Page 163 of Only the Hunter

The elevator opens and she steps in, and I watch the doors close. I stand in the hallway for a moment longer than I need to.

Outside, the air is frigid. I stand on the steps of the federal building with my messenger bag on one shoulder and the city doing what the city does—indifferent, continuous, lit against the dark. Hudson is somewhere in the parking structure waiting. Gabe is at his apartment, having refused overnight observation with the specific stubbornness of a man who distrusts hospitals on principle. He’d said it in the same tone he uses for everything, but I could hear the strain under it. The way pain threads itself through discipline.

I think about what Harridan said.

I thought you were smarter than this.

He built a plan around a woman he categorized as containable. Employed intimidation tactics. When that failed, documented her instability. Constructed a narrative. Wrote three paragraphs in her voice and put them in the pocket of a man with a lock pick, and he was certain—genuinely, professionally certain—that it would work.

He was wrong about what I would do.

He was wrong about who I am.

He never accounted for the fact that I would not be alone.

I take out my phone and send Gabe a message.

Me

On my way. I’m bringing Atlas.

The response comes back in under a minute.

Gabriel Martin

Copy.

It’s exactly what he would send. Efficient. No excess.

I can almost see him—jaw set, eyes tired, planning where he’ll place the litterbox for minimal mess.

I walk down the steps toward the parking structure, and the city opens up around me. Safe Passage is running again, and somewhere in the machinery of what comes next, the names above Harridan’s are already being traced.

It’s not over. The names above Harridan will surface. The machinery will grind forward. There will be hearings and indictments and we’ll locate victims who will testify in drab rooms that smell like recycled air.

But this part—the part where he believed he could write my ending for me—is finished.

Chapter 33

Gabe

The knock is softer than I expect.

I’m at the door before the second one lands. I’ve been waiting. Forcing myself to remain awake, watching a dot on the Find My Friends app. The blue glow of the screen is still burned into my vision. I tracked her progress block by block like I was clearing a grid. Like she would arrive quicker if I watched it closely enough.

If it wasn’t for the strict warning to avoid driving while on the painkiller they gave me, I would’ve picked her up and driven her myself. Hudson assured me he’d get her here safe, and true to his word, he dropped her off, texted that it was late, and said he’d check in tomorrow. It is late. After midnight.

When I open the door, Evie’s loaded down with a wheeled suitcase with a box resting on the top, her messenger bag, and a cat carrier. My good arm reaches out to help but she brushes me aside, lugging everything in like she’s used to getting by on her own.

I close the door behind her, and the first thing she does is open the cat carrier. Atlas pops out, ears forward, tail twitching, then trots down the hall without a backward glance.

Evie watches, messenger bag over her shoulder, hair pulled back loosely, exhaustion sitting under her eyes in a way that doesn’t diminish her—it elevates her. Makes her look like someone who has just finished an event she trained for—and not only finished, but won.

For a moment, we just look at each other.

Pristine white bandages cover the bullet entry and exit. Bound in place with medical tape that crosses my shoulder. I didn’t bother with a shirt, only pulled on pajama pants when I arrived home. A dull, steady pull aches every time I move too fast or lift my arm—hence, shirtless. She clocks all of it in less than a second. I can see the assessment happen.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” she says.