Page 7 of Pursuit of Her

Reagan's preparations were methodical, a ritual honed over years of operations that had kept her alive when every instinct screamed for haste.

Patience. Precision. Contingencies. These were the pillars upon which she'd built her second life—the life that began the night she was left for dead in Phoenix Ridge Harbor with two bullets in her abdomen and the knowledge that her own department had betrayed her.

The late morning sun filtered through the cabin's reinforced windows as she laid out her equipment on the weathered oak table: a custom 9mm handgun with suppressor, its serial number long since removed; black tactical clothing selected for mobility and invisibility in urban shadows; communications gear that could intercept and decode encrypted channels; lock-picking tools machined to her exact specifications; and the small, powerful camera that would document what the world needed to see.

Beside these tools of justice lay a flash drive identical to those left at her previous scenes. On it, she had compiled the evidence against Richard Davenport: security footage from his office showing assaults, financial records of payoffs to silence victims, and testimonies she'd gathered from women who'd survived his predation.

Reagan checked each item. Her mind cataloged potential variables, calculating contingencies for each possible complication. Richard Davenport's penthouse office occupied the top floor of Phoenix Ridge Capital's downtown headquarters, a modern glass tower with state-of-the-art security. But no system was impenetrable. She'd spent weeks mapping guard rotations, identifying blind spots in camera coverage, and cloning the RFID credentials of a maintenance worker who accessed the executive floor.

Tonight, she would cross another name from her list. Another predator removed from the equation.

As she worked, her gaze drifted to the weathered wooden box that still sat open on her workstation. The photograph inside pulled at her like a physical force—a moment of happiness preserved in time, a reminder of what she had sacrificed. Reagan moved to close it, then stopped, her scarred fingers hovering above the image.

Eve Morgan stared back at her, younger and more carefree than the woman who now commanded the Phoenix Ridge detective division. The Eve in the photograph still believed in the system, still trusted that justice would prevail if you followed the rules and gathered enough evidence. The Eve who had lovedReagan with an intensity that sometimes frightened them both.

Reagan lifted the photograph, studying the details she knew by heart: the slight crookedness of Eve's smile, the determination in her green eyes, the way her arm draped casually across Reagan's shoulders as if it belonged there. They had been inseparable once—partners on patrol, then partners in the detective division, then partners in every sense of the word.

Until Reagan discovered the truth about Phoenix Ridge's power brokers. Until she realized that exposing them through official channels would be suicide—or worse, would endanger Eve.

The choice had been agonizing but clear: disappear, let Eve believe she had been killed or had abandoned her, and protect her through distance and deception. Better for Eve to hate her than to die alongside her.

"I'm sorry," Reagan whispered to the photograph, the words falling into the empty cabin. "It had to be this way."

She returned the photograph to its box and closed the lid firmly. Sentiment was a luxury she couldn't afford, not with Richard Davenport still walking free, not with five more targets remaining on her list. Not with Eve now leading the investigation that would inevitably set them on a collision course.

Reagan turned back to her preparations, pulling up the digital schematics of Phoenix Ridge Capital on her laptop. The building's security used biometric scanning for executive floors, but she had already identified the workaround: maintenance access required only RFID cards, a vulnerability created by corporate arrogance that assumed support staff weren't worth sophisticated protection.

A notification flashed on her monitor—the police scanner alert she'd programmed to flag any mentions of Judge Harmon's case. She maximized the window, watching the live feed from a press conference outside Phoenix Ridge Police Department.

Captain Eve Morgan stood at the podium, her expression composed, revealing nothing of the woman Reagan had once known. Her immaculate hair, now touched with silver at the temples, was styled in a short, practical cut that framed her face in a way that accentuated her cheekbones. The tailored navy suit and whiteshirt projected authority, competence, control.

"The Phoenix Ridge Police Department is conducting a thorough investigation into Judge Harmon's death," Eve said, her voice steady and measured. "We are exploring all possible connections to previous incidents. I want to assure the public that we are committing every available resource to bringing the perpetrator to justice."

Reagan studied Eve's face with the attention of someone who had once memorized every expression, every micro-movement that betrayed her true thoughts. There—the almost imperceptible tightening at the corner of her mouth when she mentioned "justice." The slight furrow between her brows that appeared when she was holding something back.

Eve knew more than she was saying publicly. She was putting the pieces together.

It was only a matter of time before Eve realized who was behind the vigilante killings. Reagan had known this from the moment she began her mission—known that eventually, she and Eve would stand on opposite sides of this self-declared war against corruption. Had prepared herself for that inevitability as thoroughly as she prepared for each operation.

Or so she had believed.

Seeing Eve on the screen, Reagan felt a crack in her carefully constructed armor. The thought of Eve discovering the truth, of looking at Reagan with betrayal and horror rather than the love they had once shared, cut deeper than she cared to admit.

"Focus," Reagan muttered to herself, closing the video feed with more force than necessary. Sentiment was weakness. Distraction was deadly. She couldn't afford either, not tonight.

She returned to her equipment, checking the custom ammunition in her weapon—hollow-point rounds that would ensure a quick, certain end with minimal collateral damage. Each bullet had been hand-loaded to leave no ballistic match to commercially available ammunition. The gun itself would be wiped of prints and disposed of after three uses; this would be its third and final deployment.

As daylight began to fade outside the cabin windows, Reagan moved to the small refrigerator and removed a protein bar and water bottle. She consumed them mechanically, fuel for the body rather than pleasure for the palate.

Twilight deepened into dusk as she completed her preparations. Reagan dressed in layers of dark clothing—a fitted base layer beneath tactical pants and a black moisture-wicking shirt, topped with a lightweight jacket whose pockets had been customized to hold her equipment. No loose fabric to catch on obstacles or make noise, nothing reflective to catch stray light.

At her belt, she secured the holster for her weapon. Around her neck hung the thin titanium chain that held her only sentimental possession: the simple platinum band that had once symbolized her commitment to Eve, now hidden beneath her clothing, a secret weight against her heart.

As night fell completely over the mountains, Reagan activated the cabin's security system and stepped outside, locking the door behind her. The forest embraced her with familiar darkness, the scent of pine and earth filling her lungs as she made her way to thecamouflaged garage fifty meters from the main structure.

Inside waited her transportation—not the sporty motorcycle she preferred for urban operations, but a nondescript dark gray sedan with plates registered to one of her carefully constructed aliases. The vehicle that would carry her down the mountain and into Phoenix Ridge, where Richard Davenport worked late every Wednesday in his penthouse office, believing himself untouchable in his glass tower.

Tonight, she would prove him wrong.

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