Gabe had a head start—twenty minutes, maybe. Plenty of time for things to go sideways. But it was the best she could do. She took the rutted dirt road along the beach rather than risk passing the bakery and catching Wade’s attention.
Once she reached the highway, she turned on the lights.
The road stretched ahead, dark and empty.
Twenty-five minutes later, Gabe’s GPS dot stopped moving.
Her pulse spiked.
The Rusty Anchor emerged from the darkness like a bad memory—weathered siding that might once have been red, now faded to rust. Neon beer signs glowed sickly through the windows. The gravel parking lot was sparsely filled with diesel pickups and aging sedans, the kind of vehicles owned by people who worked hard and didn’t ask questions.
Gabe’s rental SUV sat near the far edge of the lot, clearly visible under the lone functioning security light.
Cara eased the van into shadow and killed the engine. Darkness swallowed her whole.
Through the front windows, she could see into the dim interior. The bar ran along the left wall, backlit by neon and bottles. Booths lined the right. A pool table occupied the back corner, surrounded by men in work jackets nursing beers.
And there—Gabe.
Even at a distance, she recognized his posture. Back protected. Clear line of sight to the door. Alert without looking it.
A woman worked behind the bar—fortyish, tired butcompetent. She set a drink in front of him and leaned in to talk. From here, it looked casual. Normal.
Cara let herself breathe.
Maybe this would be straightforward. Questions asked. Information gathered. Gabe gone before anything turned ugly.
Then she saw them.
Two men in a corner booth. Thick necks. Broad shoulders. The kind of build that came from years of hard labor—or deliberate strength training. They weren’t staring outright, but they’d been tracking Gabe’s movements since he walked in. She could see it now.
One of them pulled out a phone and made a short call.
The air inside the tavern shifted. The bartender straightened, tension replacing ease. The two men rose from their booth—not hurried, not casual.
Then a third man appeared from a doorway behind the bar. Older. Leaner. The way everyone’s attention bent toward him marked him as the one in charge.
He spoke to the bartender. Nodded toward Gabe.
The two men moved. One approached Gabe, posture friendly enough to pass at a glance. The other positioned himself between Gabe and the door.
Gabe’s hand drifted toward his hip—then stopped. Too many civilians. Too many witnesses. He couldn’t draw here.
The first man gestured toward the back. An invitation that wasn’t one.
Gabe rose slowly, tension visible now in the set of his shoulders as he allowed himself to be steered toward the back room.
Cara’s chest tightened.
She had maybe two minutes before that door closed.
Every lesson her father had ever taught her slammed into place. Every role. Every skill she’d sworn she was done with.
She couldn’t let the man she was falling for disappear because she was afraid of who she’d have to be to stop it.
I’m sorry, Lord,she prayed.I know this isn’t who You want me to be. But I won’t let him die.
Carly Reid surfaced fully formed. The actress. The con. The woman who survived dangerous men by becoming exactly what they expected—and then slipping the net.
