Page 45 of Pursuit of Her

McAllister's practiced composure slipped momentarily. "Some paths are better left unexplored, Captain. For everyone's benefit." She touched Eve's arm with manicured fingers. "Brooks values your service record. A lateral transfer to Harbor Division could be arranged. Chief of Harbor Patrol. Fresh start, away from…controversial investigations."

A bribe wrapped in career advancement. Eve maintained her pleasant expression while disgust coiled in her stomach.

"I appreciate your concern for my career path."

"Consider it carefully." McAllister drifted away, immediately laughing at something a donor whispered in her ear.

Eve scanned the room, cataloging positions. Detective Martinez stood near the main entrance, her cocktail dress unable to disguise her vigilant posture. Two uniformed officers flanked the service entrance, and plainclothes security circulated with communication devices visible in their ears.

Commissioner Hannah Brooks conferred with her husband near the stage. Jonathan Brooks—salt-and-pepper hair and distinguished, the picture of respectability despite coordinating evidence tampering, witness intimidation, and Reagan's attempted murder a decade ago.

A server passed with fresh champagne. Eve exchanged her full glass for another she wouldn't drink, using the movement to observe the room from a different angle. Detective Foster had successfully infiltrated security, her position at the monitoring station giving her access to the hotel's surveillance system. Everything was in place.

Eve felt it then—a prickling awareness at the back of her neck, a sensation she'd experienced countless times during her years partnered with Reagan. Not sight or sound, but something more primal. Reagan was here,somewhere in this space, unseen but present.

The sensation wasn't fear or apprehension, but recognition. After a decade apart, their connection remained, a silent frequency only they shared.

Movement near the service entrance caught Eve's attention. A catering staff member with auburn hair secured in a tight bun—Elena Vasquez, the prosthetic barely noticeable beneath her uniform pants. Another member of Reagan's network, positioned according to plan.

Through the glass walls, lightning flickered over the ocean, the approaching storm perfectly aligned with what would unfold inside these walls. Thunder followed seconds later, felt more than heard through the thick glass and chamber orchestra's gentle melodies.

Senator Fairchild moved toward the podium as the event coordinator signaled the beginning of the program. Politics and philanthropy, indistinguishable in this setting—both performances designed to conceal darker truths.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the coordinator announced, "please welcome our host for this evening's charitable endeavor, Senator Landon Fairchild."

Applause rippled through the ballroom. Eve positioned herself near a service corridor, her path to Reagan's operation now clear. The evidence would play across every screen in approximately twenty minutes, according to their hastily coordinated plan.

Eve glanced at her watch, then at Martinez, who was scanning the crowd with professional intensity. Brooks whispered something to her husband, her hand protectively touching his arm.

Through the windows, lightning illuminated the churning ocean again, closer now. The storm was nearly upon them—both nature's and Reagan's.

Justice for the victims. Exposure for the corrupt. And somewhere in this building, Reagan Shaw prepared to deliver both.

Eve moved toward the service corridor. It was time.

Eve slipped through the service corridor, the sounds of the gala fading behind her. She moved with intention, her evening gown incongruous against the utilitarian backdrop of exposed pipes and emergency lighting. Security cameras tracked the hallway, but Foster had arranged a three-minute loop—enough time for Eve to reach the service elevator undetected.

She pressed the call button, tension coiling between her shoulder blades. The stakes had escalated beyond professional risk into territory that could end with imprisonment—or worse. Yet turning back had ceased to be an option the moment she'd seen Reagan's evidence against Brooks and his network.

The elevator arrived with a soft chime. Eve stepped inside, swiping the keycard Foster had provided. The panel blinked green, granting access to the restricted eighteenth floor where the hotel's mechanical systems and storage occupied half the space, with unutilized rooms comprising the remainder.

As the doors closed, Eve removed her heels, the marble floor cold against her bare feet. Silence would matter more than appearance now.

The eighteenth floor opened to darkness broken only by emergency exit signs casting blood-red shadows across empty corridors. Eve followed the path she'd memorized from Foster's stolen schematics, counting doors, alert for any sign of security personnel.

Room 1823—a converted storage area according to hotel records—had an electronic lock that should have required staff credentials. Instead, the door stood slightly ajar, a deliberate invitation.

Eve pressed her back against the wall beside the door, drawing her weapon with smooth precision. She listened for movement inside, calculating variables, assessing threats. Then, she pushed the door open and entered in a fluid sweep, her weapon leading.

"I wondered when you'd arrive." Reagan's voice emerged from shadows near the room's exterior windows, her profile outlined against lightning that fractured across the gathering storm.

Eve lowered her weapon but didn't holster it. "You're cutting it close."

Reagan stood surrounded by electronics that transformed the storage room into a command center. Multiple screens displayed security feeds from throughout the hotel, while a central monitor showed Senator Fairchild approaching the podium. Cables snaked across the floor, connecting to the hotel's communications infrastructure.

"Necessary adjustments after Martinez increased security," Reagan replied, her attention split between Eve and a device she was configuring. "Your team has been monitored since this morning. Martinez stationed plainclothes officers at every access point."

Eve moved closer, assessing the equipment. "You're not just exposing Fairchild's crimes. You're planning to execute him."

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