As Maya stepped down, she glanced toward the defense table. Hale was staring at her, unblinking, his eyes dark like combat boots left in a shadowed corner. He tilted his head just slightly, enough for Maya to understand this was not the look of a defeated man, but of a creature retreating to its den to devise its counterattack.
In the hallway, with voices buzzing and camera flashes still firing, Royce moved close to Maya, speaking low enough for her ears alone: "They are going to strike back. And Hale is not the type to sit still." His expression was calm, but his eyes were not. Maya knew he was counting the hours, the minutes before Bravo Unit made its move.
She left the hallway and stepped down the courthouse stairs. Outside, the crowd still stood firm, holding signs and chanting Brooks's name. An older woman looked at Maya and reached out her hand. Maya took it, feeling the trust of Holston's residents flow through the grip, warm and heavy. But as she let go, worry surged back into her chest: if Hale refused to stay still, then who would be his first target?
Royce called just as Maya opened her car door. "We have protection arranged for Ruth and Omar, but you need to stay alert. Bravo Unit is cornered."
Maya answered, "I know."
Yet when she hung up, she leaned back in her seat and exhaled slowly. Her instincts told her the worst had not even begun.
By late afternoon, the entire city felt compressed. Shops near the courthouse closed early. Federal officers erected additional barricades, and media helicopters circled overhead. Black cars carrying legal teams moved in and out, leaving behind short, sharp flashes of sirens. But within that thick layer of tension between justice and fear, Maya sensed something else: Holston had shifted. People stood straighter; they no longer lowered their eyes when a patrol car passed.
As dusk deepened, Maya prepared to leave the courthouse when her phone buzzed: a message from Royce. The jury is recessing. Continuing tomorrow.
Maya slipped the phone into her pocket when it buzzed again, this time from an unknown number. A single sentence appeared: "We are not done, Kalan."