Page 162 of Only the Hunter

Then I pick up the evidence bag and walk out.

Rebecca Hanford finds me in the hallway.

Of course she does. She’s been in the building for two hours. She’s Rebecca Hanford—she would have found out within the hour that Harridan was being processed, and she would have come, because that’s what she does. She manages situations. She maintains control.

She looks, for the first time in the three years I’ve known her, like a woman who has been caught without a prepared position.

We stand in the hallway and don’t say anything for a moment.

“The photo array,” she says finally.

“Standard procedure.”

“You ran it before I arrived.”

I meet her eyes. “Yes.”

She absorbs that. Something moves across her face—not quite guilt, not quite relief. An accounting.

“I should have asked more questions,” she says.

It’s the closest thing to accountability she’ll offer, and we both know it.

I nod. Once.

She straightens—I watch her do it, the familiar squaring of shoulders that means Rebecca Hanford is done with the personal portion of a conversation. “Harridan’s lawyer is negotiating. He has documentation—communications, payment records, names. He’ll give them up to avoid the trafficking conspiracy charge.”

“What about the shooting? The break-in? Three separate attempts on my life, and Gabe took a bullet because of this.”

“Those charges are still being built. Attempted murder requires proving intent and direct involvement, and right now what we have ties him to conspiracy and cover-up—not to ordering anyone to pull a trigger. That may change. It may not.” Rebecca’s expression doesn’t soften, but it doesn’t dismiss the question either. “What we know for certain is the trafficking conspiracy. That’s the charge with the cleanest evidence chain, and it’s the one that gets him talking about who’s above him.”

“So the people who tried to kill me might walk on those specific counts.”

“The people who executed those attempts—we have names, thanks to what your intruder gave up tonight. They’ll be located. They’ll be held accountable. Harridan’s exposure on those counts is still under review. I won’t promise you an outcome I can’t deliver.” She swallows. “I can promise you we’re not done.”

“Will the DOJ take Harridan’s deal?”

“In this case.” She cocks her head slightly. “We need the names above him more than we need him.”

I already knew that. She knows I knew that. We’re speaking the same language now—the operational language of prosecution rather than the careful management of a difficult subordinate.

“Safe Passage,” I say.

“Reopened as of an hour ago.”

The hallway hums with fluorescent light. My pulse finally slows.

She says it like a fact, not a gift. “Additional resources allocated. The trafficking investigation runs parallel to the conspiracy case.” She straightens. “This is no longer a division matter.”

I think about Lina, who talked to me in a safe house in a voice that kept dropping to a whisper out of fear. About a case that was closed with a signature and a four-word instruction: above your pay grade.

“Good,” I say.

Hanford nods. She’s already half-turned toward the elevator, already in the next conversation in her head. Then she stops.

“Thompson.” She doesn’t look back. “The phrase in the note. Bureaucratic machinery.” I nod. Yes, I definitely know it. “I remember you using it once, in a meeting, maybe two years ago. Stuck with me—wasn’t sure why until Delgado showed me the note today.”

She doesn’t wait for a response.