Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
Surveillance of Sweet Summit Bakery—Day One.
Hunter made a note in his surveillance log.
He sat in the darkness, watching the bakery’s lights flicker on one by one as Brie began her day.
Through the windows, he could see her moving through the shop.
Hair up in a messy bun, tying on her apron.
She looked tired. His wolf whined, wanting to comfort her.
0545: Jake arrived. Good. She wasn’t alone.
0547: Sophie arrived, laughing about something as she entered.
0600: First customer.
Hunter had learned patience in the mountains of Afghanistan, waiting days for a target to appear in a scope. But watching his mate through the bakery windows while she remained oblivious to danger tested him in ways war never had.
Day Two.
Hunter parked near the entrance to the alley behind the bakery with sight lines to both exits. The rain turned everything gray, drops streaming down his windshield like the whole world was crying.
Brie made a delivery run at lunch. Hunter followed three cars back. The bakery van pulled into the Fate Mountain Lodge, and Hunter parked where he could watch. She emerged twenty minutes later with empty boxes, and a bright smile for the valet who helped her load them.
That night, he watched her lock up, Sophie walking her to her car. Good. At least she was taking some precautions. He followed her home, watching until her apartment lights went on, then off two hours later.
Only then did he allow himself to go home, catch some sleep, and start again.
Day Three.
The black SUV appeared at 0700.
Hunter was in his Ram, parked across the street, when the Chevy Tahoe rolled past and pulled into a spot in front of the bakery.
Nevada plates. Windows tinted dark. The driver never got out.
Hunter’s every instinct screamed it was a threat.
He pulled out his phone, snapped a photo of the plates, and called Axel.
“Need a plate run. Nevada tags, Charlie-Tango-Four-Seven-Three-Nine.”
“Give me thirty seconds...” He heard keyboard clicks on the other end. “Registered to Harvey Morrison, age 92, Las Vegas address.”
Hunter studied the driver through his binoculars. “Driver’s maybe thirty. Baseball cap, dark jacket.”
Hunter spent the next three hours watching the watcher. The driver held up his phone periodically, taking photos or video of the bakery. Made two phone calls. Never left the vehicle, not even for coffee or the bathroom. Professional. Patient.
This wasn’t curiosity. This was reconnaissance.
The SUV pulled away at 1030, right before the lunch rush. Hunter memorized every detail, the way the driver checked his mirrors before leaving, the careful speed, the professional awareness. This wasn’t some street thug. This was someone trained.
Day Five.
The pattern continued for two days. The SUV arrived at different times but always stayed 3-4 hours. Always the same driver, same cap, same patient observation. He was building a pattern file on Brie’s movements, customer flow, and the best times to strike.
Hunter’s wolf grew more agitated with each passing hour. His mate was being hunted, and she had no idea. Every time she walked past the windows, visible from the street, his muscles tensed. Every delivery run made him want to block her van with his truck.
But she’d made it clear, she didn’t want his protection.
Too bad.