Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
MALLORY
Rudy Vargas, my cameraman, flashed me a brief smile and a firm nod as he caught the door, then held it open for us.
I’d spoken to him the night before after hashing out the plan with Celia and Colin, my agent and attorney respectively.
The voicemail from the weekend still lingered at the edges of my thoughts—a chilling, precise reminder that someone was watching.
I didn’t share it with anyone. Some battles were meant to be fought alone.
We’d worked together for just over five years.
Gray-eyed with salt-and-pepper hair, a permanent five o’clock shadow, and an allergy to suits in general, Rudy looked spiffy enough in his jeans and polo shirt—a concession for the meeting—and his comfortable work boots.
At fifty-two, what Rudy didn’t know about getting the right clip for an on-scene report or the perfect angle for a story didn’t exist. He made me a better reporter.
Celia Roth arrived in a charcoal gray pantsuit with subtle red accents at the buttons, a cream silk blouse, and understated gold jewelry.
She was crisp, classic, the kind of presence that reminded you control was everything.
At 5'10", she didn’t bother minimizing her height in flats but wore three-inch chunky heels that made her posture even more imposing. Her pixie cut framed her face sharply, like a sword I wasn’t afraid to wield.
Colin Thorne, my attorney, walked beside her.
Third generation legal mind, partner at his family firm Thorne and Pell, and lead of the Chicago office, he was pure polish masking sharp angles beneath.
Dark brown hair, tailored Savile Row suit, Italian loafers.
Everything about him said power and precision, like a well-oiled weapon.
He had a dry sense of humor, and I appreciated that—he could roast someone in a single sentence and walk away without blinking.
“Good morning, Jonathon,” I greeted the retired Chicago PD detective who now ran our daytime security detail. “Celia Roth and Colin Thorne,” I continued, motioning to my companions. All guests had to be vouched for by someone from the network.
“Of course, Mallory,” Jonathon said, concern softening his tone. “Are you alright? Can we do anything for you? Saw the news over the weekend. We’ll be increasing security details until the suspect is caught.”
I smiled, but my thoughts lingered elsewhere.
The voicemail replayed in my mind—I’d listened to it so much his voice had become as familiar to me as my own.
It wasn’t hard to imagine that he seemed to know my routines, my instincts.
Keeping it to myself felt like armor, but also a weight I couldn’t shrug off.
“Thank you, Jonathon. I’m sure we’ll get it all sorted out,” I said, letting a faint edge of reassurance show. “We appreciate everything.”
“You just make sure you look after yourself.” He gave a firm nod. “Corporate is probably reviewing personal security too.”
“I have no doubts,” I said, which was why we were here today. Once Celia and Colin got their guest badges, we headed for the north elevator bank. I swiped my card and chose thirty-three. Celia caught my eye and shook her head.
“Nothing,” she murmured.
I flicked a glance to Rudy, who smirked, then to Colin, who just shrugged. “You flirt with everyone, Mallory. It’s part of your charm.”
“Being nice doesn’t mean I’m flirting,” I said. “Though if Jonathon were twenty years younger and not happily married with grandkids, I’d totally try to seduce him.”
Rudy snorted. Celia shot me an exasperated look. “Really, Mallory?”
“Absolutely,” I deadpanned. Then I met Colin’s gaze as he raised an eyebrow. “You’re too unseasoned for me.”
The elevator hummed upward, smooth and precise, but my thoughts were anything but.
I pressed my palm lightly to the card reader, but my focus wasn’t on the floor numbers or the soft jingle of the doors—it was on him.
The voicemail. The letters. The unnerving pattern they formed in my mind like a map I hadn’t fully traced yet.
I ran through it again: each call, each note, each piece of information in isolation might have seemed harmless. Taken together… it was a warning and a challenge rolled into one. Whoever this was had been watching, studying, and learning my habits, my schedules, even my reactions.
Hunter or hunted? Somehow, I was beginning to suspect that both labels applied to myself and the Auditor. I forced myself to breathe, to slow my racing thoughts. Panic wasn’t helpful. Observation was. Analysis was. Strategy was.
Celia’s voice from the night before echoed faintly in my mind.
“Furious is a good state for finding solutions.” She thrived on that energy.
Colin, methodical and calculating, would help me ensure no step I took was reckless.
Rudy… reliable, predictable, and loyal. Three anchors in a storm I had to navigate.
I ran through the logistics silently: who was allowed where, what security measures were already in place, who could get me out if things went sideways, and where the weak points were in this fortress of protocols.
I cataloged each agent in the building, each layer of network protection, and imagined how each piece of the plan might interact with the unknown variable—him.
And then, quietly, almost imperceptibly, I reminded myself of the goal: information.
Facts. The story. Not heroics. Not revenge.
Safety came first, yes, but retreat wasn’t an option either.
My mind snapped to the meeting ahead—the agents, Flint, the lawyers.
Everyone was watching, calculating, judging.
I couldn’t let anyone see me flinch. Not even a fraction.
By the time the elevator pinged at the thirty-third floor, I had a mental list of contingencies, and a quiet, simmering determination.
I would walk into that room armed with more than words.
I would walk in knowing exactly how to survive, how to keep everyone else safe, and how to stay one step ahead of someone who thought they could control the story—and me.
I straightened my shoulders. Checked my reflection in the mirrored wall. Calm. Controlled. Focused.
The doors opened, and the real game began. I led the way out. This floor held executive offices and conference rooms, designed for war rooms during disasters, elections, or breaking news coverage. Everything was large, efficient, and intimidating.
Vanessa Huang, Flint’s admin and a friend, strode toward us in a blood-red pantsuit and soft yellow chemise shirt. She took my hand briefly.
“I’m fine, Vanessa.”
“Of course you are,” she said, but her eyes held concern. “Rudy, would you mind taking Mallory’s guests to The Sports Lounge? We’re all set up here and the FBI just arrived downstairs.”
“No problem,” Rudy said, lifting his chin. I nodded in thanks.
Vanessa led me toward the Lego Room, a brightly colored conference space designed to encourage brainstorming. Once inside, she closed the door and faced me. Her expression sober. “You’re not going to win this one,” she began.
I leaned against the table, arms folded. “I’m listening.”
“Flint is worried about you. More than when you vanished to embed with a militia leader in Ukraine.”
I shrugged. “Sometimes it’s better to apologize than ask for permission.” The network wouldn’t have signed off on that trip. I’d gotten the story, full stop.
Vanessa rolled her eyes. “You never apologized.”
Semantics. Except… “And I won’t. I got excellent footage and coverage. Nothing to apologize for.”
She softened slightly. “Mallory, this is different.”
“It’s a threat,” I said. “It’s always about threats. If you shrink from a threat and don’t do the job, what are you doing?”
“Surviving?” She had a point. But I shook my head.
“I’m a journalist. Reporting the news is more than a job. It’s about giving the public the information they need. If Flint benches me, I can’t do my job.”
“He doesn’t want you to die.” Her watch vibrated. “It’s time. The FBI is here. Flint is probably greeting them now.”
“You’re keeping me here to let everyone get into place before I walk in the room?” Respect niggled its way up through my own irritation at the ambush.
“Something like that.”
“And maybe to keep me from punching Flint before they got here?” As plans went, it wasn’t a bad one.
A flash of a real smile and a genuine laugh burst from her. “Do you blame me? You two would duel with pistols at dawn if you didn’t have some kind of buffer.”
“I don’t think we’re that bad,” I argued, but she was already turning to open the door. Vanessa had an excellent sense of timing, so I trusted her choice and followed her.
“Oh no, you are much worse,” she clarified, before leading the way toward the Sports Lounge.
I hid my tightening jaw. Vanessa had done her job—timing everything perfectly. I followed her lead, letting the moment pass without showing my anxiety.
The Sports Lounge was set up with chairs, sofas, bean bags, even a bar.
Flint stood with three men in black suits, unmistakably FBI.
My guests, Rudy, Colin, and Celia, were strategically placed opposite the agents, along with two network lawyers I recognized.
J.C. Brennan and Montgomery Teale. Though Montgomery preferred Scotty, that wasn’t a joke I wanted to get into.
Guy Reardon, network VP, boomed from behind me, “There’s our star!” He shook my hand and gave a hearty squeeze. Agents turned, studying me as if I were another piece of intelligence to process.
I met their gazes evenly, but the edge of my mind was elsewhere—tracing the patterns left in that voicemail and the letters. Every person in this room had a role, and so did I. I kept my face calm. Inside, though, I ran through the mental map of the room, the players, and their motives.
Guy Reardon, VP, and for him ratings were everything and his charm was only a mask for his ruthlessness. Flint, my deadline daddy. Nothing about him was a mask. He was protective, irritable and utterly unwilling to compromise on my safety.
Celia, she was calculating and diplomatic and would be my buffer against their chaos framed as reason.
Colin, on the other hand, was a legal hawk.
He could weaponize logic and he’d find all the holes in their planning.
The last one on my side, Rudy. My cameraman was as loyal as they came and steady.
No one talked him into anything—except maybe me.
It worked for us.
That just left the Feds in the room. Their cold, unflinching gazes slanted over me. I could practically taste the denial in their cologne. They were not going to be easy to convince.
I needed to be ready to calculate the moves I needed to make that would let me do my job and keep ahead of someone who clearly knew me better than they should.
“Gentlemen, and ladies,” Guy continued, squeezing my shoulders. “Let’s discuss how we’re keeping this gorgeous woman safe.”