Harry shoved the Glock into the bag, the zipper catching for a second before he forced it shut.
Not his.
Didn't matter.
His fingers checked the weight anyway, pressing through the fabric like that alone could tell him if it would work when it needed to.
It would.
It had to.
Around him, the quarters buzzed low with movement. People packing. Talking. Shifting crates. No one really looking at anyone else for too long.
Busy.
Or pretending to be.
Maybe someone had seen him take it.
Maybe they hadn't.
Maybe they just didn't care.
Harry didn't either.
Not anymore.
The moment he'd heard Adrian was spotted in the city—
Something in him had locked in.
Anger sat heavy in his chest, hot and steady as he unzipped the bag again, checked the magazine, then slid it back in. He pulled the slide once—quick, practiced—and let it snap forward.
Ready.
"Don't plan on running off on your own, do you?"
Harry froze.
Didn't turn right away.
He knew that voice.
Of course it was him.
