Chapter 9 #2
"If I do this," she says slowly, "I want Rebecca Macintosh involved from the start. And I want protection. Real protection. Not witness services run by people Haywood might have compromised."
"We can arrange that. Marc Wells is the deputy who's been working with me. Former Army CID. He's got contacts at the DOJ. We'll make sure Rebecca gets the statement and that you're protected."
"Marc Wells. He the one sitting in the truck outside watching this place?"
I blink. "You saw him?"
"I see everything. Survival skill." She almost smiles. Almost. "He your backup?"
"Yeah."
"Good. You shouldn't be doing this alone." She nods toward my phone. "Record it. I'll give you everything. But then I'm gone until you can guarantee Rebecca is handling this and Haywood's in custody."
I start the recording. State the date, time, location. Jackie's name and her consent to be recorded. Then I ask her to tell her story again, this time with every detail. Every name. Every threat Haywood made.
She does. Speaks clearly and directly. Doesn't embellish. Doesn't soften the reality of what happened. Tells the truth with absolute precision. Hell teaches you to remember details.
When she's done, I stop the recording and immediately upload it to the encrypted server Cara set up. Redundant backups. Multiple locations. If something happens to me, the testimony survives.
"What happens now?" Jackie asks.
"I get this to Marc. He gets it to his DOJ contacts along with Emma's evidence. We push for an immediate investigation with Rebecca as the primary contact for victim services."
"How long?"
"I don't know. Days, maybe. Haywood's a federal agent with resources. This won't be fast."
"And in the meantime?"
"You disappear. Go somewhere he can't find you. Stay off grid until we know he's in custody."
Jackie stands. Pulls her coat tighter. "Emma trusted you to finish this. Don't fuck it up."
"I won't."
She leaves without looking back. I watch through the window as she gets into her blue sedan and drives away. I drop cash on the table for the coffee and head for the exit.
The parking lot is half full. Afternoon crowd at the diner. My car is parked near the back, away from the main entrance. Marc's truck is still positioned where he can see the door.
I'm halfway to my car when something catches my attention. Dark SUV with tinted windows idling near the lot's exit. Someone waiting for takeout, maybe. A rideshare pickup. Nothing to worry about.
Except the angle bothers me. The positioning. It's got a clear view of my car and the exit route. My pulse kicks up. Training I don't have whispers warnings I'm learning to trust.
I keep walking but change direction, angling toward Marc's truck instead of my car.
Keep my pace casual. Don't look directly at the SUV.
Don't telegraph that I've noticed anything wrong.
The asphalt feels endless under my feet.
Every step measured. My jacket suddenly feels too tight across my shoulders, the Glock a hard pressure against my spine.
The SUV's engine revs. The sound cuts through the afternoon noise—sharp, deliberate. It pulls forward with purpose, not the slow drift of someone looking for a parking spot. Within seconds it's blocking the main exit.
My mouth goes dry. Definitely not innocent.
I'm still several yards from Marc's truck when movement catches my peripheral vision.
Another vehicle pulling into the lot from the side entrance—white van with commercial plates, windows tinted dark enough that I can't see inside.
It swings wide, positioning itself to cut off any escape route toward the side street.
They're not just following me. They're boxing me in with military precision, coordinating their movements like they've done this before.
The distance to Marc's truck stretches impossibly long. Twenty yards. Fifteen. My hand finds my jacket, fingers closing around the Glock's grip through the fabric. Don't draw yet. Don't escalate. But my heart's hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat, taste copper on my tongue.
Marc's truck door flies open. He steps out fast, his eyes tracking from me to the SUV to the van in one sweep.
Professional assessment. His hand moves to his weapon in a smooth, practiced motion that tells me he's reading this situation the same way I am.
His mouth moves—probably calling my name—but I can't hear it over the blood rushing in my ears.
The van's side door slides open with a metallic screech.
My hand's on the Glock now, ready to draw, but there's no clear shot from this angle.
No cover. Just open pavement between me and Marc's truck, and at least two vehicles full of contractors who've already tried to kill me twice.
The smart tactical play would be to assess the threat, identify targets, coordinate with Marc.
I run.
Forget tactics. Forget training. Raw survival instinct takes over and I sprint across the parking lot like my life depends on it. Because it does.