Chapter 3 - Knight
I climb into the truck, pull out of the alley behind the bookstore, and circle around to park down the street where I have a clear view of the front entrance.
The federal agents exit seventeen minutes after I do.
The tall one—Wilson—scanning the street as they walk to their black SUV.
Standard protocol. But something's off about how they move, how they keep checking their phones.
These aren't men focused solely on protecting their witness. They're distracted, antsy. Waiting for something.
I take out my burner phone and dial Reaper.
"Talk," he answers on the first ring.
"Made contact. Two agents showed up early, which spooked her. They weren't happy about my presence."
"Names?"
"Wilson and Cruz. Wilson seems to be the lead. Cruz doesn't talk much, keeps his hand close to his weapon."
"Cruz." Reaper's voice hardens. "That name's on our list of possibles. The corrupt ones."
I watch as their SUV pulls away. "They're leaving now. Heading east on Main."
"Follow them. See where they go."
"Roger that."
I start the truck and pull out, maintaining distance. Downtown Pine Haven is small. Three blocks of shops, the sheriff's office, a diner, and not much else. Easy to spot a tail here. I hang back, using side streets when I can.
The SUV pulls into the parking lot of the Pine Haven Motel, a rundown place on the edge of town. I drive past, then turn around at the gas station and park across the street. Perfect vantage point to see their room doors.
Wilson and Cruz enter Room 12, closing the door behind them.
"They're at the Pine Haven Motel," I tell Reaper. "Room 12."
"Stay on them for another hour. See if they meet anyone."
"Copy that."
Forty-three minutes later, a silver sedan with rental plates pulls in. A man in a suit steps out, glances around, then knocks on Room 12. He's admitted quickly.
"They've got company," I report. "Male, mid-forties, expensive suit. Rental car."
"Get a picture if you can."
I take out my phone, zooming in through the windshield to snap several photos when the door opens again twenty minutes later. The man in the suit exits, shakes hands with Wilson, then leaves in his rental.
"Sending photos now," I say, texting them to Reaper.
"Got 'em. Come back to the clubhouse. We need to talk."
The Next Day
I arrive at the bookstore at 7:58, carrying a toolbox and a tray with two coffees. The sign on the door still says "CLOSED," but I can see movement inside. I knock gently.
Beth appears behind the glass, her brown eyes widening when she recognizes me. She hesitates before unlocking the door, opening it just enough to speak through.
"You're early," she says.
I hold up the coffee tray. "Thought you might want some caffeine. Black with room for cream. Wasn't sure how you take it."
She stares at the coffee like it might be poisoned, then at me with the same suspicion. But after a moment, she steps back, opening the door wider.
"Thank you," she says, taking one of the cups. "That was... thoughtful."
I enter, letting her lock the door behind me. The bookstore smells like paper and that vanilla scent some women wear. Pleasant. Comforting, even.
"Store doesn't open till nine," she says, retreating behind the counter. A barrier between us.
"I'll be upstairs. Won't disturb your customers."
She nods, taking a cautious sip of her coffee. "How do you know I'd be here this early?"
Smart woman. Observant.
"Landlord mentioned you're an early riser."
Her eyes narrow slightly. She doesn't believe me, but she doesn't challenge it either.
"I'll get started then," I say, heading for the back stairwell.
"Mr. Davis—"
"Sam," I correct automatically.
"Sam." She hesitates. "About yesterday. What you said about the pepper spray..."
I wait, not helping her out.
"Are you... have you had security training?"
I set my toolbox down. "Did some personal protection work after the military. Old habits die hard."
It's not a lie. Not exactly.
Her shoulders relax slightly. "That makes sense."
"The pepper spray is good to have," I continue, "but you should keep it somewhere more accessible. Side pocket of your cardigan might work better."
She glances down at the loose gray cardigan she's wearing, then back at me, suspicious again.
"I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable," I say, keeping my voice even. "Just a professional observation."
"Why would you care about my safety?"
Because it's my mission. Because Reaper ordered it. Because this town needs your testimony.
"Seems like you're nervous about something," I say instead. "And I don't like seeing people scared when there might be something I can do about it."
Her gaze drops to her coffee cup. "I'm not scared," she lies. "Just cautious."
"Cautious is good. Cautious keeps people alive."
Her head snaps up, brown eyes wide. I've said too much.
"In dangerous jobs," I add quickly. "Construction can be hazardous."
She nods slowly, but I can tell she's filing this conversation away, analyzing it from all angles.
"I should get to work," I say, picking up my toolbox again. "Let me know if I'm making too much noise."
As I climb the stairs to her apartment, I mentally kick myself. Too personal. Too direct. This woman is already on high alert, and I've just given her more reason to be suspicious of me.
I unlock the apartment door and step inside. It's small but neat. Functional kitchen, living area with a couch and a coffee table stacked with books. Bathroom off to one side, bedroom through another door. Minimal decoration. Nothing personal on display. A temporary space for a woman in hiding.
I set down my toolbox and get to work removing the kitchen cabinet doors. No renovation needed, but I have to make it look good. I'll sand them down, repaint, reinstall. Make noise. Create a believable cover.
While I work, I place small surveillance devices. One in the living room, one covering the front door. Reaper provided them last night after I returned to the clubhouse. State-of-the-art, virtually undetectable.
"Only monitor when she's not there," he'd instructed. "We need to know if anyone breaks in, not violate her privacy."
I agreed. Some lines you don't cross.
By mid-morning, I've removed all the cabinet doors and hardware. Sweat beads on my forehead as I sand the first door. The apartment is warm, and I've taken off my outer shirt, working in my t-shirt.
There's a soft knock at the door.
"Come in," I call out.
Beth peeks in, her eyes immediately going to the disassembled kitchen. "Oh. You really are renovating."
Did she think it was all a ruse? Smart woman.
"That's what they're paying me for," I answer, setting down the sandpaper. "Everything okay downstairs?"
"Fine. Slow morning." She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. "I just wanted to check if you needed anything."
It's a plausible excuse, but I can tell she's here to assess me. To figure out if I'm a threat.
"I'm good, but thanks." I gesture to the dismantled cabinets. "Should have these doors sanded and prepped for painting by the end of today. Tomorrow I'll start on the primer."
She nods, still lingering in the doorway. "What color will they be?"
"Landlord specified white." I reach for my water bottle. "Not very imaginative."
"No," she agrees, a small smile forming. "White is safe."
"If it were up to me, I'd go with something warmer. Maybe a soft gray or blue. Make the space feel less... temporary."
Her smile fades, and I know I've hit a nerve. Everything about her life right now is temporary.
"White is fine," she says, retreating a step. "I should get back downstairs."
"Beth," I call as she turns to leave. She pauses, looking back at me with those wary brown eyes. "The shop's empty right now, isn't it?"
She nods slowly.
"Take your pepper spray out of your pocket and set it on the counter. Just while I'm here. You're hurting your wrist keeping your hand wrapped around it like that."
She flushes, caught. "I wasn't—"
"It's okay to be cautious," I say gently. "But I'm not a threat to you."
She stares at me, then slowly withdraws her hand from her cardigan pocket. "How did you know?"
"Your right hand hasn't relaxed since you walked in. And you're favoring that wrist."
A small laugh escapes her, surprising us both. "You're very observant."
"Comes with the territory."
"Construction?" she asks, left eyebrow raised..
"That, and other things."
The door jingles downstairs, and her head turns sharply toward the sound.
"Customer," I say, picking up my sandpaper again. "I'll be up here if you need anything."
She hesitates, then nods and disappears down the stairs.
I return to sanding, but my mind remains on Beth Carter. She's terrified but trying hard not to show it. She doesn't trust anyone. Not me, not the federal agents, probably not even herself at this point.
And she's right not to trust. After what Reaper shared last night about the photos I took, her situation is even more precarious than I initially thought.
The man meeting with Wilson and Cruz? He's connected to Judge Harmon, one of the corrupt officials Beth is set to testify against.
Her protectors are working with the very people who want her silenced.
And she has no idea.