Chapter 9
“I’ve scheduled a courier for the computer, just to make it look official,” Jewell said just as the students bashed into the area where they’d been working.
And it was a damn good thing. He’d forgotten his purpose and fallen into those green eyes.
Damn, that had never happened before. What was it about this frustrating, uncooperative, driven woman that hooked him? He didn’t know, and that bothered him.
“Have her write out the list of questions and put it in the box with the computer. I’ll make sure to answer them and provide her with whatever else she needs to completely tarnish this guy’s reputation and legacy and pin étienne’s and the private investigators’ murders on him. You’ll handle the rest.”
Yes, he’d handle taking the bastard out. He kept his expression neutral as she started to collect her notes. She’d stop every now and then and mutter to herself about not writing down what she’d found.
Fifteen minutes later, they were out of the library, and Blake caught the tail instantly. It was the same man who was in the library earlier. The man’s attempt at casual loitering with his phone in hand, shoulders slouched, was too forced.
“Wait, where are we going?” Elise glanced back toward the library. “The hotel’s this way.”
“We’re going this way,” Blake said as he took her elbow and crossed the street, dodging between vehicles. Blake didn’t waste time circling or waiting. He crossed the street in long, purposeful strides, the soles of his boots striking sharp against the uneven cobblestones.
“We could cross at the crosswalk, you know,” she said as she hurried to keep up with him.
He grunted an agreement, “Stay behind me, but keep up.”
“Why? What’s happening?” She glanced around, probably looking to see what he’d seen. “Blake? Talk to me.”
He didn’t answer. He headed straight for the son of a bitch. The stranger’s head jerked up, surprise flickering into panic as Blake came straight at him. His lips parted, a protest half-formed, but Blake was already there, shoving him back against the cold iron post of the streetlamp.
“Who sent you?” Blake’s voice was low, even, and laced with deadly intent.
The man’s eyes darted, searching the crowd for escape or rescue. His hands twitched, caught between raising them in surrender or trying to shove Blake away. “I don’t know what you mean!” His Hungarian accent molded the words, his breath already ragged.
Blake leaned in, closing the gap until he was sure the man could feel the menace radiating off him. His gaze was steady, predator’s eyes locking prey in place. “Don’t waste my time. You’ve been shadowing us since morning.”
The man’s composure cracked. “I was just told to follow! To watch! That’s all!” His voice pitched higher, chest heaving against Blake’s unyielding hand.
“By who?” Blake pressed, tone flat and lethal.
“I don’t know his name,” the man babbled, sweat collecting along his hairline. “Tall. Not Hungarian, maybe foreign. He gave me money, that’s all.”
“How much?”
The stranger swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple jerking. “Two hundred euros. For two, maybe three days. Just to tell him where she went. I swear, that’s all I know.” His words tumbled out in a rush, each more frantic than the last, desperation bleeding through every syllable.
Blake studied him in silence, eyes narrowing. Two hundred euros. Pathetic. Disposable. The man wasn’t a threat—just a pawn. But pawns still needed to be moved off the board.
Blake’s voice dropped to a deadly calm.
“Where were you supposed to meet him and when?”
“I have a phone number. I call it.”
Blake snatched the man’s phone. “Where?”
“Here,” the man pointed to the number. Blake read it off.
“I got it,” Jewell said immediately. Blake took the phone and dropped it to the sidewalk.
He stomped on it with the heel of his shoe and ground his heel into the broken screen.
“You forget my face. You forget hers. You never speak of us. Not to him, not to anyone. Because if you do”—he let the weight of the pause hang the way he’d let his assassin’s blade hover at the man’s throat—"I will find you.”
The man nodded so fast it looked like a tremor, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. “Yes. Yes, I understand. I won’t. I won’t say anything!”
Blake released him with sudden force, and the man stumbled, almost falling from the sudden push.
After risking one terrified glance at Blake, the man turned and half-ran down the street, vanishing into the crowd.
Blake stayed still, watching until the shadow disappeared, his mind already shifting back to the mission.
Another piece moved on the board. Another hand at work in Budapest. And somewhere out there, the real enemy waited.
“I didn’t see him watching us today.” Elise’s hand touched his back. “I … didn’t know.”
“It isn’t your job to see what I see.” Blake put his arm around her and turned them toward the new hotel.
“But I should be aware of my surroundings.” She shook her head and crossed her arms over her chest as they walked. Her head was down, and he guided her with his hand at her elbow.
She looked up and stopped. “Where are we going?”
“To dinner.” Which wasn’t a lie. He was hungry, and Jewell had made them reservations.
“I feel like I’ve failed an elementary course in being aware of my surroundings,” Elise finally said.
“You were focused on your work, and I was there so you could focus.” They waited at a corner until the lights told them and the rest of the pedestrians to cross the road.
“I’m close. I can feel it,” she said again. “If my computer hadn’t … hey, I can buy a new one and dig. I know where I was.” She stopped walking, and he turned to face her. “I can get those answers.”
“Did you ever stop to ask yourself who fried your computer?” Blake took her by the elbow, and they started walking again.
“A virus.” She looked up at him. “I mean, a person couldn’t access my computer.”
Blake laughed at the same time Jewell did. “You were on a public server. It would take Guardian specialists seconds to hack into your computer and fry it.”
Elise looked up at him. “Did they?”
“No. Guardian did not fry your computer.” Which was the absolute truth. It was frazzled but not fried. “I strongly suggest you let Guardian do that deep dive. You’ll get the information, you’ll get your story, and you’ll stay alive.”
“But people are following me,” Elise said. “But they’re just watching, right? That man wasn’t any real danger. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have let him go.”
“Really, what would I have done with him? Taken him to the police? Handed him over to the government?”
Elise sighed. “No, there’s too much corruption.”
“True, and if I’d taken him to the police or perhaps the National Bureau of Investigations, he might have been killed.”
When she stopped again, Blake rolled his eyes and turned back to her. He wouldn’t get to eat tonight, would he? “Why would you say that?”
“Why would I believe different?” He shrugged. “The people you’re messing with are dangerous. Deadly. You know that. You’ve seen what they do firsthand.”
Elise narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you always look at the world this way?”
“Is there any other way to look at it?”
“Yeah, there is.” Elise started walking again. “But I’m kind of glad you’re paying attention.”
“Good to know.” Blake took her elbow and guided her to the crossing. “This is where we’re going.”
Blake sat across from Elise at the white linen covered table, candlelight throwing golden light over the curve of her cheek and catching the glint of her hair.
The dining room exuded quiet opulence. It was adorned with crystal chandeliers, polished wood floors, and the hum of low conversations in Hungarian and English.
The conversation was accented by the delicate clink of cutlery.
Jewell had booked the suite under his cover and made the dinner reservation.
The hotel staff treated them with seamless discretion, as if they belonged among the diplomats and executives who often dined there.
Blake was sure his stomach thought his throat had been cut. The near-constant rumbling was something he couldn’t control.
Thankfully, the first course arrived quickly.
Gulyásleves, steaming bowls of rich paprika broth, beef, and root vegetables smelled like one of his Grandmother Amanda’s meals.
A basket of fresh kenyér, crusty bread still warm from the oven, was placed between them.
The waiter poured two glasses of deep red Egri Bikavér, also known as Bull’s Blood wine, which was earthy and bold.
Elise dipped her bread into the soup, tasting carefully.
Her lips parted in surprise. “God, that’s good,” she murmured, almost to herself.
For a rare moment, she looked unguarded, just a woman enjoying her meal rather than a journalist chasing a story.
They moved through the courses—hortobágyi palacsinta, savory crepes filled with spiced chicken in paprika sauce, followed by roast duck leg served with braised red cabbage and potato dumplings.
The waiter poured a golden glass of Tokaji Aszú, a sweet and honeyed dessert wine, as they were served a warm apple strudel dusted with cinnamon and sugar.
Minimal small talk occurred. Food seemed to be a priority for both of them. He was glad the portions were sizable, and he noticed Elise ate her food without hesitation. There was no picking at her plate.
“So, tell me about Elise Serra. Is Serra an Irish name?”
“No, but a couple of generations back, my great, no, that would be my great-great-grandfather, came to Ireland looking for a job. He stayed, married, and found fishing, and the rest, as they say, is history.
Elise leaned back in her chair, cheeks faintly flushed from the wine, her fingers cradling the glass. “I should warn you,” she said with a small smile, her Irish lilt softening, “once I start talking about home, I don’t always know where to stop.”