Page 77 of Only the Hunter

I take the table with my back to the wall. Evie sits across from me, calm and focused, like she’s prepping for oral arguments.

A woman arrives twelve minutes late.

Mid-thirties. Dark coat. ID badge clipped to her bag but turned inward. She orders tea.

She sits, glances around, then speaks to Evie in rapid French.

Doesn’t touch her tea.

Evie struggles with the French, but she’s got her phone out to help with the translation.

I catch fragments: transferred, emergency, orders.

Nothing worth coming here in person for—yet.

Evie leans in, responding with stilted but even-keeled French. Her posture is open, inviting trust.

The woman’s hands shake as she reaches into her bag.

That’s when I clock them.

Outside the door.

Two men. Late twenties, early thirties. Not dressed like locals. Not moving like tourists.

They enter.

Scan.

One clocks me immediately. The other moves toward the counter but doesn’t approach it.

Positioning.

Not ordering.

“Evie,” I say quietly.

She doesn’t look at me. She’s focused on the woman, who’s now pulling a thin folder from her bag.

“She was moved under emergency Department of Homeland Security authorization,” the woman says in accented English, possibly taking pity on Evie’s struggle with her French. “DHS. Signed off by someone in Washington. Someone with access to sealed transfer protocols.”

Evie’s eyes sharpen. “Who?”

“I don’t have the name,” the woman whispers. “But I have the approval code. It traces back to an office in⁠—”

The door opens again.

A third man.

Older. Heavier.

Taking up residence near the exit.

Blocking it.

My pulse kicks.

“Evie,” I repeat, firmer now.