Burke pinned a new photo to the wall of the shack. Tire tracks. Same coordinates. Third set this month. He needed one hard lead tying Salvatore to a crime, or the bureau would pull him. He had eleven days of radio silence and an empty case file. He drove out to the spot before dawn. The old wrecked truck sat half-buried in pale sand, its panels bleached white. Burke circled it. Fresh tracks again. No vehicle. No people. Just the wreck and the wind. He knelt by the rear tire ruts. Something glinted under the running board. A small drawer, weathered wood, rusted lock, wedged up inside the truck's frame like it belonged there. Someone had built it in. Burke pried it free with his knife. The lock snapped. Inside lay a folded letter, sealed with cracked bone wax. He broke the seal. The ink was faded but the words were clear enough. A name. A date. A meeting. Salvatore Capone, written plain. Burke read it twice. His hands were steady. This was the lead. This was the thing that kept his file open and his badge active. He folded the letter into his jacket. Then he saw the second set of tracks behind his own. Fresh. Someone had followed him in. Someone had wanted him to find it.

Burke drove away from the wreck slow, watching his mirrors. A dust plume rose far behind him, then dropped out of sight. He turned off the trail into a narrow canyon of red rock. The tall walls broke up sight lines. He killed the engine and climbed on foot. He doubled back along a high ledge. From there he spotted it — a small guard shack tucked against the cliff, tinted glass catching the sun. Someone had been watching the road from inside. Burke worked around to its blind side and waited, pistol drawn, until the door opened. The man who stepped out was thin and sun-burned, a radio on his belt. Burke took him down fast and quiet. He cuffed him to the rail and searched him. In the man's coat he found a heavy iron ring, like a collar, with a metal tag wired to it. Coordinates were stamped on the tag. Not Burke's coordinates. A different set. An outpost. Burke pocketed the tag and stared at it. He had his tail. He had a name for the leash. But the tag pointed somewhere new, somewhere he had never been told existed — and whoever sat at those numbers already knew he was coming.