Page 56 of Only the Hunter

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.