. You think I'm just gonna hand you the keys and let you walk outta here alone? You've got a death sentence hanging over you. Wherever you're going, I'm coming with."
Brooklyn shook her head, firm. "Not this time, I've got it handled."
"You know I can't let you." Tyrone said, rising from the couch.
Brooklyn stepped closer, her voice low but sharp enough to cut. "Tyrone, I need you to trust me. Just this once and... I need your van."
Tyrone stared at her, Brooklyn's stare was unyielding, her resolve carved in stone. Finally, with a curse under his breath, he dug his keys from his pocket and tossed them across the room.
"You crash it, you but it." he grumbled.
Brooklyn caught the keys, sliding them into her pocket. "Thanks." She adjusted her jacket again, the outline of her weapon briefly visible before she turned.
"Brook..." Tyrone called after her, his voice softer now. "Don't do anything stupid, please. I don't want Ryan killing me."
She didn't answer. She just walked out, the door clicking shut behind her.
The train station was already buzzing with morning commuters. The hum of conversation, the clatter of shoes on tile, the occasional screech of brakes echoed across the platforms.
Brooklyn parked the van on the far side of the lot, away from the main entrance, and pulled her hood up as she approached. Her eyes scanned the crowd.
She didn't have to wait long. Dave Langston was exactly where he said he'd be, pacing nervously by a bench near the south platform. He wore a suit too expensive for the setting, his tie loose, sweat shining at his temples. One hand kept straying to his jacket pocket where the USB drive sat like a ticking bomb.
Brooklyn's approach was smooth, calculated. She stepped out from the blind side of a pillar, her voice calm but firm. "Dave?"
He flinched like she'd pulled a trigger. His head whipped toward her, relief and fear colliding in his expression. "You came."
"Of course I came." She closed the distance, her hand casually brushing the side of her jacket where her gun rested. "You've got something for me?"
Dave nodded quickly, fumbling inside his jacket, pulling free the slim USB. "Here. Everything I could get off Victor's computer. Financials, emails, encrypted folders… it's all in here. I don't know what they are, but..."
"...but you think it proves he's involved." Brooklyn finished for him, snatching the USB from his hand. She held it between her fingers, studying it like a piece of treasure. "You did good, Dave. Real good."
From across the street, Nathan crouched low behind a row of parked bikes, his phone recording every second. He zoomed in, catching his uncle handing something to the mysterious hooded woman. His pulse thundered in his ears. He didn't know who she was, but he knew this was big.
Then his phone buzzed in his hand.
The ringtone shattered the morning calm, sharp and loud in the air.
Dave's head snapped toward the sound. Brooklyn froze, eyes narrowing. She turned her gaze toward the source and in that moment Nathan knew he was caught.
The boy scrambled, trying to silence the phone but his panic made him clumsy. Brooklyn moved like lightning. In two strides she was on him, gun drawn, the barrel leveled at his forehead.
"Who the hell is this?" she barked, glancing back at Dave.
Dave's face went pale. "Nathan…? Jesus Christ, Nathan, what are you doing here?"
Nathan's eyes darted between them, fear rising like a flood. "I—I just… I was following you, Uncle Dave. Dad told me to..."
"Brooklyn, wait..." Dave started, stepping forward. "He's just a kid..."
But Brooklyn's rage snapped like a whip. "He's a witness."
The shot rang out like thunder.
Nathan's body jerked backward, the phone tumbling from his hand, the screen still recording as it skittered across the pavement. He collapsed, blood seeping across the concrete, eyes staring glassy and unblinking at the sky.
Dave's scream ripped through the platform. "No! God, no!"
Brooklyn didn't look back. She shoved the gun into her jacket, sprinted for the van and tore out of the lot, tires screeching, engine roaring as she disappeared into traffic.
Dave dropped to his knees beside his nephew's body, trembling hands reaching for a pulse that wasn't there. His chest heaved, sobs choking him.
The phone lay inches away, camera still pointed at the boy's lifeless face, recording every detail, every second.
And somewhere down the highway, Brooklyn gripped the wheel so hard her knuckles, her breath ragged, her eyes burning.