CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Riley smoothed the delivery uniform over her hips, the fabric stiff and foreign against her skin.
As she pinned on Dana Beaufort’s name badge, it felt strange to be wearing another woman’s identity.
She adjusted the cap, pulling the brim lower to shadow her face, and caught her reflection in the small wall mirror.
Just enough resemblance to pass, if Tony Bartlett was watching from a distance. And Riley knew he would be watching.
“How’s the fit?” Ann Marie asked, entering the room with an equipment bag slung over her shoulder.
“Close enough,” Riley replied. “He won’t be looking for the details. Just the uniform and the silhouette.”
Ann Marie unzipped the bag and laying out their gear on the table. “Earpieces are encrypted, range-tested to three miles.” She handed Riley a flesh-colored device barely larger than a pencil eraser. “Clear signal, continuous open mic. The sheriff and I will hear everything.”
Riley slipped the earpiece in, adjusting it until it sat comfortably. “And the vest?”
“Level IIIA, thin profile. Shouldn’t be visible under the uniform.
” Ann Marie pulled out a lightweight bulletproof vest. Riley stripped off the uniform shirt and pulled on the protective gear.
The familiar weight settled across her shoulders and chest—a comforting presence despite what it represented.
She put the shirt back on, checking her movement. Not ideal, but manageable.
“Have you got your sidearm ready?” Ann Marie asked.
Riley pulled up her pants leg to show Ann Marie her Glock 19. “Ankle holster. Dana’s records show she doesn’t carry, so we can’t risk anything visible.”
The door swung open, and Sheriff Walter Rich entered with his deputy, a tall man with a military bearing.
“Route’s confirmed,” he said without preamble, spreading a map across the table.
“Six scheduled deliveries along Highway 29, then branching onto Talomaska Creek Road. Fifteen miles total.” He traced the route, pausing at certain points.
“These three locations are the most isolated. If I were setting an ambush, that’s where I’d do it. ”
Riley studied the map, memorizing the curves and straightaways, the houses and turnoffs. “What about the trailing vehicle?”
“Ford Explorer, unmarked, civilian plates. We’ll stay at least a quarter-mile back most of the time.”
“And if we lose you?” Riley asked.
“You won’t,” the sheriff assured her, though his eyes betrayed some concern. “But if communication drops, we come in hot. No hesitation.”
Riley met the sheriff’s gaze. They both understood what was at stake.
Ann Marie checked her watch. “We should move. The real Dana would start her route right now.”
As they walked toward the garage, Riley felt a familiar tension—the blend of focus and fear that preceded every dangerous operation. The sheriff and his deputy peeled off toward their unmarked SUV, leaving Riley and Ann Marie with the SwiftUnified Parcels delivery truck.
“I don’t love you being back there alone,” Riley murmured as Ann Marie prepared to climb into the cargo area.
“You need backup,” Ann Marie replied, checking her weapon one last time. “And I’m wearing a vest too.” She hesitated, then added more softly, “Besides, you’re the one he’ll be watching.”
“Remember,” Sheriff Rich said, approaching them for a final word, “radio checks every five minutes. If you spot anything—a car following too close, someone watching from a driveway, anything that triggers your instincts—call it in immediately.”
“Understood,” Riley said.
Ann Marie climbed into the back of the truck, positioning herself behind a stack of parcels where she could maintain a clear line of sight to the rear doors while remaining hidden.
Riley settled into the driver’s seat, adjusting the mirrors and familiarizing herself with the controls. The truck felt bulky and unwieldy compared to her own vehicle, the sight lines restricted. A disadvantage if Tony decided to strike.
The delivery manifest was clipped to the dashboard, showing the same route Dana Beaufort was supposed to take today.
“Radio check,” came the sheriff’s voice in her ear.
“Clear,” Riley responded.
“Clear,” echoed Ann Marie from the back.
Riley turned the key, and the engine rumbled to life. She pulled out of the sheriff’s station. The weight of the Glock against her ankle was reassuring, though she hoped she wouldn’t need it.
“First checkpoint in three minutes,” the sheriff’s voice crackled in her ear. “We’re maintaining distance.”
“Copy,” Riley said, her eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. The Explorer was nowhere in sight, exactly as planned.
Riley merged onto the highway, settling into the right lane. The two-lane road stretched ahead, cutting through fields and woodland. Isolated. Exposed. Perfect for an ambush.
She exhaled slowly, steadying her nerves. The operation had begun.
The first delivery went smoothly—a cardboard box no larger than a shoebox, handed to an elderly woman who barely glanced at Riley’s face before signing the electronic pad.
Riley maintained a pleasant, forgettable smile as she returned to the truck, her eyes never stopping their constant scan of the surroundings.
The two-lane highway stretched before her, bordered by tall pines that cast dappled shadows across the asphalt.
Perfect cover for someone watching, waiting.
She adjusted her cap and pulled back onto the empty road, feeling exposed in the bright midday sun.
“One down,” Riley murmured into her mic. “Nothing unusual.”
“Copy that,” came Ann Marie’s soft reply from the back of the truck. “No movement on my end.”
“We’re holding position,” Sheriff Rich added. “Still clear.”
Riley settled into the rhythm of driving, but alert and ready to react. The truck hummed along the empty stretch of highway, passing old mailboxes and gravel driveways that disappeared into the woods. Each could hide a vehicle, a vantage point, a trap.
The phone on the passenger seat—Dana Beaufort’s work phone—buzzed with a notification. Riley glanced at it, then back to the road, before reaching for it.
“Got a message on Dana’s phone,” she said, keeping her voice low.
The text was from an unknown number: “Opening move complete. Your response?”
Riley reported it to Rich, “Text from unknown number. Chess reference—‘Opening move complete. Your response?’” She placed the phone back on the seat without responding to the text. “He’s watching. Somehow, he’s watching.”
The second delivery took her down a narrow side road to a farmhouse set back from the highway. An older man accepted the package, barely looking at her as he signed. As Riley walked back to the truck, the skin between her shoulder blades tingled with the certainty of being observed.
“Still nothing visible,” she reported, climbing back into the cab. “But it feels like—”
The phone buzzed again. Same unknown number: “Bishop to d4. Pressure building on queen.”
“Another message,” Riley said. “‘Bishop to d4. Pressure building on queen.’” She frowned. “He’s playing some kind of game.”
“We’re scanning all approaching vehicles,” the sheriff replied. “Nothing matching our suspect profile.”
Riley pulled back onto the highway, her eyes constantly checking the mirrors. No vehicles behind her. Nothing ahead but empty road cutting through fields and woodland.
By the third delivery—a small package to a rural mailbox where the recipient wasn’t home—the phone had buzzed twice more. Each message deepening Riley’s unease.
“Knight advances, check,” followed by “Pawn sacrifice imminent.”
“He’s setting something up,” Riley told Ann Marie as she drove away from the mailbox. “These aren’t just random chess terms. He’s narrating his plan.”
“Can you see anything from your position?” Sheriff Rich asked.
“Negative,” Riley replied, frustration edging her voice. “No tail, no suspicious vehicles. He must have eyes on us another way.”
She considered the possibilities as she drove. Traffic cameras? Not on these rural roads. Drone? Perhaps, but they’d have spotted it. Someone in one of the houses they’d visited? Possible, but how would Tony coordinate that?
The phone buzzed again: “Rook aligns with king. Check in three moves.”
The chess metaphors were becoming clearer now—Tony positioning his pieces, setting up an endgame. But what kind? What was his actual plan?
“Sheriff,” she said, “these messages are escalating.”
“We’ve got nothing on visual,” the sheriff replied, tension evident in his voice. “No unusual vehicles, no one on foot.”
The road curved gently between hills now, offering limited visibility ahead. Riley slowed slightly at each bend, anticipating a blockade, an ambush, something to force her to stop.
Nothing.
The phone buzzed one final time: “Checkmate: 12 kilograms, 60-meter radius. No survivors.”
That’s not a chess move.
But Before Riley could share that text with anyone, her vehicle had rounded a sharp curve. Her foot slammed the brake pedal and the delivery truck skidded to a halt, tires squealing on asphalt.
There, in the center of the road right in front of her, stood Tony Bartlett.
He was slender, almost frail-looking in a plain dark jacket. But it was what he wore around his torso that froze Riley’s blood—a vest wrapped with what could only be explosives, wires running to a cellphone strapped to his wrist.
Riley and Ann Marie were ten feet from a man obviously prepared to kill anyone within a 60-meter radius—including himself.