Page 85 of Main Event

“I’m glad we found each other,” she says. “I think we can do really well together.”

I look at her for one moment—the full look, not the managed surface I’ve shown her over three meetings. Just a fraction of a second. Just enough to see what’s underneath.

She doesn’t see it.

She’s already moving toward the door.

“So do I,” I say.

The envelope is under my windshield wiper.

Standard white. No markings. I almost mistook it for a parking notice until I saw the placement—centered on the glass, not tucked under the wiper the way parking notices go. Placed. Deliberate.

I look around the parking lot before I touch it. Midmorning, half full, nobody visible who might be watching. But they wouldn’t be visible. That’s not how this works.

I put on a glove from my bag—I keep a pair for exactly this kind of reason now—and I open it.

Three items are inside. A photograph, printed on standard paper. A single sheet with a typed schedule. A separate sheet with a typed address.

The photograph is of Daniel Rhoades, taken this morning. I can tell from the light and what he’s wearing—I know what he wore to his attorney’s office this week because his attorney told Bill due to the circumstances surrounding every credible witness. He’s outside the building, coming down the steps, not looking at the camera.

The schedule is his. Today’s and tomorrow’s. Also accurate.

The address is his home.

I stand in the parking lot, look at these three items, and understand the message with absolute clarity. We know where he is. We know his schedule. We know where he sleeps. Call off your client, or we will demonstrate what we do with that information.

I photograph everything without touching it further. I call Bill.

“They left something on my car,” I say. “Daniel. His address, his schedule, his photograph from this morning.” I keep my voice level. “They want us to pull him back.”

Bill is quiet for a moment. “Are you somewhere safe right now?”

“Parking lot. Midday. I’m fine.”

“Get to the car. I’ll call Daniel’s attorney.”

I get in the car and lock the doors. The engine runs while I think about Daniel Rhoades—two years assembling documentation, a note written in his own hand about what he knew and what he chose, and the day he walked into Bill’s office and gave them everything.

They’re not going to scare him off. I already know that. But I call Bill back in five minutes anyway.

“His attorney called him,” Bill says. “Daniel said the second file is already at a fourth location. If anything happens to him, it is sent directly to three journalists and two federal investigators simultaneously. He’s been keeping that in reserve.” He reads the next part off something. “He said to tell you, ‘The machine can’t stop what’s already in motion.’”

I sit in the car.

Four weeks before Luke’s fight. Three months of meetings, performances, and controlled information. Four deaths in the witness chain. Two children’s files left on a desk. A man who spent two years in careful preparation so that this exact moment—when they threatened him—would render the threat useless.

The machine can’t stop what’s already in motion.

“Tell him thank you,” I say.

“I will,” Bill says. “Andi, this means they’re scared. They don’t issue demands like this unless they’re running out of moves.”

“I know,” I say. “I’m counting on that.”

“That makes them more dangerous, not less.”

“I know that too.”