Chapter Five | NOA
Chapter Five
NOA
Room service arrived pretending civilization still existed.
The cart rolled in under a white cloth with silver domes, folded napkins, tiny glass jars of jam, a pot of coffee, and enough polished hotel discretion to make the last twenty-four hours look like something that had happened to other people.
The waiter kept his eyes on the tray while Torin stood between him and the rest of the suite in dark trousers, bare feet, damp hair, and a fresh black shirt that did absolutely nothing to make him less of a problem.
“You can set the cart by the windows,” Torin said. “Thank you.”
The waiter did as instructed, showed no visible interest in the room, accepted the tip Torin handed him, and left with the speed of a man who understood that some guests were best remembered as silhouettes.
The door clicked shut.
Torin turned the lock, checked the peephole, then looked back at me. “You need food before you start threatening anyone else.”
I sat cross-legged in the middle of the king bed wearing clean utility pants, a grey tank, and the white hotel robe over it because my body had finally developed standards and one of them wasn’t pretending I could run on coffee, adrenaline, and bad decisions forever.
“Was that an order?” I said.
“It was a public service. I’d have added a bow if I thought you’d appreciate the effort.”
“You always this bossy after sex?”
His mouth curved, slow and wicked. “Sweetheart, if I’d known you were taking notes, I’d have made a stronger effort.”
Heat moved through me so fast it was offensive.
I reached for the nearest covered plate instead of answering him. Under the silver dome were scrambled eggs, roasted potatoes, thick-cut bacon, and toast still warm enough to melt the butter waiting beside it. My stomach tightened with immediate, humiliating interest.
Torin saw my face.
“Starving woman meets breakfast,” he said. “Film at eleven.”
“I hate you,” I said, and picked up the fork.
“That’s good. Hate burns calories.”
“You should stop talking before I need the calories for violence.”
He carried a plate to the small table by the windows and sat where he could see the door, the reflection in the glass, and me.
The St. Julian spread Halo City below us in pale afternoon light, the bay throwing silver at the towers, the marine layer hanging back in ragged strips beyond the waterfront like it was waiting for the city to make a mistake.
The suite still smelled like him under the coffee and food and lilies.
The rumpled sheets, the steam fading from the bathroom mirror, and my robe loose at the throat all kept the morning far too present. I cut into the eggs with more force than necessary.
Torin watched me over his coffee. His dark hair was still damp at the ends, his blue eyes too awake for a man who had slept less than I had and spent the morning proving several filthy points with excessive confidence.
“You’re brooding,” he said.
“I’m eating.”
“You’re doing both, and I’ll admit the efficiency is impressive.”
“I can multitask.”
“You can cause trouble in multiple directions.”
“I was fine until private security arrived.”
“You were carrying evidence people burned a safe house over.”
“And yet here we are, blaming me.”
His mouth twitched. “I never blamed you.”
I took a bite of toast and looked away first, which was annoying because I almost never had to do that.
The evidence sat zipped inside my jacket, which was folded beside me on the bed within reach.
It hadn’t left my sight. Torin had tried once to move it to the safe, and I had looked at him until he made a very Irish sound under his breath and stepped back.
His phone buzzed on the table.
Torin set his fork down, checked the screen, and answered. “Dempsey.”
I put my plate on the bed and held out my hand.
He looked at me.
I looked back.
His jaw flexed once. Then he tapped the speaker and set the phone on the table between us.
Landon’s voice came through, flat and controlled. “Is Noa with you?”
“She is,” Torin said.
“Good. Both of you need this.”
I moved off the bed, taking my plate with me because if bad news wanted to arrive, it could do it while I finished breakfast. I sat opposite Torin at the table. The robe shifted around my knees when I reached for the coffee.
Landon continued. “The foundation at the center of the laundering chain is The Warren Pediatric Care Foundation. Pamela Warren is the CEO and public face.”
The fork stopped halfway to my mouth.
I knew the Warren name, but only in the way everyone in Halo City knew names attached to too much money.
Developer money. Hospital-benefit money.
A family name that floated through the city’s expensive rooms without needing to explain itself.
Pamela Warren herself meant less to me than the foundation did, and even that was just another polished surface until Landon put it in the middle of a laundering chain.
“The pediatric foundation,” I said.
“That’s the one,” Landon said. “Donations, grants, donor-controlled entities, development partnerships. Money moves through the foundation, hits Valenti-linked investment structures, then disappears into shells offshore. The routing is layered, but the pattern is consistent.”
Torin leaned back. “How strong is the link to Warren?”
“Strong enough to know the foundation isn’t incidental,” Landon said. “Not strong enough to know every person protecting it.”
“Pamela Warren doesn’t move Valenti money alone,” Torin said.
“She doesn’t move it alone,” Landon said. “That’s the problem.”
The coffee had gone too hot and bitter on my tongue. I swallowed anyway. “Sawyer Price was building the case against her.”
“Against Warren, the foundation, and whoever was behind the larger pipeline,” Landon said. “We also have a name for the likely source. Maren Bell.”
I set the mug down. “Who is she?”
“Executive assistant to Pamela Warren. She had access to donor records, private calendars, correspondence, internal financials. The kind of access people underestimate until it ruins them.”
“Where is she now?”
A pause came through the speaker.
Landon said, “Officially, her employment was terminated for unauthorized access to donor records.”
Torin’s eyes stayed on the phone. “And unofficially?”
“No one has seen or heard from her since.”
The cart waited beside us with silver lids, warm toast, and tiny spoons laid out for jam. I looked at all of it and thought of a woman copying files, hiding them, trusting a federal prosecutor to get them out.
“Do you think she’s dead?” I asked.
Torin’s gaze came to me, sharp and immediate.
Landon didn’t soften his answer. “It looks bad. We don’t have a body.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“I know,” Landon said. “It’s the only honest answer I have.”
I reached for the bacon because my hands needed something to do and apparently stabbing breakfast was better than stabbing the air.
Torin’s foot brushed mine under the table and stayed there.
“How did Price get the files into Strand?” Torin asked.
“We believe Price convinced Bell to cooperate with the feds and extract files from Warren’s organization.
Once he had the source lined up, he arranged a blind drop through Strand.
Anonymous route, no direct meeting until the handoff.
Price likely chose Claudia Kent because her operation leaves very little trail and because her couriers don’t ask questions. ”
“I can confirm the not asking questions part,” I said.
Torin looked at me. “You asked several.”
“Only after people started dying. I’m flexible.”
Landon ignored us with the patience of a man who had probably survived worse conversations before breakfast. “Price was supposed to receive the evidence in Harlan Park. He was killed before the handoff. Noa walked away with the drive. Whoever moved against Price and Bell either knew enough about the route to intercept him or learned enough afterward to track the courier chain. The fire at the safe house suggests speed, reach, and access.”
“Can we use official channels?” Torin asked.
“Official channels still aren’t safe.”
I pushed my plate away, suddenly aware of how much I had eaten and how little it had helped. “Because Pamela Warren has someone protecting her.”
“Because someone is protecting the operation,” Landon said.
“Legal, judicial, law enforcement, political, or some combination. The accounts are too layered, and the response was too fast. Warren is implicated. The foundation is implicated. Valenti-linked structures are implicated. The unknown protector is still unknown.”
Torin’s face tightened in that controlled way of his. “Without the drive?”
“The feds have no usable evidence. Price is dead. Bell is missing. Any backup chain she had may already be compromised. Without the drive, Warren survives this. So does whoever is behind the protection.”
“And I don’t,” I said.
Landon said nothing for half a second too long.
Torin did. “You live through this because I’m standing between you and anyone who tries otherwise.”
I looked at him. He was sitting in a five-star hotel suite with one hand near his phone and the other loose on the table, all controlled violence wrapped in a black shirt and an expression that suggested the universe had better not test him twice.
“That was very confident,” I said.
“It was very true.”
Landon cleared his throat. “The Harbor Lights Gala is tonight. Morrow Museum, waterfront. The Warren Pediatric Care Foundation is one of the central beneficiaries and sponsors. Pamela Warren will be there. Most of the donor class will be there. Developers, hospital-board members, civic officials, press. If Warren is under pressure, she will still attend because absence would draw more attention.”
I looked back at the phone. “That’s the turn I’m going to hate.”
Torin’s eyes narrowed. “I know what you’re about to say, and I already dislike it.”
I looked at him. “You don’t know what I’m about to say.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.”