Chapter 11
SHELBY
Cole's last order echoes in my head: barricade in the bathroom, get in the tub, wait for him to arrive. Hours trapped in a hotel room that's already been compromised, with operatives closing in from the river.
Fuck that.
I shove files into my go-bag, assessment overriding his protective instincts. Staying static makes me a target. The bathroom has one exit, no windows, nowhere to run if they come through the door. Mobility gives me options. Public spaces give me witnesses. Movement keeps me alive.
Cole's going to be pissed that I ignored his orders, but I'd rather deal with his anger than get grabbed because I was waiting to be rescued like some fucking damsel in distress.
My service weapon is already in my hand. I pull out my phone and text:
Going mobile. Can't stay trapped here.
His response comes within seconds:
Goddammit Shelby. Where?
I text back:
Don't know yet. Heading away from river.
Cole's reply is immediate:
Pioneer Courthouse Square. 720 SW Broadway. Public space, good sightlines, Starbucks on site. Get there, stay visible, wait for me. Breaking every speed limit between here and Portland.
I text back confirmation and pocket the phone. Pioneer Courthouse Square. Northwest from the Marriott, into the downtown core. It's a distance I can cover on foot faster than operatives can coordinate vehicular pursuit in evening traffic.
I scan the hallway through the peephole. Empty beige corridor, industrial carpet, red exit sign glowing at the far end. The length of the hallway to safety.
I open the door and move.
The hallway stays quiet. No operatives, no movement, just the distant hum of the ice machine and elevator machinery. I reach the emergency exit, slip through, and start descending. Concrete stairs echo with each footfall despite my attempt at silence. Four flights down, listening at each landing.
I hear nothing.
Ground level exits near the conference rooms. I emerge into generic hotel space, a few business travelers checking phones, heading to late meetings. I blend in and walk toward the street exit, scanning faces and postures for threats.
Outside, SW Naito Parkway runs along the waterfront. Evening traffic flows past, headlights cutting through the early darkness. I turn north, then east at the first major intersection, heading into downtown Portland's grid.
The streets are busy with commuters and dinner crowds. I keep a steady pace, checking reflections in storefront windows, watching for pursuit patterns. My go-bag marks me as a traveler, my purposeful stride as someone with a destination. Nothing unusual, nothing that draws attention.
A few blocks in, I spot him.
A man in dark clothing crosses the street behind me, maintaining a parallel course one block over. Average height, lean build, moving with practiced efficiency that speaks to training. He's keeping distance but tracking my trajectory.
One of the operatives hunting me.
I turn right at the next block, increasing pace without breaking into a run. The street narrows slightly, lined with restaurants starting to fill for dinner service. I duck into one, move quickly through the dining room toward the restrooms in back.
The bathroom has a rear exit marked for emergencies. I push through into an alley, turn left, and emerge on the next street over.
Pioneer Courthouse Square is still several blocks northwest. I cut through a parking lot, using vehicles as temporary concealment, and come out on SW Broadway.
The operative appears at the end of the block behind me.
He's not alone anymore. A second man in similar dark clothing approaches from the east, angling to cut off my forward progress. They're coordinating, using the grid layout to bracket my position.
I increase my pace. The square is visible ahead now, recognizable brick plaza with its distinctive stepped seating.
The Starbucks sits on the northwest corner.
People are scattered across the space, some sitting on the steps, others cutting through on their way to transit.
Not crowded, but enough witnesses to make a grab risky.
The first operative closes the distance, no longer bothering with subtle surveillance. He's gaining ground.
I reach the square and head directly for the Starbucks. Inside, the coffee shop is moderately busy with the after-work crowd. I position myself at a table near the window with clear sight lines to both the square and the entrance.
Order coffee to justify occupying space. I pull out my phone like I'm waiting for someone.
Which I am.
The first operative appears outside, speaking into a radio or phone. The second joins him within moments. They're conferring, probably debating whether to make a move in public or wait for me to leave.
I text Cole:
At Starbucks. Two hostiles outside. Holding position.
His response is immediate:
Copy. Inbound. Stay in public. They won't move with witnesses.
I sip coffee and watch the operatives through the window. They separate, taking positions on opposite sides of the square's entrances. It's a classic surveillance formation, ensuring I can't leave without them tracking which direction I take.
The square stays active with evening foot traffic.
Commuters stream from the MAX stops on both sides, heading to restaurants or transferring to other lines.
Shoppers move between storefronts. Diners cluster outside establishments waiting for tables.
The steady flow of witnesses keeps the operatives at a distance, unable to make a move without exposure.
Time stretches. The operatives adjust positions, moving slightly but never closing the gap. Testing my awareness, gauging whether I've spotted them.
I maintain my posture, phone in hand, occasionally sipping coffee. Just another person waiting for a friend, completely oblivious to the surveillance.
Except my other hand rests near the concealed weapon under my jacket, and I've already identified three exit routes from the coffee shop.
My phone vibrates.
Two minutes. Stay inside until you see me pull up to the Broadway side.
I acknowledge the text and watch the street. Evening traffic flows past, brake lights and headlights creating urban patterns. A MAX train rolls through the square, disgorging passengers and picking up new ones.
Then Cole's truck appears, pulling up from the south. He pulls directly up to the curb in a no-parking zone, hazards flashing.
I stand, grab my go-bag, and walk toward the door. The operatives tense, hands moving toward concealed weapons.
The door opens. I'm across the sidewalk in quick strides, pulling the truck's door open and climbing inside.
Cole's already accelerating before I close the door, merging aggressively into traffic. "You good?"
"Operational." I check the side mirror. Both operatives are running toward a dark SUV parked on the next block. "They're mobile. Dark SUV, moving to intercept."
"I see them." Cole takes the next right, heading toward the freeway entrance. His hands are steady on the wheel, movements precise. "Buckle up."
I secure my seatbelt as he accelerates onto the I-405 north ramp, weaving through traffic with practiced aggression. The kind of driving that comes from high-speed pursuit training and combat zone experience.
The SUV appears in the rearview, several cars back but closing. Cole shifts lanes, using a semi-truck as temporary concealment, then cuts across traffic to take the I-5 south exit at the last possible second.
The SUV can't follow. Traffic blocks their lane change, and we're already on the ramp, heading south toward the coastal highway route back to Anchor Bay.
Cole maintains aggressive speed, putting distance between us and the last confirmed position of pursuit. We merge onto I-5 proper, settling into the flow of evening traffic heading out of Portland.
"They lost visual," he says after checking mirrors constantly. "Doesn't mean they stopped looking, but we've got enough lead to reach Anchor Bay before they can coordinate another intercept."
"How did you get here so fast?"
"Broke a lot of speed limits." He glances at me, and ice flashes in his eyes. "You disobeyed a direct order."
The warmth drains from the truck's interior. What replaces it isn't anger, but something colder, more deliberate.
"Staying trapped seemed unsound," I say carefully.
"I didn't ask for your assessment. I gave you an order designed to keep you alive until I could extract you.
" His tone goes flat, emotionless. The VP mask completely gone, replaced by the Delta Force operative who expects compliance.
"You made a unilateral decision that could have gotten you killed. "
"But it didn't."
"Irrelevant." He takes the next exit with precise control. "You got lucky. The operatives were tracking to grab, not kill. If their orders had been different, your mobility would have made you an easier target, not a harder one."
The words land like ice water. He's right, and we both know it.
"Next time you ignore my assessment, we're going to have a problem." Not a threat. A statement of fact, delivered in a tone that makes clear exactly how serious that problem would be. "Clear?"
"Clear."
Silence fills the truck for several miles. Portland falls away behind us as the highway stretches toward the coast. My adrenaline is fading, replaced by exhaustion and the awareness of how close I came to being grabbed.
"They were ready to grab me in public," I say into the quiet. "In front of witnesses, with cameras around. That's not careful criminal behavior."
"It's desperation." His voice stays flat, clinical. "Kline's running out of time. The frame didn't work. Threatening Gemma just made us operational. Now he's escalating to direct action because you're the primary threat to whatever he's planning."
"What is he planning?"