Page 149 of Only the Hunter

“I’m not walking into a warehouse with a wire,” she says evenly. “I’m not meeting anyone in a parking garage. This isn’t that kind of play.”

Good.

Because if it were, the answer would already be no.

“What is it, then?” Hudson asks.

Evie slides a tablet across the table. A draft motion fills the screen—federal court formatting, clean and precise. I recognize her writing immediately. Surgical. Controlled.

“Motion to reopen the Morozova trafficking case,” she says. “Not the Safe Passage Project. Lina’s case. Specifically.”

The room stills.

“On what grounds?” Noah asks.

“New evidence.”

I glance at the document again. My pulse slows instead of spikes. I do not like this.

She scrolls down.

And there it is.

Recorded testimony obtained from Lina Morozova prior to her death.

I look up.

“You don’t have that,” I say quietly. She has a sworn affidavit, but without Lina’s presence at trial, she’s already told me it won’t be deemed sufficient.

“No,” Evie replies. “I don’t.”

Hudson’s brow furrows. “You’re proposing filing something you can’t substantiate?”

“I’m proposing claiming I can,” she corrects. “Routing the claim through DOJ channels. Saving it. Revising it. Sending it for internal comment through my work account.”

She leans forward slightly. “They killed Lina because she could talk. They suppressed the case because they thought her voice was buried. If they believe I have recorded testimony—actual audio—something that could be entered into public record—” she pauses, “they won’t sit on that. There’s no telling what they’ll think I have. At the very least, we’ll flush out who’s behind this within the DOJ.”

Noah scratches at his jaw—looks at me, then at Evie. “They may suspect you’re bluffing, but they’ll need to confirm it.”

“Exactly.”

“And to do that,” Hudson adds slowly, “they’ll act.”

Phone calls. Money. Intermediaries. Orders. Movement.

Evie nods once. “They’ll aim to get ahead of the filing. Which means they’ll have to flush themselves out.”

No, they’ll try to flush her out.

I should say no. I feel it in my bones—the reflex to shut this down before it ever breathes.

Instead I ask, “Where will they think the recording is?”

She meets my eyes.

“With me.”

The room goes quiet again.