Chapter 7 · The Cage Was Never for Jonah

"Two vehicles." Rafe's breath comes hot against my ear, moon-fever still crawling under his skin. "Reinforced sides. Bureau markings."

We're flat on the warehouse roof, three blocks north of the river. The convoy's parked below—no guards outside. That's what's making my stomach drop.

I count the windows. All blacked out. "You said they move prisoners at night."

"Yeah." His voice is rough, fingers curling into fists every few seconds. "But not like this. This is too quiet."

He's right. No patrol, no checkpoint, no second team watching the perimeter. Just two black vans sitting in an empty lot like bait.

"Could be a trap," I say.

Rafe's already moving. "Only one way to find out."

I grab his wrist before he can drop off the edge. His skin's burning. "Wait. If Celia knows we saw that vision—"

"Then she knows we're coming either way." He pulls free, and the loss of contact makes my palm ache. "Your brother's in one of those. You wanna sit here and debate it?"

No. I don't.

We hit the ground and cross the lot in silence. Rafe moves like a wolf even in human shape—all economy, low center of gravity. I'm louder.