CHAPTER 20
Tessa
The Jameson team meeting starts at two o’clock.
I know this because I’ve been paying careful attention for the last six days, the quiet accumulating awareness of a journalist who never fully stops observing her environment.
Malik calls them every Tuesday and Thursday at two, pulls everyone into the large conference room, and for approximately forty-five minutes the building runs on a skeleton of whoever isn’t required to attend.
Today is Thursday.
Cole left for a meeting with Malik’s FBI contact about half an hour ago. He kissed me on the forehead before he went, which is how he always says goodbye to me, and now I watch the clock on my laptop tick toward one fifty.
I tell myself I’ll be back before anyone even knows I’m missing.
I tell myself this is necessary because Erik Lanning is dead and Adrian Schwartz says he has information that goes beyond anything currently in my possession.
I tell myself I have an obligation to do this so the story doesn’t slip through my fingers.
I tell myself a lot of things.
At one fifty-three, I hear the familiar sounds of footsteps converging in the hallway, a door opening and closing, conversations getting further away.
I close my laptop and sit very still for a moment, hands flat on the table. I take stock of what I’m doing with the clear-eyed honesty I usually reserve for other people’s bad decisions.
This is probably a mistake, but I stand up. This will make Cole very angry at me, but I’ve committed to go anyway.
I don’t pack anything obvious. No bag, no laptop, nothing that reads as departure. Just my phone and my wallet tucked into my jacket pocket.
I quickly move toward the service corridor that runs along the east side of the building. I found it on day three, when restlessness drove me to walk every accessible inch of the building at least twice. It runs from the kitchen receiving area to a loading exit that opens onto the alley.
I have no clue if there’s an alarm attached to it. It’s not a fire exit, so that won’t automatically ping. It’s a matter of whether Jameson is protecting from intruders coming in but not keeping their people from going out. I bank on the latter and push through to the alley.
I hold my breath but don’t hear any noise other than a delivery truck idling somewhere on the next block. The door closes behind me with a soft, definitive click that I feel in the base of my spine.
I’m outside and no one seems the wiser.
The delicious cool autumn air washes over me and I stand in the alley for three full seconds, breathing it in. I take the time even though it’s precious to me, because if Jameson has been alerted I left, I’ll save them some hassle of chasing me down the street.
No one comes.
I turn left, head down the alley and come out on the parallel street.
The Uber I ordered sits there, a gray sedan driven by a man named Omar who has a pine tree air freshener and Taylor Swift playing on the radio.
I slide into the back seat and give him the address Schwartz provided, a high-end restaurant in Capitol Hill.
It relieved me he chose somewhere both public and populated. It’s exactly what I would have insisted on if I had scheduled the meeting.
I should find that reassuring, but I don’t.
The city moves past the windows as Omar navigates north, Pioneer Square giving way to First Hill and then the slow climb into Capitol Hill’s denser residential blocks. I watch it go by, soaking in the texture of Seattle as if I haven’t seen it for years rather than days.
My fingers find the bracelet at my wrist, fingering the silver bead that holds the tracker. I turn it slowly, the silver warm from my skin, and feel slightly safer with it on.
I think about the FBI meeting Cole’s sitting in right now, laying the groundwork to end this case, doing exactly what we agreed.
I think about Adrian Schwartz’s email. I have information that goes beyond anything currently in your possession.
The bracelet turns in my fingers, once, twice.
If Schwartz is genuine—if he really has what he says he has—this will be the piece that makes the difference between a story that creates public pressure and a story that puts people in handcuffs.
A cooperating witness at the COO level, someone with direct knowledge of DelRey’s decisions, someone who can testify to what the emails imply—that changes everything.
That’s worth one lunch in a public restaurant. That’s worth an hour of Cole not knowing where I am, and hopefully, a forgivable offense, although I’ll definitely have to answer for my temerity later.
Omar pulls up outside the restaurant at exactly two twenty-two and I tip him well. The Capitol Hill sidewalk is busy, the lunch crowd still thick enough that the street feels alive, inhabited and safe.
I stand outside for a moment, hand on my phone.
I could call Cole right now and tell him where I am.
I could even send a text and let him be furious about it later from a position of information rather than ignorance.
My thumb hovers for a moment, but then I decide against it.
I’m doing my job, same as I would without Cole as backup.
I tuck my phone into my back pocket and push through the restaurant door.
A hostess with a blond ponytail meets me at the entrance podium.
“Meeting someone,” I tell her. “Donald Johnson.”
It was the name Adrian told me to use, and I wonder if he meant it in a Miami Vice kind of way. I used to watch reruns of that with my mom when I was young and he’s certainly old enough to remember that show.
She gestures toward the back half of the room. “He said to send you over.”
Adrian Schwartz is mid-fifties, lean and tan, with the kind of careful grooming that suggests he pays a lot of attention to his appearance.
He looks every bit the executive with his dark suit, crisp shirt and expertly knotted tie.
There’s a glass of water in front of him that he hasn’t touched and he’s positioned himself with his back to the wall.
He watches me cross the room with an expression that I can’t immediately read—not nervous exactly, but calculated. Like a man who has prepared for this conversation and is running through his preparation as I approach.
I sit down opposite him without being invited. “Mr. Schwartz,” I say.
“Ms. Ward.” His voice is measured and educated. The voice of a man who has run a lot of high-powered meetings. “Thank you for coming.”
“You said you had information,” I say, because I didn’t come here for pleasantries.
“I do,” he says, studying me a moment. “But I’m more interested in information you might have.”
I blink at him in surprise. “What information would that be?”
He crosses his arms on the table and leans toward me. “I’d like to know exactly what type of case you’ve built against RainVest, in particular against Gavin DelRey. That will tell me exactly how helpful I might be to you.”
That request doesn’t set right. “I’m not here to share my information. You’re the one who reached out to me. You’re the one that seems to think he has important details that I’d be interested in.”
Schwartz’s gaze turns icy, his mouth curving slightly. “You’ve been busy, I’ll give you that.” He tilts his head slightly. “I expect you’ve built quite a picture.”
My pulse ticks up but I keep my expression neutral. “I’m a thorough reporter.”
“You are,” he agrees. “Which is exactly why we have a problem.”
His tone shifts—a drop in register, a slight flattening of affect—and every instinct I have sharpens simultaneously.
He said we. Not I.
“I thought you wanted to help me,” I say carefully.
His expression doesn’t change. “I want this to be resolved quickly and cleanly,” he replies flatly. “With minimal further disruption.”
“Disruption,” I repeat.
“To everyone involved.” He folds his hands on the table in a gesture so composed it’s almost theatrical. “You’ve worked very hard, Ms. Ward. And you’ve gotten further than anyone anticipated. That speaks well of your abilities.” A pause. “It speaks less well of your judgment.”
The room feels slightly different now. Same noise, same clinking silverware against plates, same blond hostess near the door. But the atmosphere has rearranged itself in the last thirty seconds and I am suddenly very aware of where the exits are.
“You’re not a whistleblower,” I say.
“No,” he agrees pleasantly.
I reach for my phone.
“I wouldn’t,” he says, still pleasant, still composed, his eyes moving briefly to somewhere past my left shoulder.
I don’t turn to look but I don’t need to, to know that someone is behind me.
“We’re just having a conversation and when it’s done, you can decide what to do next.
” He picks up his water glass for the first time, takes a measured sip.
“Right now I’d like to know what you’ve done with the evidence. ”
“It’s with my editor,” I say, which is a lie. I’d never let the evidence out of my protection.
“I don’t believe that for a second,” he says, his tone almost amused. “Where’s the flash drive? I know Erik downloaded information from our server and we know he handed it to you in the garage.”
“Because you have dirty cops on the payroll,” I snap irritably.
He studies me with a patient expression, clearly knowing I’m not telling him everything.
“Ms. Ward. I’m going to be direct with you.
What you’ve uncovered represents a significant financial and legal liability for people who have a great deal of resources and very little patience for loose ends.
” He sets the glass down. “You’ve seen what happens to loose ends. ”
I visualize Erik’s body in the parking garage, still and silent under the flickering fluorescent lights.
“We’re in a public restaurant,” I say, my chin lifted with false bravado. “I doubt you’re going to eliminate me right here.”
“You are correct,” he agrees. “And you’re welcome to stay in it and call for help. Or you can stand up right now, walk out that door, and catch a ride back to your cohorts at Jameson Force Security.” He lets that sit for a moment. “But before you do, I thought you should see something.”
Schwartz slides his phone across the table and a photograph fills the screen.
Cole.
He’s on a sidewalk and it’s from today. I can tell from his clothes. I recognize the federal building in the background as he’s walking toward it.
My throat tightens.
“Mr. Mercer is safely inside that building right now, presumably meeting with the FBI to discuss this case. At some point, he will exit that building. He might make it back safely to Jameson, or he might take a bullet to the head as soon as he steps out. That is all within your power to decide.”
Ice floods my veins and my heart nearly stops. “You’re bluffing,” I say, and I’m proud of how level my voice is.
“Perhaps,” he says. “Are you willing to find out?”
I stare at the photograph. “And what exactly is it you want?” I ask, my brain spinning hard. Would they really kill him? Does it matter? Because the possibility of that is enough leverage over me to get whatever they want.
“I want you to come with me,” Schwartz says. “Have a longer conversation somewhere more private. Answer a few questions. And then we’ll see where we are.”
“And if I say no?”
He looks at the photograph, then back at me. “Then you say no,” he says simply. “And you find out whether I’m bluffing.”
I glance around at all the unsuspecting patrons that have no clue a killer is in their midst. A server laughs near the bar, and it all seems so normal.
I think about Cole at his FBI meeting, phone on silent, completely unaware.
I think about Josie at her desk running three simultaneous investigations.
I think about Malik in his two o’clock meeting, and Reid, and the building I walked out of twenty minutes ago because I couldn’t bear to sit still for one more hour.
I think about Erik Lanning not running when he should have. I think about the photograph before me.
No one knows I’m here, which means no one is coming. Which means the only person who can protect Cole right now is me.
“If you hurt him,” I say quietly, meeting Schwartz’s eyes directly, “I will burn everything down. Evidence to every major outlet simultaneously. Every thread, every document, every name. I will make sure there is nowhere left to hide.”
It’s a lame threat because he and I both know, once I leave with him, chances of me surviving this are incredibly low.
I’m the linchpin right now in this whole case, and without me, nothing survives.
But Cole might have a chance… if Schwartz is telling me the truth that he’ll leave him be.
All I can hope for is that I am able to talk my way around these people, possibly convince them I’m better off alive than dead, but how… I don’t know yet.
“You have my assurances that Mr. Mercer will be left unharmed. We don’t like unnecessary messes if they can be avoided.”
“Fine. Let’s go.” I stand up and he follows. I trail him out of the restaurant into the warm afternoon air, the door swinging shut behind us.
A car waits at the curb. Black. Tinted windows. Schwartz opens the rear door and I slide in, him following right behind. There’s a young man driving, early twenties, but he doesn’t look back at me. He has clear directives apparently because he immediately merges into traffic.
For the longest time, nobody speaks and I watch the city blur by, noting our direction of travel is northeast on SR 522.
The silence is broken by the driver, who glances briefly over his shoulder. “Sir… did you make sure she has nothing that can be tracked?”
Schwartz pales slightly. “Um… no… what do I do?”
“Dump it all,” the driver advises. “Phone, jewelry, purse.”
Schwartz turns to face me. “You heard him… give it all to me.”
I know it won’t do any good to protest or fight. Cole’s life is in my hands.
I take off the bracelet Cole gave me, my gold stud earrings and my watch. I place everything into Schwartz’s open palm, and then slide my phone from my back pocket, handing it over.
Schwartz unceremoniously lowers the window two inches, and one by one, drops each item out into the rushing air.
And nobody knows where I am.
The window goes back up.
Schwartz folds his hands in his lap and looks straight ahead. The car carries us north and east into the gray distance, the city quickly falling away behind us. I press my back against the seat and breathe through my nose and think.
Cole will return from his meeting. He’ll find me gone soon enough. They’ll search the building and see I’m not there. He’ll check his phone, open the tracker and see it sitting motionless on the side of a highway. He’ll know exactly what that means.
I stare at my own reflection in the tinted window and make myself a promise. No matter what happens, I’m not giving up any information. Even if I die, Cole has all the information necessary to take RainVest down.