Rain needles the Seaview Motel sign, turning the parking lot into a blue-black smear. Dallas Fontaine stands at Room 12 with the key in hand. Jackson Temple watches the lot. Murderbone’s low growl locks on the curtain twitching in the next room.

Dallas turns the key. The door gives. Inside, a half-packed suitcase sits open beside a damp envelope stamped with Voss's initials. A wet footprint crosses the carpet toward the bathroom.

The bathroom curtain snaps open. Eli Mercer is there, pale and shaking, one hand raised, the other gripping a motel phone cord like he might choke it. He looks past Dallas, terrified of the hall behind them.

Jackson swears under his breath. Murderbone bares his teeth at the shared wall. Dallas has the motel room, the papers, and the next door in Voss's chain. The hunt narrows to one final step.

Dallas drives his boot into Room 14. The door bursts inward, slamming hard against the wall.

Inside, a gunman jerks up from the bedside table. The shot goes wild, cracking into the mirror instead of Dallas.

Dallas crashes through the frame, shoulder first, and the gunman folds under the impact. The pistol skitters across the tile.

Under the bed, a flattened envelope slides out with the shove. The corner shows a ledger stamp and a motel room key clipped to it.

From the hall, a second set of footsteps hammers toward the room. Eli Mercer recoils at the bathroom doorway, staring at the moving shadow past Dallas.