Chapter 11
Gabe
Noah drives up outside Alicia Morgan’s offices. I step outside the glass building doors to greet him, the cold air fogging around my hello.
“All quiet?” he asks, looking past me.
“She’s in her office. Phone meetings all morning. Lunch meeting in the Capitol. Thanks for heading over early.”
“No problem.”
Noah scans the area, taking in the gray sky and the mostly empty parking lot. The faint scent of wood burning travels through the air, likely coming from one of the residential areas that back up to this office complex. The quiet hum of wheels over asphalt can be heard from the nearby street.
“I’m hearing rumors you’re about to be reassigned.”
That catches my attention. I have zero interest in leaving the DC corridor with everything going on with Evie.
But we made it through the holidays without a drop of intel that anyone is after Morgan.
Still, if anyone was going to get dropped from protective detail, I’d think it would be Noah given he’s openly dating Alicia.
“Oh?”
“We’re shifting to remote monitoring. Digging into persons of interest.”
“Shifting to remote monitoring on Morgan makes sense,” I say. “Get ahead of threats instead of reacting.”
“That’s the plan.” Noah glances toward the building. “More time for offensive research.”
Which is exactly what Evie needs. Someone digging into who’s after her and why, instead of waiting for the next attempt.
And if the team’s moving to remote on Morgan, that frees me up to do exactly that.
“What’s got you cutting early?” Noah asks.
“A friend needs me to pick her up earlier than anticipated.”
“This the same friend you mentioned in our last team update?”
“Evie Thompson. One and the same.” I step closer, lowering my tone, although no one’s around to overhear. It’s habit. “Yesterday. She was involved in a drive-by shooting.”
“You think she’s being targeted?”
“I told you I checked her brake line. I’d bet money someone frayed it. The shooting has the same feel.”
“She handling it okay?” Noah asks.
“She’s handling it like someone who’s used to being targeted. Stubborn. Independent. Won’t accept help unless you force it.” All of which lends credibility to her family’s concerns.
Noah’s mouth quirks. “Sounds familiar.”
He’s thinking of Alicia. Fair enough. But this is different.
This is Evie.
“Well, she’s got Rhodes MacMillan in her corner,” he says.
“That she does.”
Rhodes MacMillan. Noah let me in on a little history recently—said he was our team’s first target, ended up becoming a client, and now he’s a strategic partner.
I hadn’t known that when we met him for lunch.
I’m not one hundred percent clear on what his interest in Evie is, but my perception is it’s obligation to her dad, as opposed to personal interest—the seed money, the debt he still seems to carry for it.
“Anyway, I need to head out to beat traffic. You good?”
“Yeah. I’ve got this one.”
I pause next to my vehicle, and ask, “They don’t have an issue with you two?
” I’m curious more than anything. I wouldn’t expect Hudson to share a reprimand if one was issued to Noah.
Following military code, he’d keep that between him and Noah.
But we’re a relatively new group, and there was no handbook distributed with our contract—I’m just curious.
“No,” Noah says. “Be a bit hypocritical given Hudson’s dating Quinn.”
“Seriously?” I hadn’t heard that, but as the new guy on the team, I’m still learning who’s who. If true, I get what Noah’s saying. Hudson dating a direct report is likely worse than dating a client.
“According to Brie. And Syd.”
“Huh.” I file that away. Not my business.
Except it is, a little. Hudson managing it means it’s not impossible.
Not that I’m personally involved with Evie.
Not yet.
The thought strikes before I can stop it.
The timing isn’t right—not with everything going on.
Before I could start anything, I’d owe it to Scott to come clean and—no. Not the time or the place. Pressing priorities first.
“Give me a shout if you need anything,” Noah calls to my back.
“Will do.”
I hop in my car, wondering how Brie and Syd concluded Quinn and Hudson are an item. Did Quinn tell them? Did they observe something? Then again, why do I care? This is a temporary gig for me—a stepping stone until I’ve passed background with the NSA.
I shoot Evie a text as I approach her building.
Me
Here. I’ll park and wait.
Evie
I’m outside. In front of the coffee cart. Early Bird Coffee.
I’m ten minutes early and she’s already outside? That doesn’t sit right.
I clock her standing on the sidewalk—holding a cardboard file box.
Did she quit?
I pull up to the side and lower the window. “Evie.”
At my voice, she hurries over. If it weren’t for heavy traffic, I’d jump out and help her. She opens the back door and sets her box and overcoat on the seat, then jumps in the front seat.
Her hair is pulled back in a bun that’s coming loose—strands escaping at her temples and neck.
Her suit jacket is rumpled, collar askew.
Those sharp eyes that miss nothing look drawn and shadowed.
Tired in a way that has nothing to do with lack of sleep—or the faint outline of bruises showing beneath her makeup.
She’s holding herself together by sheer will, and I can feel the tension radiating off her.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” I keep my voice even, non-confrontational.
Evie stares out the windshield as traffic inches forward, her reflection faint in the glass. The cardboard box in the backseat shifts as I brake, folders sliding. Everything about her posture is controlled, like someone who's decided not to fall apart until she gets somewhere private.
“I asked for personal leave,” she says finally. “Effective immediately.”
That gets my full attention. Personal leave isn’t nothing. It’s clean, but it’s drastic.
“And they let you walk out with a box,” I guess.
“Yes.”
“Evie.”
She exhales through her nose, almost a snort. “You don’t have to say it like that. I know what it looks like.”
Walking out with a box looks like she’s not coming back. “Tell me what it is.”
She turns to me then, really looks at me, and I get the sense she’s made a decision she doesn’t love but has committed to.
“I’m going to Geneva.”
My first instinct is immediate: Hell no.
But I keep my expression neutral. Rule one: let people finish. Let them get to the why before you start solving problems they haven’t asked you to solve.
Still, my internal alarm fires on all cylinders.
Fuck no. Absolutely not.
“There’s an NGO headquartered there,” she says, tone clinical. “One I’ve worked with before. Daniel Price mentioned it yesterday. They don’t take witnesses unless something’s gone wrong on the government side.”
“So you’re going to ask questions.”
“I’m going to confirm she’s safe,” she corrects. “In person.”
“Why in person?”
“Because if someone is monitoring my access here, they’re monitoring my communications. And because if Lina was moved quickly, there will be paperwork that never made it back into the system.” Her jaw tightens. “And because files don’t disappear in Switzerland the way they do here.”
That last part lands with more ugliness than she probably intends.
I nod slowly, absorbing. Ugly or not, it’s true.
Her plan isn’t reckless. It’s measured. I still don’t like it.
“You’re not planning to tell anyone at work,” I say.
“No.”
“Your father?”
“Absolutely not.”
I glance at her hands in her lap—unmoving, but clenched. She’s past the point of asking permission. What she’s doing now is explaining.
“Okay,” I say. “Then here’s what you need to know.”
Her eyes flick back to me, expression sharp. Alert. Likely defensive.
“I ran a background check on the NGO,” I continue. “Not because I didn’t trust you. Because it’s how I think.”
She doesn’t interrupt. A good sign.
“The organization itself is clean. Their leadership is solid. But the financial ecosystem around them?” I shake my head once. “Less so.”
She shifts slightly in her seat.
“Geneva shows up more than once in connection with shell entities tied to the cartel you’ve been prosecuting. Not directly. Never directly. But close enough that it raised flags in two separate intel summaries.”
She’s quiet. Processing.
“There’s a consulting firm registered there,” I add. “And a foundation. Both innocuous on paper. Both funded through layered trusts. Both names I’ve seen before.”
“Names?”
“One in particular.” I hesitate just long enough to mark the importance. “Arturo Menendez.”
“El Pastor,” she says quietly.
“Yeah.”
She’s silent for a long moment. I can almost see her mind working—connecting dots, recalculating risk. “You’re sure about this?”
“I’m sure his money has fingerprints all over Geneva. I’m sure he protects assets there. And I’m sure that if you’re walking into a city where he operates, you need to know what you’re walking into. And you shouldn’t walk in alone.”
She leans back, closing her eyes for a brief second. When she opens them again, I see it. Zero fear. Only resolution.
I can’t say I like it.
“I’m not asking you to fix this,” she says. “Or to protect me.”
“I know.”
“And I’m not turning this into a joint operation.”
“I know that too.”
I pull into a gap in traffic, then continue, choosing my words with care.
“I’m asking to come because I can reduce the number of unknowns,” I say.
“Because I’ve worked around people like Menendez before.
Because Switzerland isn’t just neutral ground—it’s controlled ground.
And because if someone realizes you’ve followed this trail out of the country, things can escalate fast.”
She studies me, searching for overreach. “This isn’t about you thinking I can’t handle it?”
“No,” I answer without hesitation. “It’s about knowing exactly how dangerous it is. Your ability to handle it isn’t a question.”
Her gaze scans the dashboard before returning to me.
“If you come,” she says slowly, “you’re not running this.”
“I wouldn’t try.” And I mean that. She’s damn good at her job.
“You don’t sit in meetings unless I ask.”
“Agreed.” Though every protective instinct I have will scream to be in the room with her.
“You don’t make calls in my name.”
“Never.” That one’s easy. This is her case. Her witness.
“And the second I say stop, you stop.”
I nod. “Fair.”
Even if every tactical bone in my body says keep going, she gets to call the shots.
She’s silent as she looks out the window. Quietly, to the passing streets, she says, “This is temporary.”
I grit my teeth. She means Geneva, but that word stings. I keep that off my face. “I know.”
She looks at me, weighing a decision that my gut says has nothing to do with logistics.
“Okay,” she says finally. “You can come.”
Relief. That’s the word for the loosening of muscles I didn’t realize were tight. I keep it off my face with a concerted show of monitoring our surroundings.
“We’ll book separate rooms,” she adds. “This isn’t—”
“I understand.”
We drive in silence until we reach the alley behind her house, where I hit the brake, waiting for the metal gate to roll up and allow me through onto her property.
As soon as I’ve parked, she reaches for the door handle, then hesitates.
“This doesn’t mean I’m scared.”
I meet her eyes—a bottomless brown, deeply familiar because I sometimes see them when I close mine.
Not the time.
“Understood.”
She nods once, sharp and decisive, then steps out. I follow, coming around to the passenger side as she opens the back door.
“Let me.” I reach for her coat.
She takes it before I can help her into it.
Fine.
I move for the box instead.
“I’ve got it.” She pulls it back quickly, clutching it to her chest.
Our hands don’t touch. Not even close.
The avoidance is deliberate. Careful. She’s drawing lines because she needs them.
I step back, giving her space. “Okay.”
She looks at me for half a second—something flickers in her expression, acknowledgment maybe, or regret for refusing help with a box—then she turns toward the house.
I wait until she’s at the door before locking the car. Watch the way she shifts the box to her hip to unlock the door, the way her hair has just about fallen completely out of the bun, and notice how she doesn’t look back. Not once.
She’s letting me come to Geneva.
But she’s not letting me get close.
Not yet.
And that’s for the best.