Page 45 of Only the Hunter

“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.