Then I'm driving, engine roaring as I hit the highway north toward Portland. Hours between me and Shelby. Hours where she's alone with professional operatives closing in. Shelby's voice replays in my head—strained but controlled, reporting the threat like the trained agent she is.
The highway stretches dark ahead of me. Calculations run automatically. Drive time at current speed. Police response time in that district. Shelby's defensive position and training. Whether three men can breach a locked bathroom door before backup arrives.
My foot presses harder on the accelerator. The engine roars, speedometer climbing past legal limits.
If she's hurt when I get there, I won't need to locate Alan Kline through financial trails and veteran networks. I'll follow the blood trail back to whoever sent them, and I'll make sure it ends with all of them.
11
SHELBY
Cole's last order echoes in my head: barricade in the bathroom, get in the tub, wait for him to arrive. Hours trapped in a hotel room that's already been compromised, with operatives closing in from the river.
Fuck that.
I shove files into my go-bag, assessment overriding his protective instincts. Staying static makes me a target. The bathroom has one exit, no windows, nowhere to run if they come through the door. Mobility gives me options. Public spaces give me witnesses. Movement keeps me alive.
Cole's going to be pissed that I ignored his orders, but I'd rather deal with his anger than get grabbed because I was waiting to be rescued like some fucking damsel in distress.
My service weapon is already in my hand. I pull out my phone and text:
Going mobile. Can't stay trapped here.
His response comes within seconds:
Goddammit Shelby. Where?
I text back:
Don't know yet. Heading away from river.
Cole's reply is immediate:
Pioneer Courthouse Square. 720 SW Broadway. Public space, good sightlines, Starbucks on site. Get there, stay visible, wait for me. Breaking every speed limit between here and Portland.
I text back confirmation and pocket the phone. Pioneer Courthouse Square. Northwest from the Marriott, into the downtown core. It's a distance I can cover on foot faster than operatives can coordinate vehicular pursuit in evening traffic.
I scan the hallway through the peephole. Empty beige corridor, industrial carpet, red exit sign glowing at the far end. The length of the hallway to safety.
I open the door and move.
The hallway stays quiet. No operatives, no movement, just the distant hum of the ice machine and elevator machinery. I reach the emergency exit, slip through, and start descending. Concrete stairs echo with each footfall despite my attempt at silence. Four flights down, listening at each landing.
I hear nothing.
Ground level exits near the conference rooms. I emerge into generic hotel space, a few business travelers checking phones, heading to late meetings. I blend in and walk toward the street exit, scanning faces and postures for threats.
Outside, SW Naito Parkway runs along the waterfront. Evening traffic flows past, headlights cutting through the early darkness. I turn north, then east at the first major intersection, heading into downtown Portland's grid.
The streets are busy with commuters and dinner crowds. I keep a steady pace, checking reflections in storefront windows, watching for pursuit patterns. My go-bag marks me as a traveler, my purposeful stride as someone with a destination. Nothing unusual, nothing that draws attention.
A few blocks in, I spot him.
A man in dark clothing crosses the street behind me, maintaining a parallel course one block over. Average height, lean build, moving with practiced efficiency that speaks to training. He's keeping distance but tracking my trajectory.
One of the operatives hunting me.
I turn right at the next block, increasing pace without breaking into a run. The street narrows slightly, lined with restaurants starting to fill for dinner service. I duck into one, move quickly through the dining room toward the restrooms in back.
