Chapter 14: PROCTOR'S EYES
Job's text arrives at 3 AM: Found your watcher. Meet at the usual place. 9 AM.
I don't ask what "usual place" means. Trust he'll make it obvious.
At 8:45, I drive past The Forge. A small chalk mark on the back door—an arrow pointing left. I follow the alley. Find another mark. Then another.
I'm being led somewhere. Checking if I'm alone. If I'm followed.
Professional paranoia.
The trail ends at an old warehouse near the rail yard. Side door propped open with a brick. I enter.
Inside is chaos organized by genius. Computer equipment everywhere. Screens showing code, maps, security feeds. Cables running in deliberate patterns across the floor. The space feels alive with electricity and information.
Job sits at a central desk, typing rapidly. Doesn't look up.
"Close the door. Lock it. Check for tails."
I do all three. "We're alone."
"Good." He stops typing. Swivels his chair. "I found your photographer."
He pulls up an image on the main screen. Digital file. Metadata visible.
"The photo was taken with equipment registered to a shell corporation. Three levels of ownership deep, but I followed the trail. The LLC is owned by another LLC, which is owned by a trust, which is controlled by..." He clicks through. "Proctor Industries."
I process this. "Proctor took the photo?"
"Or someone in his organization. The equipment—camera, lens, mounting gear—is assigned to his security detail. Specifically, a man named Calvin Bunker. Former military, current head of Proctor's intelligence operations."
My Criminal Instinct pulses. This makes sense. Proctor evaluating his new law enforcement. Not as enemies—as potential assets.
"He's building a file," I say.
"Exactly." Job pulls up more screens. "Bunker's been conducting surveillance on you and Lucas for approximately ten days. Since you arrived. Standard due diligence for someone like Proctor. He wants to know who you really are before making an approach."
"Has he found anything?"
"Depends what you mean by 'anything.'" Job's eyes are sharp. "Your official backgrounds check out. Training records, employment history, references. But there are gaps. Small inconsistencies. The kind that suggest your paperwork is very good but not quite perfect."
"Will Proctor notice?"
"He already has. That's why the surveillance continues. He knows something's wrong. He just doesn't know what." Job leans back. "The question is: what do you want to do about it?"
Lucas arrives before I can answer. Job must have contacted him too. He looks better than yesterday—showered, sober, functional. Still hurting, but managing it.
"You found the watcher?" Lucas asks.
Job explains again. Proctor's surveillance. Bunker's intelligence operation. The evaluation.
Lucas absorbs it. "So Proctor knows we're fake."
"He suspects you're not entirely what you claim," Job corrects. "He doesn't know the specifics. But he's gathering information. Building leverage. When he knows enough, he'll make his move."
"What kind of move?" I ask.
"Recruitment, most likely." Job pulls up a file—Proctor's past dealings. "His pattern is consistent. He identifies capable people, learns what they want, offers it in exchange for loyalty. Bribery wrapped in opportunity."
Lucas's jaw tightens. "He thinks everyone has a price."
"Everyone does," Job says simply. "The question is whether the price is money, power, protection, or something else."
I think about Proctor's dinner. The careful recruitment pitch. I don't want to own you. I want to employ you.
"He's been patient," I say. "Waiting for us to reveal ourselves. Watching how we handle situations." The bank robbery. The fights. Everything cataloged. Analyzed.
"What do we do?" Lucas asks.
I've been thinking about this since Job showed me the evidence. Running won't work—Proctor's reach is long. Confronting him directly shows our hand too early.
"We use it," I say.
Both look at me.
"Proctor thinks he's investigating us secretly. Let him keep thinking that. Feed him controlled information. Let him believe he's succeeding." I lean against the desk. "He wants to understand us. Find our price. When he thinks he knows what we want, he'll make an offer. That's when we learn what he really wants."
"You want to play him," Lucas says.
"I want to control what he learns. Let him think he's figured us out. Then use his assumptions against him."
Job nods slowly. "Interesting. Proctor's used to being the smartest person in the room. If you let him think he's outmaneuvered you, he'll get confident. Confident people make mistakes."
"Or they make better offers," I add. "Either way, we gain advantage."
Lucas looks uncertain. "Playing games with Kai Proctor is dangerous."
"Not playing might be worse. He's already watching. Already building a file. We can't stop that. But we can influence what goes in the file."
"How?" Lucas asks.
"Be what he expects. Competent deputies with flexible morals. Lucas, you're the ambitious sheriff who wants to succeed. I'm the skilled deputy who's loyal but has his own interests." I gesture at the surveillance data. "Proctor's looking for weaknesses he can exploit. We give him manufactured ones. Control the narrative."
Job's expression is thoughtful. "It's risky. If he realizes you're manipulating him—"
"Then we're in the same position we are now. Under threat. But if it works, we buy time and information."
Silence while they consider.
"I like it," Job finally says. "Proctor thinks he's running an intelligence operation. Really, you're running a counter-intelligence operation. Elegant."
Lucas doesn't look convinced. But he nods. "Okay. We play it your way. But carefully."
"Always carefully."
Job makes tea while we discuss details. The act is surprisingly domestic—expensive kettle, good leaves, proper steeping. He serves it in actual cups, not mugs.
"I don't eat or drink with people I don't trust," he explains. "Congratulations. You've been upgraded from 'suspicious' to 'tolerable.'"
I accept the cup. The tea is perfect—hot, smooth, complex flavor. Not something I'd expect from a paranoid hacker in a warehouse.
"You're full of surprises," I say.
"I contain multitudes." Job sips his own tea. "Also, good tea is one of civilization's few redeeming qualities. Why suffer bad beverages?"
Lucas smiles—first time I've seen it since the Carrie disaster. "Job's a snob about three things: technology, tea, and tailoring. Everything else, he couldn't care less."
"Standards are what separate us from animals," Job says primly.
We drink tea. Plan counter-intelligence. The situation should be tense. Instead, there's an odd comfort. Three criminals in a warehouse, drinking tea, plotting against a crime lord.
"You ever play chess?" Lucas asks me.
"Badly."
"This is worse. In chess, the pieces don't have agendas." He sets down his cup. "Proctor has his agenda. Job has his. Carrie has hers. We have ours. And none of them fully align."
"That's what makes it interesting," Job says. "Predictable is boring."
We finish our tea. Job promises to monitor Proctor's surveillance. Feed us updates on what Bunker's learning. Lucas and I return to our patrol cars.
Driving back to town, I think about the game we're playing. Multiple boards. Multiple opponents. Every move creating ripples.
Proctor thinks he's evaluating us. Really, we're evaluating him. Learning his methods. Identifying his vulnerabilities.
The wolf doesn't just survive the hunt. The wolf learns the hunter's patterns. Waits for the perfect moment.
My phone buzzes. Text from Job: BTW, found something else. Carrie Hopewell has three active restraining orders against individuals in Philadelphia. All filed under sealed records. Someone's looking for her. Thought you should know.
I read it twice.
Carrie has enemies. Active threats. People looking for her specifically.
This changes things.
I don't tell Lucas. Not yet. He's already compromised by his feelings for her. Adding danger might push him toward protecting her—which means exposure.
I need to know more first.
But the information sits heavy. Carrie's past is catching up. Lucas is obsessed with her. And someone in Philadelphia wants her badly enough to violate restraining orders.
This won't end well.
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