Page 61 of Only the Hunter

He doesn’t argue. This part is mine—witness advocacy, institutional pressure points, the careful dance of official versus personal inquiry. Gabriel understands my reasoning. It’s easier to get someone to talk when deniability is easily achieved. One person’s word against another, that’s easy. Two versus one, and it’s more questionable—the sense of security isn’t the same.

Inside, the air smells like coffee that’s been sitting too long on a warmer. A woman behind the reception desk looks up as I approach, an easy, unguarded smile already in place.

“I’m here regarding a witness transfer,” I say, handing over my card. Not my DOJ credentials—those are no longer active—but the personal card I’ve always kept for international coordination. “Lina Morozova.”

“Oh, sure—let me just check who handles that file.” Nothing in her expression shifts. No recognition, no wariness. She picks up the phone, cheerful, uninvolved, exactly the way someone behaves when they believe they work for an organization with nothing to hide. “Hi, sorry to bother you—there’s someone here asking about a Morozova placement?”

She pauses. Then her smile falters, just slightly, like she’s picked up on something in the response she doesn’t fully understand.

“Sure. I’ll ask her to wait.” She hangs up. “Someone will be right out.”

The someone who emerges a moment later is not cheerful.

Mid-forties, gray suit, a face arranged into professional blankness. He doesn’t introduce himself. “You’re inquiring about a closed placement.”

“I worked this case,” I say, keeping my tone collegial. “Until it was reassigned.”

“Then you understand it’s no longer your file.” His tone is flat—rehearsed, almost. Nothing like the woman at the desk. “All inquiries go through Swiss counsel or the originating authority.”

The originating authority closed the case.

This is a dead end.

I nod, thank him, and turn to go—then stop, pivoting just enough to lower my voice.

“She testified,” I say quietly. “She cooperated fully. If something happened to her⁠—”

His stoic expression doesn’t change. He simply waits for me to leave.

But near the mail cubbies to the side of the lobby, a young man sorting envelopes has gone very still. Early twenties, ID badge clipped to his belt. He’d been chatting with the receptionist when I walked in—the kind of easy, low-stakes office friendliness that means he’s probably here often, probably trusted, probably not important enough to be briefed on anything.

Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second.

Then he looks away.

That’s the tell.

I let the man in the suit walk off toward wherever he came from, and I linger near the cubbies, close enough that the young man can hear me without needing to look up.

“She was transferred again,” he says, voice low, words spilling out like he doesn’t have it in him to contain them. “For her own safety. It was expedited. That’s what the communication said.”

Expedited means urgent. Means threat.

“When?” I keep my voice gentle. Don’t spook him now.

“Shortly after arrival. Within forty-eight hours.”

“Where?”

He shakes his head, already retreating. “I don’t have access to destination data. Only movement confirmation.”

“Excuse me.” The receptionist’s voice, no longer cheerful, cuts across the lobby. She’s crossed half the distance between her desk and us before I register she’s moving, her expression tightening into something that now resembles caution. “Elias, don’t you have deliveries to finish?”

He disappears through a side door without meeting my eyes again.

I leave without another word.

Outside, the cold hits hard and sharp. The temps are dropping and the wind has picked up.