Chapter 3 #2
I tug the cap low over my eyes and grab a nondescript package wrapped in brown paper, a prop I’ve used a dozen times. The old delivery guy trick never fails. People don’t question someone with a clipboard and a purpose.
I sling my backpack over one shoulder, Bean tucked safely inside, and clip the clipboard to my belt. My phone’s camera is charged, ready to snap photos of anyone leaving the meeting.
If I can get eyes on the Night Ops Guard—or better, overhear their plans—I’ll have the evidence to blow their operation wide open. I flash a grin at my reflection in the car window. “Showtime, Miles.”
The office block’s lobby is dim, the fluorescent lights flickering. A bored security guard glances up from his desk, barely registering me.
“Delivery for Suite 3B,” I say, holding up the package and flashing a practiced smile. My heart hammers, but I keep my voice steady. “All good?”
“All good,” the security dude replies, barely looking up from his phone.
He waves me through without checking my ID.
Sloppy, but lucky for me.
I take the stairs two at a time, my sneakers silent on the worn carpet. Suite 3B is on the third floor, tucked at the end of a long hallway.
The building’s eerily quiet, the kind of stillness that makes every creak echo. I pause outside the door, my ear pressed to the cool wood.
A muffled voice filters through—deep, male, clipped with authority.
I can’t make out words, but the tone screams control, precision.
I fish my phone from my pocket, switching it to silent and setting the camera to burst mode. If I can find a vantage point—maybe a vent or a corner to hide in—I can snap photos as they leave. I scan the hallway, spotting a janitor’s closet a few doors down.
Perfect.
I’ll stash myself there after I get a better listen.
I lean closer to the door, straining to catch any scrap of conversation.
My clipboard slips slightly, and I adjust it, the package balanced awkwardly in my arms. Just as I shift my weight, the door swings open with a whoosh, and a strong hand grips my arm, yanking me inside.
I stumble, the package tumbling to the floor as the door slams shut behind me.
Panic surges, my breath catching in my throat.
I’m in a small, windowless meeting room, a long table surrounded by empty chairs.
It’s just me and the man holding my arm.
And he’s unmistakable.
Those sharp cheekbones, that smug smirk, the piercing eyes that locked onto me in the diner last night. The espresso-sipping, Kindle-reading poser…
“You,” I gasp, my voice barely a whisper.
Fear claws at me, but there’s something else too—shock, maybe even a flicker of that stupid attraction from last night. My cheeks burn as I remember my late-night fantasy, his image pushing me over the edge.
Not now, Miles.
“Me,” he says, his voice low and mocking, like he’s enjoying this.
His grip on my arm is firm but not painful, his fingers warm through the thin fabric of my uniform. He’s taller than I remembered, his broad shoulders filling out a black tactical jacket.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand, yanking my arm free. My heart’s racing, but I force myself to stand tall, channeling every ounce of bravado I’ve got. “I’m just delivering a package.”
He laughs, a short, sharp sound that sends a shiver down my spine.
“Cute. But that disguise? Amateur hour.” He steps closer, towering over me, and I catch a whiff of his cologne—woodsy, sharp, distracting. “You think you can waltz in here and spy on… me? Big mistake.”
My stomach drops.
He knows.
How does he know?
My mind scrambles, piecing it together. The diner, the way he watched me, the two couples who showed up—were they all part of this?
Was the leak a setup?
I swallow hard, my mouth dry.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie, clutching my clipboard like a shield.
He smirks, plucking the clipboard from my hands and tossing it onto the table.
“Miles Nadal, investigative lawyer with a knack for sticking his nose where it truly doesn’t belong. You’ve been poking around our systems for weeks. Did you really think we wouldn’t notice?”
My knees wobble, but I lock them, refusing to show weakness.
“So you’re admitting you’re Night Ops Guard? That’s a start.” I force a defiant grin, even as my pulse thunders. “Care to tell me why you think you’re above the law?”
His eyes narrow, but there’s a flicker of something—amusement, maybe?—in his gaze.
“Bold. I like that. But you’re in over your head, boy.” He steps closer, his voice dropping to a growl. “You’re playing a dangerous game, and you’re about to lose. Precisely how badly you lose is up to you though…”
I glance at the door, calculating my chances of bolting.
Slim to none.
My phone’s still in my pocket, but there’s no way I can reach it without him noticing. I’m trapped, and the realization hits like a punch. But I’m not done yet. I lift my chin, meeting his stare.
“If you’re going to threaten me, at least tell me your name,” I say, doing my best to hide my nerves. “Or do Night Ops Guard goons prefer anonymity?”
He chuckles, and it’s infuriatingly charming.
“Travis,” he answers. |And I’m not just any goon—I’m the one who’s going to teach you some manners.” He leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “You’re not exposing anyone today, Miles. You’re coming with me.”
My heart lurches.
Coming with him?
Where?
My mind flashes to Bean, tucked in my backpack by the door. I need to get out of this, but Travis’s grip is back on my arm, steering me toward the table.
I’m scared, yeah, but there’s a spark of defiance burning brighter.
Travis thinks he’s got me figured out, but he’s about to learn I don’t go down easy.
“Sit,” Travis says, pointing to a chair. His tone’s all Daddy—stern, commanding, and way too familiar. My cheeks flush, and I hate how my body reacts, a traitorous tingle sparking at his words.
I sit, glaring up at him.
“This isn’t over,” I say, my voice steady despite the fear. “You can’t keep me here.”
Travis leans against the table, arms crossed, his smirk infuriatingly confident.
“Oh, you silly boy,” Travis says, his voice full of bad intentions. “You have no idea what I can do.”