Chapter 35: THE RABBIT'S PATIENCE
The envelope is on my kitchen table when I wake up.
I live alone. My door was locked. My windows were secure.
Someone was in my apartment while I slept.
My Criminal Instinct should have warned me. Should have woken me. But there's no residual danger signature. Whoever left this wasn't hunting. Wasn't threatening. Just... delivering.
Professional. Surgical. Terrifying.
I open the envelope with gloved hands. Inside: a photograph and a handwritten note.
The photograph shows Carrie at the grocery store. Two days ago. She's pushing a cart, looking at produce. Deva is beside her. Both unaware they're being watched.
The handwriting on the back is elegant. Controlled.
Thirty men was expensive. The next attempt will be smarter. — R
My hands don't shake. But something cold settles in my chest.
Rabbit isn't done. He's waiting. Learning. Rebuilding.
I call Lucas. "We have a problem."
Twenty minutes later, we're at the station. Job on secure line.
"He was in your apartment," Lucas says. Not a question.
"Or someone working for him. Professional. No trace."
Job's voice crackles: "I'll check for surveillance around your building. But if they were that clean, we won't find anything."
I lay out the photo. Lucas stares at it. At Carrie. At Deva.
"He's watching her," Lucas says quietly. "Knows her routine. Her family."
"And he's telling us he knows. That's the message." I turn the photo over. Read the note again. "Thirty men was expensive. He's not rushing in again. He's being patient."
"Patient means preparation," Job says. "He's analyzing the first assault. Learning what worked. What didn't. Building a better strategy."
"Which means we're the targets now too," Lucas says. "We're the ones who stopped him. He'll want to remove us before trying again."
My Criminal Instinct pulses. Agreement. Rabbit isn't just hunting Carrie anymore. He's hunting the wolves who protect her.
"Timeline?" I ask Job.
"Unknown. Could be weeks. Could be months. He's running an organization—can't just dedicate everything to one operation indefinitely. But he will try again."
"We can't wait defensively forever," Lucas says. "We need to—what? Go to Ukraine? Kill a crime lord on his home territory?"
"Suicide," Job observes.
"So we just wait? Hope he loses interest?"
"He won't," I say. "She's his daughter. And we killed his nephew. This is personal now. Professional and personal."
Silence. The weight of it settles.
We defended once. Barely survived. Rabbit will come better prepared. With more men. Different tactics. And we'll be waiting, knowing it's coming, unable to prevent it.
Trapped.
"We need resources," Lucas finally says. "More than we have. Better intel. Better preparation."
He doesn't say Proctor's name. Doesn't have to.
"I'll reach out," I say. "Ask what kind of intelligence he can provide. No commitments. Just information."
Lucas nods. Hates it. But accepts it.
"What about Carrie?" he asks. "Do we tell her?"
I consider. She's living a fragile peace. Gordon doesn't suspect. Deva is suspicious but manageable. Telling Carrie about the photo will terrify her. Might make her do something rash.
"Not yet," I decide. "We increase security quietly. Job, can you set up surveillance around her house? Her routes?"
"Already planning it," Job says.
"Lucas, you stay close to her. Personal protection without making it obvious."
"Done."
"And I'll handle Proctor. See what he knows about Rabbit's organization. What intel he can provide."
It's not a plan. It's damage control. Reactive instead of proactive.
But it's all we have.
Lucas leaves to brief Job in person. Coordinate surveillance. I stay at the station, staring at the photo.
Carrie smiling at Deva. Normal moment. Mother and daughter shopping.
And somewhere, a predator watching. Waiting. Planning.
I take the photo and note to my apartment. Burn them in the kitchen sink. Watch the paper curl, blacken, disappear.
The image of Carrie turns to ash. The threat doesn't.
Destruction doesn't erase danger. But it feels like doing something.
My phone buzzes. Siobhan: Coffee tomorrow before shift?
I stare at the text. At the normalcy of it. Coffee. Routine. The deputy's life.
While a crime lord plans his revenge.
Sure. 7 AM?
Perfect.
I set down the phone. Look out my window. Banshee sleeps. Peaceful. Unaware.
Somewhere, Rabbit is awake. Planning. Preparing.
Somewhere, Carrie lives pretending death isn't hunting her.
And here, a wolf in a deputy's uniform waits for the next fight.
It will come.
It always does.
The question isn't if. It's when. And if we'll survive it.
I don't have an answer.
Just the cold certainty that the war isn't over.
It's barely begun.
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