Page 28 of Carnival’s Playground

"Talked to a master rigger who used to haul for Vesper Crow," Dutch explains, rubbing his scarred neck. "Rourke got cut loose back in August after a high-wire failure nearly paralyzed their lead flyer. The guy tried to claim it was an equipment defect, but the crew found a modified tension bar in his locker."

"So the bastard is a professional saboteur," Avery snaps, dusting the dirt from her knees, standing up fast enough that she sways slightly. I reach out to steady her, hand on her elbow, and she doesn't pull away.

"Worse than that," Dutch states. "He swore vengeance on the entire independent circuit when they blacklisted him without a dime of severance. He told anyone who would listen that he'd make the whole carnival industry pay."

"So he's either a hired gun for Vesper Crow or a rabid dog running his own private war," I conclude flatly.

"Could be both," Dutch grunts. "Right now, all we know for certain is that he's unhinged, he knows our equipment, and he's hunting this lot."

"Fucking incredible," Petey groans, staring at the woods like the trees are about to grow teeth. He shifts his weight, looking younger than usual.

"Petey, get your ass to the tech trailer," Dutch commands. "Pull every frame of security footage we have from Tuesday night forward. If Rourke walked anywhere near our ticket booths or generator pens, I want his face on a screen."

"On it, Dutch," Petey yells, taking off toward the central lot like he's grateful for something concrete to do.

Dutch heads off to inspect the front turnstiles, leaving Avery and me to finish the perimeter check along the eastern fence line. The morning mist is completely gone, replaced by a harsh autumn glare that cuts through the bare mesquite branches.

We walk in tight, focused sync, checking every post, every anchor wire, and every dark gap between the storage sheds. Avery moves with that sharp, cat-like alertness that proves she grew up around carnivals, but I keep my shoulder inches from hers, watching the wood line for anything that breathes wrong, I keep my arm at my side so I can quickly grab the knife in my boot, just in case I need it.

"You think Rourke is still watching us right now?" Avery asks quietly, kicking a rotted branch out of our path. Her voice is steadier now, but I catch the way her eyes keep darting to the shadows.

"If he's a true sociopath, he's not leaving until he sees the place burn," I tell her honestly, because she deserves the truth even when it's ugly.

"You really know how to sweet-talk a girl, Wyatt," she mocks dryly, but there's no real heat in it, just exhaustion.

"I won't blow smoke up your ass, Avery," I counter roughly, meeting her sidelong glare. "You want sweet, buy some cotton candy. You want to stay alive, you listen to me."

"I'm listening," she softly murmurs, her shoulder pressing into my arm, seeking contact and reassurance. I let her have it.

We clear the eastern turn and hit the narrow alley behind the secondary equipment shed, where Dutch stores excess cable coils, spare turnbuckles, and heavy canvas tarps. The padlock on the heavy wooden door hangs loose in the hasp, unlatched.

"The door's open," Avery warns, her hand dropping instinctively toward the heavy metal flashlight on her tool belt. Her breathing picks up, shallow and fast.

"Dutch keeps this shed locked down tight," I state, pulling my heavy tactical knife from my boot and pushing the warped wood open with the heel of my boot. My pulse kicks up, adrenaline flooding my system.

The interior smells of stale canvas, machine grease, and cold rust. Dust motes float in the thin shaft of sunlight cutting through the wall slats. I sweep the dim corners first, checking behind the stacked timber and cable reels. Nothing moves, but the hair on the back of my neck stands up anyway.

"Look around," I instruct quietly, keeping my back to the door frame to cover her. "See if any rigging hardware is missing."

Avery moves through the narrow aisle, checking bins with quick, efficient taps of her flashlight. I step toward the scarred workbench along the back wall, scanning the scattered wrenches and oily rags.

That's when the glare of glossy paper catches my eye, tucked deliberately beneath a coil of thick sisal rope.

"Avery," I call out, ice flooding my veins.

"What did you find?" she asks, walking up beside me, close enough that I can hear her breathing.

I use the flat of my blade to slide the glossy photo out into the sunlight.

My blood instantly turns to pure ice.

It's a close-up shot of Avery. She's standing near the big top entrance under the yellow work lights, caught mid-laugh, her head thrown back, completely unaware that someone was aiming a high-powered lens straight at her throat. It was taken from the shadow of the generator pen two nights ago.

"Jesus Christ," Avery gasps hoarsely, her hand flying to her collarbone as her face drains of every drop of color. She sways, and I grab her arm to steady her. "That's from Tuesday. Right after Marcy cracked that joke about the elephant rig."

"Which means the sick bastard was standing less than thirty feet from you in the dark," I savagely growl, my knuckles turning white around the hilt of my knife, rage and fear warring in my chest. "This isn't just about Dutch's permit. This son of a bitch is stalking you."

"Why me?" she asks frantically, her voice cracking with raw panic, eyes wide and scared in a way I've never seen before. "I don't know any Rourke. I've never worked a Vesper Crow show in my life."