Chapter Five | NOA #2
“You’re going to suggest walking into the gala with the evidence and using yourself as bait.”
I stared at him.
Torin lifted one shoulder. “You’re predictable when you’re about to do something dangerous.”
“I’m consistent. There’s a difference.”
“You’re not walking in there just because they want you exposed.”
“The people hunting me already know I’m the courier. They already tried to burn me out of a safe house. I’m bait whether I walk into that gala or sit here eating toast.”
“You sitting here gives me walls, a door, and a controlled approach.”
“Until they come back.”
“They don’t know we circled back.”
“They found the safe house. They found breakfast. I’m not betting my life on them getting bored before dinner.”
His jaw tightened.
I leaned toward the phone. “Landon, if Pamela Warren is there, and if whoever protects her is connected to that room, public exposure gives us leverage. Private handoffs keep getting people killed.”
“She’s not wrong,” Landon said.
Torin looked at the phone like he might shoot it. “You’re meant to be the responsible one.”
“I am,” Landon said. “That’s why I’m not dismissing the only plan that makes killing Noa less useful.”
My lungs emptied before I could stop them.
Torin went still.
I felt his attention shift to me, but I didn’t look at him. Not yet. If I looked at him now, I might see too much on his face, and I had no space left inside me for too much.
Landon continued. “Evidence in one hidden location keeps the target on her. Evidence public and distributed changes the math.”
“Then I take the drive,” Torin said. “Noa stays clear. I make the handoff.”
“I’m not staying clear,” I said.
His eyes cut to mine. “I didn’t think you’d agree to that.”
“I wasn’t answering a question.”
“No, you were making my life harder in a way I’m starting to recognize on sight.”
The way he said it slipped under my guard. Low. Rough. Not angry exactly. Worse.
I stood and crossed to the bed, picking up my jacket. The drive pressed hard through the inner pocket. “They can still use me as leverage if I’m not there. They can grab me to get to you, to the evidence, to Landon, to anyone. I’m not waiting in a room while men decide the ending.”
Torin stood too. “That isn’t what I’m doing.”
“It’s exactly what you’re doing.”
“I’m trying to keep you breathing.”
“And I’m trying to make sure Maren Bell and Sawyer Price didn’t do all of this so Pamela Warren could put on diamonds tonight and smile for cameras.”
His expression didn’t soften and he didn’t yield.
The phone stayed silent on the table.
Torin crossed the room until he stood in front of me. He was too close, and my heels stayed planted.
“You walk into that gala,” he said, “you walk in with a plan that keeps you alive and keeps me close enough to do my job.”
“I walk into that gala with a plan that works.”
“My plans work.”
“Your safe house burned.”
His eyes flashed. “And you’re alive.”
“So are you. Try not to sound like you did it alone.”
For one second, the room held us there.
Then Torin smiled, but it wasn’t his easy grin. This one had teeth in it. “That mouth is going to get you in trouble.”
“You’re unbearable.”
“You said that when you were riding me two hours ago.”
My pulse kicked hard enough to make me hate every inch of him.
Landon’s voice came through the phone. “I’m still on the line.”
I closed my eyes. “Unfortunately, you are.”
Torin didn’t look away from me. “We need a public release mechanism. Someone who has been vetted, and someone who moves fast.”
“Gideon Simmons is the best option,” Landon said.
“Gideon Simmons?” I asked.
“You know him?” Torin asked.
“I know the byline. Investigative reporter. Financial crimes, corruption, development scandals. Half the city hates him.”
“That’s why he’s useful,” Landon said. “Simmons has burned bridges with every compromised institution in Halo City. He is vetted, and he knows how to publish before anyone can lean on an editor.”
Torin reached for the phone without taking his eyes off me. “Can you reach him?”
“I already did.”
A second line clicked. Then a man’s voice entered the room, alert and dry. “Landon, if this is another theoretical conversation about public interest, I’m hanging up.”
“It isn’t theoretical,” Landon said. “Gideon Simmons, Torin Dempsey and Noa Dahl are on the line.”
A pause.
Simmons said, “Noa Dahl, the courier?”
“That depends who’s asking,” I said.
“The man you’re about to make very busy.”
Torin said, “Mind how you phrase the next bit, Simmons. She’s already had a long day, and I’m not feeling generous.”
Simmons made a short sound. “That answers the bodyguard question.”
Landon cut in. “Simmons, the drive contains financial records tying The Warren Pediatric Care Foundation to laundering through donor structures, shell accounts, and Valenti-linked development pipelines. Sawyer Price was supposed to receive it before he was murdered. Maren Bell is likely the source and is missing. Official channels may be compromised.”
“Do you have the drive?” Simmons asked.
I looked at Torin.
Torin looked at me.
I said, “We have it.”
“Can I verify before publication?”
“You can verify enough,” Landon said. “Not take possession and disappear for six hours.”
“I wouldn’t disappear for six hours.”
“You would disappear for twelve because you’re thorough,” Landon said. “Not tonight.”
Simmons was silent for one beat. “Harbor Lights.”
“Yes,” Landon said. “Warren will be there.”
Simmons exhaled. “Of course she will. The pediatric foundation has half the room wearing donor pins and feeling righteous about champagne.”
I glanced at Torin. “He sounds fun.”
“He sounds like a journalist,” Torin said.
Simmons said, “I heard that.”
“You were meant to hear it,” Torin said.
Landon’s voice hardened. “Focus. Simmons, you receive the drive at the gala. You verify enough to publish immediately. No delay. No consultation with anyone outside your own secure channel.”
“I’ll need a discreet transfer.”
“You’ll get one,” Torin said.
“Where?” Simmons asked.
“East gallery,” Landon said. “Inside the Morrow Museum. The foundation donor wall is there. Cameras, donors, press traffic, and enough movement to cover a handoff without making it look hidden.”
Simmons said, “Contact phrase?”
“Noa asks if you’ve seen the pediatric donor packet,” Landon said.
“I answer, ‘Not yet, but I’m expecting a late edition,’” Simmons said.
“You have the exchange right,” Landon said. “After that, she gives you the drive. You step away, verify, publish.”
Torin said, “You stay out of private rooms, keep a public sightline, and leave yourself an exit route where my team can see you.”
“Agreed,” Simmons said. “Public sightline, press credential visible, exit to the media corridor behind me.”
“Noa becomes visible only after the drive is out of her hands,” Torin said.
“I understand,” Simmons said.
Landon said, “My people will be inside, but they won’t show unless publication starts or the situation breaks open. Vetted law-enforcement support will be close, not obvious.”
I looked at the phone. “And if I see Pamela before the handoff?”
“You don’t engage,” Landon said.
Torin’s eyes came to mine. “If she approaches before the handoff, you move where I can reach you and let her talk to the empty air.”
“I avoid her,” I said.
“That’s a start.”
Simmons said, “For what it’s worth, society people like inviting the press until the press does its job.”
“Then do your job fast,” I said.
“I will.”
Landon said, “You leave the suite once wardrobe and comms are set. Service elevator to the lower lobby. South entrance to the vehicle. No main lobby, no front desk, no unnecessary eyes.”
Torin said, “Who is driving?”
“HPG,” Landon said. “Black SUV. Saint is staged two blocks off the hotel and will come to the south entrance only when you’re at the service corridor.”
Simmons said, “I’ll enter Harbor Lights through press check-in and wait in the east gallery. If I move before the phrase, assume I’m burned.”
“You won’t move before the phrase,” Landon said.
“I won’t,” Simmons said.
The line went dead. By then, the brunch had gone warm at the edges and cold in the center. I still ate another piece of bacon because my body hadn’t received the memo that everything was terrible.
Torin watched me.
I looked back. “Don’t start.”
“I haven’t said a word.”
“You’re thinking loudly.”
“I’m thinking I should lock you in the bathroom until this is done.”
“You should try it. I could use the exercise.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You knew that before you put your mouth on me.”
His eyes went dark.
Outside the window, Halo City glittered in all its expensive afternoon indifference.
Somewhere below us, Pamela Warren was probably stepping into a dress that cost more than my rent.
Somewhere in the city, Maren Bell was missing, and Sawyer Price was dead, and the evidence in my jacket was the only reason anyone left alive might pay for it.
Torin stepped closer.
I didn’t move.
“This plan is ugly,” he said.
“It fits the occasion.”
“If anything shifts, I need you close enough to reach.”
“If anything shifts, I move.”
“You move in a direction that lets me put myself between you and the bullet, blade, or bastard coming for you.”
“Almost sweet.”
“It wasn’t.”
“No. It sounded possessive.”
“It was, and I’ve no intention of pretending otherwise.”
My breath caught.
Torin’s hand came up, not touching me yet. His knuckles hovered near the belt of the hotel robe. “If you want me to stop, you need to tell me before I lose the last sensible thought I’ve got.”
I looked at his hand. Then at his face.
The gala was tonight. The drive was in my jacket. The unknown protector was still unknown. Pamela Warren would walk into a ballroom in silk and diamonds, and I would walk in after her with evidence, a bodyguard, and no guarantee any of us would walk back out.
I put my hand over his and dragged it to the knot of the robe.
“I don’t want you to stop,” I said.