"Sela." Calder's expression softens slightly. "You're doing the right thing. Not many people would have the courage."
"Or the stupidity," I say, but it comes out shaky.
She checks her watch. "Marc's already threatening to pull you if we don't move. Time to go."
Walking to the coffee shop feels surreal. Normal people pass me on the sidewalk—mothers with strollers, businessmenchecking phones, students rushing to class. None of them know I'm walking into an ambush... or that I'm the bait.
Cold air bites my cheeks. Early morning traffic hums past, tires hissing on wet pavement. Somewhere a car horn blares. Life continuing, oblivious, while my pulse hammers and my hands want to shake.
Inside the coffee shop, warmth hits me along with the sound of the espresso machine and quiet conversations. The smell of roasted beans, vanilla syrup, something baking. A barista calls out an order. Someone laughs at a corner table.
I order tea I won't drink, choose a table by the window like Calder instructed. I position the purse with the phone on the table where the camera has a clear view.
Then I wait.
Minutes crawl. I watch traffic through the window, track faces in the crowd, try to spot where Marc and Finn are positioned. Can't see them. That's the point.
My tea cools in its paper cup. Steam rises, dissipates. I wrap my fingers around it anyway, something to do with the nervous energy building in my chest. Around me—a student typing on a laptop, headphones in, completely absorbed. Two women discussing someone's wedding. A man in a suit reading the newspaper.
All of them safe. All of them unaware.
I check my phone like I'm reading messages, give the camera views of the street, the entrance, the other customers. My reflection looks back from the screen—pale, tense, trying to look casual and failing.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Eventually, Cara's voice whispers through the earpiece hidden in my hair. "Two contacts approaching from the south. Male, both armed based on movement patterns. Thirty seconds."
Sweat pricks my palms. I force myself to stay seated, keep my breathing even. Count the seconds.
The door opens.
Two men enter. Same breed as the contractors at the cabin. They scan the room like they're memorizing it: exits, people, sight lines. One's older, graying hair and a scar across his knuckles. The other's younger, built like he lives in the gym, neck thick with muscle.
Recognition flashes across the older one's face.
Gray-hair says something to his partner, too quiet for me to hear. Gym-rat moves to the door, blocking the exit.
Gray-hair approaches. "Sela Mitchell?"
I widen my eyes, let confusion cross my face. "Do I know you?"
"Mutual friend suggested we talk." He pulls out the chair across from me without asking, settles into it. "You've got information that belongs to our client. He'd like it back."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you do." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Emma Blackwell's files. The evidence you turned over to the FBI." He pauses, letting that sink in. "Our client will pay you well to give back what you took and forget what you saw."
My mouth goes dry. Keep calm. Keep him talking. "Your client." I keep my voice steady. "Does he have a name?"
"You know who we're talking about."
"Actually, I don't." I have to get him to say it, have to get it on the recording. "Who exactly sent you?"
His expression hardens. His hand moves to the table, drums once. Decision's made. "Listen carefully. Our client is offering you a way out. Take the money, disappear, live your life. Or refuse and deal with the consequences."
"That sounds like a threat."
"It's a fact." He leans closer. The smell of coffee on his breath, something sharper underneath. Cigarettes maybe. "You talked to the FBI about our client, you won't live long enough to see trial. But you help us clean this up, you walk away rich and safe."
