Page 47 of Pursuit of Her

Across the room, Martinez reentered, scanning the crowd with renewed intensity. Her gaze settled on Eve, suspicion evident even at this distance.

The storm outside intensified, rain now lashing against the windows as thunder shook the building's foundations, nature providing the perfect backdrop for the chaos about to unfold.

Eve took a deep breath, steadying herself for what came next.

The truth was about to shatter this carefully constructed facade of power and respectability. All she could do now was ensure Reagan escaped in the aftermath—and perhaps, finally, end the decade-long mission that had consumed them both.

"Phoenix Ridge has always valued protection of the vulnerable," Fairchild declared from the podium, his voice carrying the practiced cadence of a career politician. "Tonight's generous contributions will ensure our foundations continue supporting women and children across?—"

The screens flanking the stage flickered and went black.

Eve tensed, her hand drifting toward her concealed weapon as she scanned the room. Commissioner Brooks straightened, her hand rising to her earpiece. Martinez moved toward the security station, speaking urgently into her communication device.

For three heartbeats, silence held the room.

Then the screens reanimated, not with Fairchild's campaign imagery, but with documentation: financial records, time-stamped security footage, and sworn testimonies. A young woman's face appeared, her eyes haunted as she spoke directly to the camera.

"My name is Tessa Hollingsworth. I was trafficked through Senator Fairchild's diplomatic connections in 2017. This is my story."

The woman's voice echoed through the ballroom's perfect acoustics, silencing conversation as her testimony described in clear, unflinching detail how Fairchild had facilitated her abduction, transport, and repeated abuse.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Phones throughout the ballroom lit up simultaneously—every device receiving the same broadcast, Reagan's technical skills ensuring no one could look away.

Eve watched Fairchild's face drain of color as his crimes materialized on every screen. His hands gripped the podium, knuckles white, the careful façade of philanthropy crumbling beneath irrefutable evidence.

The screens shifted to financial records—hundreds of thousands flowing between Fairchild, Brooks, and their victims through shell companies and offshore accounts. Each transaction meticulously documented, time-stamped, verified.

"Shut it down!" Commissioner Brooks commanded, her voice carrying above the growing murmurs. "Security team, isolate the broadcast source!"

But there was no stopping what Reagan had set in motion. The screens shifted again—this time showing Jonathan Brooks in meetings with Judge Harmon, with Richard Davenport, with each of the men Reagan had executed. The network visualized in evidence the department had suppressed for over a decade.

The ballroom dissolved into chaos—donors retreating from Fairchild as if proximity itself might contaminate them, reporters who'd come to cover a charitable event suddenly documenting something far more newsworthy, security personnel moving ineffectively between communication devices and control panels that no longer responded to their commands.

Eve's gaze found Mayor McAllister, her face frozen, measuring scandal against association and already formulating distancing statements.

Commissioner Brooks pushed through the crowd toward her husband, who stood pale and motionless before the evidence of his crimes. Their eyes met across the room, a moment of terrible recognition passing between them. Jonathan Brooks turned toward the nearest exit, self-preservation overriding loyalty.

"Officer down! Eighteenth floor!" Martinez's voice cut through Eve's earpiece. "Suspect fleeing through northeast service corridor!"

Reagan.

Eve moved immediately, abandoning her observation position. She navigated through the disoriented crowd, her stocking feet allowing silent speed across marble floors while chaos provided perfect cover.

On screen, a second victim testified about Fairchild's involvement in her trafficking—her voice steady despite describing horrors that rendered the assembled elite uncomfortably silent.

A security guard blocked the service entrance, but Eve flashed her badge with such authority he stepped aside before remembering her administrative leave. She slipped into the corridor, immediately hearing the pounding footsteps and shouted commands of a pursuit in progress.

Eve took the service stairs two at a time, ascending toward the commotion. Through her earpiece, she heard Martinez coordinating: "All exits secured. Target moving toward west stairwell. Armed and considered extremely dangerous."

At the eighteenth floor landing, Eve found what Martinez had reported—a security officer on the ground, alive but incapacitated with the precision that characterized Reagan's non-lethal approach. She had disabled, not killed—another sign of the shift Eve had sensed in their earlier conversation. Reagan was only killing men who deserved it, that much was clear.

Eve followed the pursuit sounds toward the western corridor, calculating intercepting routes. If Reagan was heading downward, she would emerge near the loading docks with access to the waterfront—their planned extraction point.

As Eve rounded the corner, she caught a glimpse of movement—Reagan slipping through emergency exit doors with Martinez and two officers in pursuit. Eve changed direction, taking an alternative route that would intercept them at the service level.

The storm's intensity penetrated the hotel's substantial infrastructure, thunder resonating through concrete walls as Eve descended. Her earpiece crackled with Martinez's voice again: "Target spotted exiting west loading area. All units converge."

Eve burst through the service level doors into driving rain, the storm having fully arrived with apocalyptic timing. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the loading area where officers converged with weapons drawn.

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