Chapter 13
Gabe
With my back to Evie, I take advantage of the interruption to take a deep breath, slow my pulse, and calm my reaction.
I almost kissed her.
And if I had, it would’ve been entirely inappropriate.
Not because she’s Scott’s little sister—it’s been years since that needed to factor.
Because she’s here chasing a witness through a city where someone is already tracking her case.
She needs steady. If I kiss her tonight, I’m not steady anymore.
I’m compromised. And a compromised man doesn’t keep her safe.
Two attempts on her life and a home break-in. She doesn’t need distraction—she needs stability and focus.
After that last internal reprimand, I open the door and scan the uniformed man, clocking his hands, waist, and cart. Clear.
He pushes the cart to the corner of the living room and the round dining table, setting the table up so both Evie and I are facing the view through the French doors.
It’s midafternoon, but it’s a cloudy January day and the sun will set around five.
On our clocks, we should be six hours earlier and have trouble falling asleep, but I suspect Evie didn’t sleep well, and she’s exhausted.
If we can manage to fall asleep early, we’ll be better off in the morning and less likely to sleep half the day away.
Evie takes the bill and signs.
Another reminder that I’m here for logistical support.
While the attendant addresses Evie in English, she responds in French. Shaky, uncertain French, but I’m impressed with the effort. Impressed, not surprised.
It’s not necessary, but I follow the attendant to the door, checking the door lock behind him. When I approach the table, Evie has her laptop out, with her soup and bread set to the side. I ordered the American cheeseburger and fries—easy and filling—in case this lunch ends up doubling as dinner.
Since she’s planning on working, I step into the bedroom and retrieve my laptop from my bag and join her at the table.
She’s pulled her hair back, and I catch the slight blush highlighting her defined cheekbones.
Her thick dark eyebrows, one subtly different in shape than the other, frame her mahogany eyes.
Unruly wisps frame her face, lending her a harried, slightly undone look. Perfectly imperfect.
When she looks up, catching me observing, her brow crinkles and her fingers still on the keyboard. “Is something wrong with it? Call them back—”
“It’s fine.” I force myself to focus on the food instead of the flush lingering on her cheeks.
I cut the cheeseburger in half with a knife and take a bite under her critical eye. “It’s good,” I reassure her. “What about yours?”
She tears off a piece of bread and dips it in the soup, turns back to her laptop, chews, then sucks a finger clean. Her lips round the digit, slowly, her cheeks hollowing with the suction.
Parts of my body that should remain disinterested prove quite disobedient.
Oblivious to my growing discomfort, she shifts the screen so I can see. “These are the NGO records. Transfer timelines.”
“Is that on a database?”
“No. My contact shared the file. She was moved the day after I was instructed to drop the case. Project Safe Passage disbanded on the same day.”
This is good. Focusing on the project at hand is exactly what we should be doing. “What’s your theory?”
I pick up a fry and she tracks the movement—her eyes following my hand to my mouth like she wants one. That’s why I ordered fries. She’s always loved them.
Her knee bumps mine under the table as she reaches across—a brief contact that shouldn’t register but does. She grabs three fries without acknowledging the touch, already pointing at her screen with the other hand.
I don’t move my leg.
Neither does she.
“To bring the NGO in, it seems someone knew a higher-up was instructing us to drop the case, and Lina, our witness, would no longer be safe.”
“Why?”
“Because—no case, no need for WITSEC. So…,” She reaches for two more fries, only this time, she waves them around like a pointer as she talks, “my theory is either someone knew it was coming down the pike and wanted to move her to safety, or someone wanted to ensure the case remains closed and moved her so they could get to her.”
“This NGO not known for safekeeping?”
“It’s not that. But if something happens to her here, it’s less likely it’ll track back to an inter-agency project in the states. Without NGO support—Lina had no resources. Typical of a traffic victim. She’d likely never get out of the country without support.”
“If you were to place a bet? Which theory wins?”
“Well, I’m here.”
“You think someone sent her here to eliminate her quietly.”
She eats the two fries she’s been holding, swallows, and taps on the keyboard. “There are other options for safekeeping in the US. This happened quickly. If anyone wanted to close out the Safe Passage project correctly, there would’ve been a final interview with the witness. That never happened.”
“Is that when you became suspicious?”
“No.” Her fingers keep moving. “I became suspicious when we dropped an easy win. Procedure not being followed—”
“Your brake line.”
Her lips purse, but she doesn’t look up.
My phone vibrates.
I swipe and read the message from Quinn.
Quinn
Hey Gabe—I’ve been working with Daisy, and we’ve got an update on Evie’s case.
Closed DOJ case metadata was accessed again—multiple times.
Queries routed through US government-masked IPs, then bounced offshore.
Resolution nodes point to Switzerland. This doesn’t look like curiosity. It looks like laundering attention.
I scan the message once. Then again.
“Someone else is checking your case,” I say.
Her fingers still. “Who?”
“Doesn’t matter yet. What matters is how.”
I turn the phone so she can see. “They’re using US government-masked IPs, then bouncing offshore. Switzerland.” I say it plainly, but the short version is someone with serious resources is hiding their tracks—using tools that aren’t available to the average person poking around online.
Evie scoops up a couple more fries while she reads.
“Quinn sent that,” I add. “She’s our tech lead. If she’s flagging it, it’s real.”
“I’m leaning toward someone making sure all loose ends are closed.”
“That’s why Switzerland matters.” She looks up, and I expand. “You don’t move a witness here for convenience. You move her here because money disappears quietly, jurisdictions overlap, and accountability blurs.”
“Who’s Daisy?”
“She works with Rhodes over at ARGUS.”
“That’s right. He mentioned her. So she has access to his surveillance tool.”
“Daisy and Quinn are working together. My point is—you’re not the only one following up on this case.”
“Maybe.” She chews the corner of her lip. A tell I first observed when she was a teen. “But I don’t think any of this is passive. Someone wants silence, and anyone following up on the case likely wants the same.”
I type a response to Quinn.
Me
Can you check any financial or shell-company overlap tied to Arturo Menendez?
Evie reads the message before I can lower the phone.
Her gaze lifts to mine. “He’s known for insulation.
Not violence.” She says it like she’s thinking out loud.
“He doesn’t get his own hands dirty—layers of people between him and anything illegal, plausible deniability built into every transaction. You think he’s involved?”
“I don’t know much about the cartel leader, but your assessment tracks with what I know of modern-day cartel leaders who interface with legitimate businesses.
Regardless, if it’s not him, it’s someone like him,” I say.
“Connected. Untouchable. Close enough to legitimate that no one wants to look too hard.”
Her phone vibrates. Not her DOJ-issued phone—the personal one, smaller and worn, with a tortoise sticker on the case. She glances at the screen and her whole body shifts—the relaxed curve of her shoulders tensing, her expression sharpening into prosecutor mode.
“What is it?”
“A contact. He wants to talk. He’s downstairs.”
“You told him where you’re staying?”
“We were supposed to meet tomorrow. Something spooked him.” She’s already moving toward the bedroom. “I need to change.”
“I’m coming with you.”
She doesn’t argue and disappears into the bedroom.
I grab my jacket, check my phone—nothing new from Quinn—and position myself where I can see both the suite entrance and the bedroom door.
When she emerges, she’s transformed. Gray pantsuit, black boots, hair smoothed back. Every inch the federal prosecutor. But I catch the slight tremor in her hands as she checks her phone again, the way she exhales before squaring her shoulders.
“Ready?” she asks.
“Always.”
The hotel bar is understated—dark wood, amber lighting, leather upholstery that swallows sound.
The kind of place designed for conversations that shouldn’t be overheard.
I scan the room automatically, clocking exits, sightlines, and eyes and hands.
Three occupied tables, a couple at the bar, and staff moving efficiently in the background. Clear.
Evie’s already identified our target. She doesn’t point, doesn’t ask—just shifts her trajectory slightly, and I follow her lead. He’s seated alone near the far wall, nursing a drink he hasn’t touched. Mid-thirties, nervous energy barely contained. He tracks the entrance like he’s measuring exits.
She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t look at me for permission.
I follow a step behind—close enough to hear, far enough not to crowd.
I position myself where I can see the entrance, the bar, and the contact’s hands. Basic threat assessment. But I’m also watching Evie—the way she leans forward, the calm authority in her voice, the small tells that show she’s nervous even though she doesn’t look it.
“Thank you for meeting me,” Evie says, already seated across from him.
He swallows. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“Then why are you?” she asks, calm, neutral, inviting.
His gaze flicks to me.
“I’m with her,” I say. “If that’s a problem, we can leave.”
He shakes his head quickly. “No. I just—this wasn’t part of the plan.”
Evie leans forward, elbows on the table. “Neither was relocating a witness without documentation.”
That does it.
His shoulders sag. The fight drains out of him.
“I didn’t move her,” he says. “I facilitated the transfer. That’s all.”
“Who paid for it?” Evie asks.
His nostrils flare. “Not the NGO. Not officially.”
“Then who?”
He glances around, lowers his voice to barely above a whisper. “A foundation. Swiss-registered. Everything clean on paper.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands up. Swiss foundation. Shells inside shells. This is exactly how you disappear money—and people.
Evie doesn’t react. “Name?”
“I don’t have one.” His fingers tighten around the glass. “But the funding cleared fast. Unusually fast.”
“Where is she now?” Evie’s voice stays level, but I hear the edge underneath.
“Alive,” he says quickly. “As of three days ago. But scared. She knows something’s off.”
“The move wasn’t for protection,” she says quietly, her hands flat on the table, skin pale.
I want to reach for her, anchor her, but not here. Not in a professional setting.
“No,” the contact agrees, voice hollow. “It was containment.” The word sits between them, heavy as a verdict.
He swallows. “That’s why I agreed to meet with you.”
Finally, Evie nods. “Thank you.”
“That’s it?” he asks, startled.
“Do you have the address?”
“No.”
“Then that’s it. For now,” she says. “Thank you for coming here. You did the right thing.”
He stands, already backing away. “If anyone asks—you didn’t hear this from me.”
“We won’t mention your name,” she says.
He leaves without finishing his drink.
I signal the bartender and order wine. Something Swiss.
Evie exhales slowly. “That confirms it.”
“Yes,” I say. “We’ll get more tomorrow.”
The wine arrives, and she lifts her glass and takes a small sip. Her hand trembles just enough that I notice. “You okay?”
She nods. “I will be.”
“We’re going to find her.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“No,” I admit. “But I can promise to stay by your side.” Her expression softens—gratitude, maybe, or relief. She doesn’t say anything, but her hand moves across the table, just enough that her fingers brush mine. I don’t pull away. Neither does she.
We sit there a moment longer, the city murmuring outside the windows, the restaurant a hum within the walls.
“Tomorrow,” she says, setting the glass down, “we follow the money.”
I don’t correct her.
But it’s clear. We already are.
We’re sitting in one of the most expensive hotels in Geneva, drinking wine on a chilly, hazy afternoon, while somewhere in this city a woman is being kept quiet by people with enough power to make prosecutors back off and witnesses disappear.
Evie knows it. I know it. And neither of us is walking away.
“Tomorrow,” she says again, softer this time.
Tomorrow, we find Lina.
Tonight, I keep Evie safe.
It’s not much of a plan. But it’s all we’ve got.