Page 63 of Only the Hunter

Gabe nods once. He isn’t trying to finish the thought for me.

“And NGOs,” I continue, excitement creeping into my voice now, “are perfect cover—not because they’re complicit, most of them have no idea. They move people fast. They don’t always verify downstream custody. And once a witness is ‘safe,’ everyone stops asking questions.”

He watches me, expression unreadable but steady. After a beat, he says, “If you wanted to isolate someone, a smaller canton makes tactical sense. Limited law enforcement presence. Easier to monitor who’s asking questions. Harder for outside agencies to coordinate access.”

“And if she’s in private housing instead of institutional placement⁠—”

“No visitor logs,” he finishes. “No records. No bureaucratic paper trail beyond that one financial transaction.”

Watching him think is oddly steadying—the way his mind moves in straight lines while mine spirals. Different tools. Same target. Useful—for tracking down Lina.

“This has never been about protecting Lina,” I say, the suspicion solidifying into certainty. “It’s about breaking the trail so completely that reopening the case becomes impossible. Make her vanish so thoroughly that even if someone tries to find her, they’re chasing ghosts in Geneva while she’s somewhere no one’s looking.”

And the best part of this—if they think she can’t be found, she might actually be safe—maybe. But the opposite is also true.

A tram slides past, bell chiming. Pedestrians with shopping bags flow around us on the sidewalk, oblivious. The normalcy of it all suddenly feels obscene.

“So we don’t hunt in Geneva,” he says.

“No,” I concur, pulling out my own phone to search for train schedules. “We go where the money actually landed.”

Gabe pockets his phone, still focused, filled with purpose. “That’s where we go.”

And for the first time since I walked away from the DOJ—the trail doesn’t feel cold. It feels close.

We’re close.

Lina was here. Someone moved her. Lucky for us, they left an accidental trace.

We just have to follow it before the trail gets scrubbed—or she’s moved again.

Chapter 15

Gabe

Switzerland runs on schedules. You miss your window, and that’s the hand you’ve been dealt. The last cogwheel train is long gone by the time we finish mapping routes and cross-checking service windows. Evie doesn’t like it, but Quinn confirmed the address she flagged wouldn’t be accessible in the dark. Snow changes everything. So does altitude.

Evie doesn’t argue. Her silence and steadfast focus on maps told me more than anything she could’ve said.

Back at the hotel, we settle into doing what we should’ve done from the start—preparing. The suite feels cozier than it did this morning. Or maybe it’s just that I’m more aware of her now. The way she moves. The space she takes up. The space between us.

She claims the desk, spreading papers and notes with the quiet precision of someone who’s learned how to work inside chaos and maintain calm. I take the armchair by the window, phone in hand, monitoring updates from the team and watching the lake turn black.

We don’t talk much.

But the silence isn’t empty.

It hums. Tight and coiled. Like both of us are holding something just beneath the surface, and neither of us is ready to be the one who lets it show.

At some point she kicks off her shoes and curls her legs beneath her on the chair. Bare feet. Small, pale ankles disappearing into dark denim. I look away. Force my attention back to my phone.

Later—I don’t know how much time has passed—I realize I’ve been tracking the way her fingers move when she thinks. The slight movements are rapid and sure. The same way she moves through arguments, through fear, through every obstacle she refuses to let stop her.

I make myself stop watching.

There’s no denying the attraction. Noticing and acting are different things—I’ve spent years understanding that distinction. But I’ve never had to apply it to Evie. Which is exactly why discipline matters more here, not less.

We turn in early—not because we’re tired, but because tomorrow demands it.