Chapter 26: Locker 717

Malik

The sniper fired a third shot before anyone had a chance to breathe.

The bullet tore through the office wall above us, sending plaster and glass raining across the floor. I kept Zariah pinned beneath me, one arm braced beside her head while my security team moved into formation around us. Darius shouted orders near the doorway, his voice cutting through the chaos as men rushed toward the broken windows and others secured the hallway.

Zariah’s hand was pressed against my chest. I could feel the tremor in her fingers, but she wasn’t screaming. She wasn’t panicking either. Her eyes were wide, her breathing uneven, but she was still fighting to keep herself together.

That scared me more than the bullets.

“Are you hit?” I asked, my voice rougher than I intended.

She blinked at me as if the question surprised her. “No.”

Only then did I let myself breathe.

Darius crouched beside us, his gun still drawn. “Shooter’s on the building across the street, but he’s already moving. Whoever this is, he’s professional.”

Of course he was. Nothing about this had been sloppy. Every attack, every message, every body left behind had been planned with the kind of patience only old enemies possessed.

I helped Zariah sit up, keeping one hand on her arm longer than necessary. Her gaze dropped to my hand before lifting back to my face, and for a moment the room faded around us. The tension between us wasn’t born from danger this time. It was something quieter. Something heavier.

Darius cleared his throat. “I hate to interrupt whatever that was, but we need to leave before our friend across the street decides to try again.”

Zariah looked away first.

Smart woman.

I picked up the letter David Brooks had left behind and reread the last line.

Find locker 717 at Union Station.

Every instinct I had told me it was a trap. Unfortunately, every useful lead we’d found so far had been wrapped in one.

“We’re going,” I said.

Darius nodded. “I’ll get the team ready.”

Zariah stood immediately. “I’m coming.”

“No.”

She didn’t even blink. “My father left the clue for me.”

“Your father also left a city full of people trying to kill you.”

Her expression tightened, but she didn’t back down. “If you leave me behind, I’ll find another way to get there.”

I stared at her.

She stared right back.

The worst part was that I believed her.

Darius sighed like a man who had been forced to watch the same argument too many times. “She’s coming, Malik. We both know it.”

I shot him a look.

He shrugged. “I’m tired of pretending she isn’t going to win.”

Zariah’s mouth twitched.

Mine didn’t.

At least not visibly.

Union Station was nearly empty when we arrived. Rain slicked the pavement outside, turning the city lights into blurred streaks of gold and red. The building had the kind of old bones Atlanta liked to hide behind new money: brick walls, arched windows, and long corridors that carried every footstep like a warning.

My men spread out immediately, clearing exits and checking blind spots. Darius stayed a few steps behind us while I kept Zariah close enough that I could reach her without thinking.

Locker 717 sat at the end of a quiet hallway lined with rows of identical metal doors. The number on the key matched the number above the lock.

Zariah stared at it for a long moment before taking the key from my hand. Her fingers brushed mine, and the contact was small, accidental, and entirely too distracting.

The lock clicked open.

Inside was a black duffel bag.

No timer. No wires. No obvious trap.

That didn’t comfort me.

Zariah unzipped the bag slowly. Inside were several envelopes, a flash drive, an old leather journal, and a framed photograph wrapped in cloth. She reached for the photograph first.

The moment she uncovered it, the air shifted.

I recognized Alicia Brooks from the photo we’d found in David’s office. Zariah’s mother looked younger here, her smile soft and unguarded as she stood beside a man whose face hit me like a fist to the chest.

Because the man standing beside her looked exactly like me.

Zariah turned toward me, confusion spreading across her face. “Malik?”

I couldn’t answer.

For the first time in years, the past reached out and wrapped its hand around my throat.