Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Brie
“He’s headed for Wall Street,” Noah’s voice cracks through the comm.
I glance down at the sensible shoes and thrift-store skirt. “Copy that—but I’m still your seventy-year-old with a cane.” My persona blends in a city park, but it’ll stick out more downtown. “Who else do we have out there?”
The KOAN driver knows how to tail discreetly—but with his gut grazing the steering wheel, sprinting’s off the table. He’s a resource Hudson hired for driving, not for tailing someone on foot.
“Jake’s two avenues over,” Noah says.
“I’m changing into an Oxford. I can cover,” a male voice, presumably Jake, comes across the line.
A ripple of unease licks the back of my neck. Instinct—the kind that’s kept me breathing—tightens through my gut. I don’t like this. If he goes into a building, we’ll likely never see who he meets with. Hell, this could just be a meeting with his financial advisor.
“Did you get anything worthwhile on audio?” My question is directed at Quinn, who I know is on the line, probably watching what looks like a series of blue dots cascading down a grid of streets.
The Financial District thrums—a pulse of heels on concrete, a chorus of horns, exhaust that tastes like metal. The city beats against my skin, alive and indifferent. A thousand stories crossing paths, none noticing mine. In theory, it’s easy to blend in, but…
“Depending on who his contact is, the safest place to meet would be in an office building,” Noah says.
“Witnesses,” a male voice that I’m pretty certain is Hudson, says.
I flip open a compact mirror, taking in my applied wrinkles, brown contact lenses, and wig.
Then I check the contents of the bag in the seat beside me.
“If I pull my hair back into a bun, throw on a sweater coat and ditch the cane, I think I can blend into the office scene. Depending on what building he goes into, I can look like a client.”
If I’d brought an executive suit…but the catch is, I can’t look too respectable or notable.
Out the window, I read the green street sign and watch the yellow taxi through the windshield.
“He’s turning towards South Street Seaport. Do you think he’s… The ferry?”
He lives on Long Island. No one commutes to Long Island via the ferry. A familiar rush of adrenaline lights my fingers. This might pan out.
“Does anyone have a ferry schedule?” I ask.
Sure enough, the cab pulls to the curb. Eddie Thorne emerges in that careless way men do when they believe no one’s watching—tie loosened, wind curling his hair. The air smells of brine and diesel, the harbor’s exhale. He scans the area, looking up and down the street.
“He’s out,” I say. “I’ve got eyes on him.”
Shit. If he buys a ticket, there’s no way I’ll catch up to hear what he bought.
“Quinn. Schedule? I don’t know the ferry schedule. What’s he most likely buying?”
But as my car pulls up and I hop out, debating if I should ditch the cane, he bypasses the red and blue sign.
“Never mind,” I say as Quinn says, “Brooklyn.”
“He’s going for a stroll,” I tell the team.
“Alright. Jake, you head north, exit well above so you can stroll south. Brie, go ahead and exit. Stroll slowly. Goal is to observe. Let’s see who he’s meeting with.
Noah, you come in hot and heavy like a man who missed his ferry.
One headed to Jersey left three minutes ago.
Run up, make a scene, then you can carry on like you’ve got an hour to waste. ”
“Copy,” we all three say in unison to Hudson’s orders.
The chances of getting audio are slim, but we’ll get a face, and then we’ll have a name. We’ll study the CCTV footage later—derive how his contact arrived, where they came from.
Sure enough, Eddie joins an elegant older woman, steel gray hair, wearing a deep purple silk blouse and loose trousers of a similar eggplant shade. Black framed sunglasses conceal her eyes, but I sense as she hugs him, she’s scoping beyond his shoulder.
My cane clicks on the brick, each tap syncing to the thud of my pulse, and the tote I’m carrying slaps into my thigh. My shoulders curve in, stretching my back muscles, reducing my height in a practiced manner.
Where they’re meeting, CCTV should cover. But if I can get a photo, that’s better.
Too old for a lover, too poised for a relative—this woman was trained. Given her age and gender, she’s the perfect runner for a client.
“Stopping on a bench. I’m going to pass by, head to the railing and look over the river,” I say to the team, keeping my head low so an onlooker might assume I’m talking on the phone.
“Jake here. I’ve got eyes on you. Facing the river. I’ll stay back on the street.”
Eddie and the woman sit on the bench, talking. Pedestrians pass, but most of those hurrying by in this section seem to be aiming for the ferry station.
I shuffle toward the railing, my manufactured favoring of my right leg convincing even to myself after hours of practice. Every movement rehearsed, every limp earned through repetition. Deception, like ballet, demands muscle memory—and god, I’m tired of performing.
The woman’s posture is too perfect for her age—military bearing disguised as elegant confidence. Professional, not personal.
“They’re exchanging something,” I murmur into my comms, angling my phone to capture photos while pretending to take pictures of the harbor. “Small package. She’s handing him what looks like a tablet.”
Through my camera lens, I catch her profile as she removes her sunglasses to clean them—a calculated move that gives Eddie a clear view of her face. Trust building. She wants him to see her, to feel connected. Or maybe she’s gaining a clearer view of him, judging him.
“Maybe payment instructions,” I whisper, recognizing the choreography. “She’s establishing personal connection before tackling business.”
The woman stands, smoothing her silk blouse with manicured fingers that catch the afternoon light. Her fingers brush his as she passes the device—small contact, deliberate. Connection offered, control established. I know the dance because I’ve led it.
Eddie pockets the device and pulls out his phone, presumably checking the contents. His shoulders relax and he actually smiles—I read it as genuine. Whatever he sees, he’s pleased.
“Moving,” I report as she walks north of the ferry terminal. “Jake, she’s headed your way. Silver hair, purple ensemble, black Prada bag.”
But instead of continuing along the river, she turns sharply left toward the parking garage. Smart. No CCTV in the stairwells, minimal witnesses.
“Shit. We’re going to lose her. Jake, can you—”
“On it.”
Eddie’s now holding the tablet she gave him once more, his expression shifting from satisfaction to interest. I’d bet she just handed him an assignment—or an opportunity.
My own phone buzzes with an encrypted message.
Facial recognition running. Checking CIA, State Department, private contractor databases.
Eddie stands, pockets the device, and heads south, the opposite direction from his contact. Professional trade completed. No lingering, no sentimentality. Minimal interaction.
“He’s moving to South Street,” I report. “Looks like he’s checking his phone. Ordered an Uber or Lyft.” Smart. You can’t bank on a cab this time of day down here.
Classic misdirection—meeting was the real purpose, ferry station provided cover. Anyone down here is in a hurry.
“Got her,” Jake’s voice crackles through my earpiece. “Black Mercedes, dealer plates. Should I hot wire a car to follow?”
“Negative,” Hudson’s voice carries. “Noah, Winston’s bringing the car around on South. Hop in. You follow the target as far as you can.”
“Copy that.”
In my periphery, I catch Noah reach the curb and hop in the back of the car I took to get here.
I start the slow shuffle back toward my pickup point, mind racing through what I’ve witnessed. The woman’s age and bearing suggest she could be classically trained. Ex-government, possibly intelligence. The kind of person who could run a network brokering intel without getting her hands dirty.
“Quinn, any hits yet on the facial recognition?”
“Still processing. But Brie, there’s something else. I checked Eddie’s credit card charges. He was in Georgetown yesterday. Double-checked it wasn’t an online charge or a misdirected merchant charge. Found his license plate on CCTV.”
Georgetown. DC. That’s where Senator Crawford lives. The Sanctuary doesn’t have a location in DC.
What are you up to, Eddie?
My phone vibrates again.
Adrien
Everything okay? I know where you live and work. Ghosting isn’t an option.
His name lights the screen, elegant and infuriating. I shouldn’t feel the rush in my chest. The sting of longing threads irritation. Focus, Brie.
With an eyeroll, I slip my phone into my skirt pocket. As I climb into the back of the car service Hudson arranged, watching Jake’s blue dot pursue the Mercedes on Quinn’s tracking screen, I realize this isn’t going to wrap quickly—we’ve butted into the sharp edge of an iceberg.
“Hudson,” I say into my comm unit. “We need to expand the scope of this investigation. I think we just watched Eddie get his next assignment. Crawford was likely a one-off. This woman’s a professional. She’s working for someone.”
“We lost the Mercedes. Dammit,” Jake says.
“Were they onto you?” Hudson asks.
“No, I don’t think so. Light changed. Pedestrians flooded the intersection. We couldn’t follow.”
“Copy that,” Hudson says.
Losing the lead is disappointing, but for the first time, it feels like we’re finally hunting the hunter instead of just on cleanup duty.
“Eddie’s car is headed back to The Sanctuary.”
“He’s on for evening service,” I say.
“Copy that,” Hudson says. “Jake, Noah, head back, resume surveillance. Let’s watch him. See if he stays the night.”
As my car pulls away from the waterfront, I catch one last glimpse of the park bench facing the river. The trash cans off to the side by a light post.
Watching Eddie, he played his role well. Casual. Unbothered. A meeting—or an exchange. Effortless.
The river glints like liquid glass, catching a smear of sun. Everything looks polished from a distance—like beauty concealing rot, as the car pulls away. Eddie plays his role to perfection. Maybe we all do, until the script slips—and the truth takes the stage.