Page 41 of The Maverick

Charles stood outside his car now, hood up, flashlight in one hand, phone in the other. He looked irritated, muttering under his breath. Probably thought his battery had died. Maybe it had. Maybe Hawke had something to do with that.

He got within twenty feet before speaking. “Car trouble, Charles?”

The man spun, flashlight jerking upward like a weak defense. “Who the hell…”

“You know who I am.”

Charles’s mouth snapped shut. Then a bitter smile twisted his face. “Ah. The cavalry.”

Hawke stepped forward, letting the distance shrink. “I need answers.”

“I’m sure you do,” Charles said, not even pretending to be nervous. “But you will not like them.”

“I don’t care if I like them. I care if they help me stop the bastard who thinks Vanessa is a character in his personal fantasy novel.”

Charles tilted his head, considering. “She always had a way of inciting obsession, didn’t she? Like she wanted it.”

Hawke’s hand moved before he thought. He slammed Charles against the hood of the SUV, an arm across the man’s throat. “Wrong answer.” Charles choked, trying to shove him back. Hawke didn’t move. Just leaned in closer, voice low. “Try again. Start with your connection to Miles Brenner.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

Hawke pressed harder. “You watched her. Stalked her at the Iron Spur. You have a history of ignoring limits.”

“I was interested. That’s not a crime.”

“Violating consent is.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “And what do you call dragging a woman up on a cross in front of an audience?”

Hawke’s mouth tightened. “She chose that. You know the difference. You just don’t care.”

A flash of something flickered across Charles’s face then—something Hawke hadn’t expected. Panic.

“Listen,” Charles hissed. “I’ve gotten emails. Threats. From him. Brenner. I don’t know how he got my info, but he said if I didn’t stay close to Vanessa, he’d turn it all on me. Make me the fall guy.”

“You’re saying he coerced you?”

“I’m saying this is bigger than just obsession. He’s playing a long game. He’s got files. Photos. I don’t know how he got them, but he knows things.”

Hawke eased off enough to let the man breathe. “Where did you meet him?”

“I didn’t. We’ve never met. He uses burner emails and one-time contact links. He’s got backups of everything. He’sparanoid. Said if anything happened to him, the whole folder would go public.”

Hawke scanned the woods, every nerve alert. “What kind of files?”

“I don’t know.” Charles’s voice cracked now. “He just said they’d destroy Vanessa. Or make it look like she orchestrated all of it.”

That was when the sound hit—an engine. Close.

Hawke turned toward the road. A black SUV barreled around the bend, headlights off, moving fast—too fast.

“Move!” he shouted, reaching for Charles to try to yank him to safety.

But the impact came before he could do so. The vehicle slammed into Charles, flipping him off the hood of his own car and into the ditch beyond. Hawke dove after him, instinct and training taking over, landing hard and rolling just as the black SUV peeled off, gravel flying behind it.

He caught a glimpse of the license plate—covered. The taillights vanished around the bend as quickly as they had come.

“Charles.” Hawke crawled to the man’s side—blood streamed from his head; leg bent wrong, but still breathing.

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