Page 9 of Pursuit of Her

"Nine o'clock," Sophia said finally. "The service corridor will be clear. Don't make him suffer; just make him face what he's done before you end it."

She turned and walked away, disappearing into the evening crowd without looking back. Reagan remained at the table, giving Sophia time to clear the area before making her own exit. Her gaze returned to Phoenix Ridge Capital, to the corner office on the executive floor where lights still burned behind tinted glass.

Richard Davenport would be reviewing quarterly reports now, according to his predictable schedule. Making calls to the East Coast. Perhaps enjoying a glass of the expensive bourbon he kept in his credenza. Confident in his security, his power, his impunity.

In less than three hours, he would discover how illusory that confidence was.

Reagan settled her bill and left the café, moving through the downtown streets with purposeful anonymity. Her path took her on a circuitous route through Phoenix Ridge's business district, past the illuminated glass storefronts and crowded restaurants where the city's affluent citizens celebrated another day of comfort and privilege.

She passed the courthouse where Judge Harmon had presided, its columned façade now draped with mourning bunting. News of his death had spread throughout the city, generating headlines about the mysterious vigilante targeting Phoenix Ridge's most prominent men. Public opinion seemed divided—official condemnation from city leaders, but whispered support from many who had witnessed the failures of the system.

As darkness fully claimed the city, Reagan positioned herself in a sheltered alcove across from Phoenix Ridge Capital's service entrance. From here, she could monitor the coming and going of maintenance staff, security patrols, and late-working employees. She removed a small device from her pocket, a signal interceptor that would alert her to any unusual communications or security protocols being implemented.

The waiting was always the hardest part: the suspended moment before action when doubt might creep in if she allowed it. Reagan breathed deeply, focusing her mind as she had been trained to do, emptying herself of everything except the mission.

But as nine o'clock approached, a single thought broke through her concentration: somewhere in this city, Eve Morgan was hunting her, following the evidence trail she had deliberately left, drawing closer with each killing. Soon, their paths would cross—perhaps not tonight, but inevitably, unavoidably.

What would Eve see when they finally stoodface to face? The partner who had abandoned her? The vigilante who defied everything Eve had sworn to uphold? Or would she recognize what Reagan had become—not a betrayer, but a shadow guardian, delivering the justice that Phoenix Ridge's corrupt system denied its victims?

Reagan pushed the thought away. Tonight belonged to Rosalie Gresham and the other women Richard Davenport had destroyed. Tonight was about accountability that had been too long in coming.

Her watch vibrated again. Nine o'clock.

Time to move.

The service corridor stretched before Reagan, its fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows across polished floors. Sophia's keycard had granted her access through the loading dock entrance—no alarms, no questioning glances, nothing but the soft electronic beep of acceptance.

Inside Phoenix Ridge Capital after hours, the building hummed with the quiet breath of machinery and money. Reagan moved with practiced silence, her footsteps absorbed by the rubber-soled tactical boots she'd changed into before entering. The maintenance uniform she now wore—provided by Sophia—granted her invisibility. In Reagan's experience, the wealthy rarely looked twice at those who cleaned their spaces or fixed their problems.

As promised, the security guard Kendall had left his post for his customary break, leaving the monitoring station temporarily unmanned. Reagan accessed the terminal with the code sequence Sophia had provided, initiating the two-minute camera loop that would mask her approach to the executive floor.

The private elevator required an executive keycard, but Reagan had prepared for this. From her utility belt, she withdrew a custom electronic bypass that would mimic the necessary credentials. A silent countdown ticked in her mind: ninety seconds of camera loop remaining.

The elevator ascended with unsettling smoothness, its gleaming brass interior reflecting Reagan's disguised appearance: maintenance cap pulled low over her eyes, posture slightly stooped to alter her silhouette, face angled away from the camera in the corner.

Sixty seconds.

The executive floor opened before her, a monument to corporate excess. Plush carpeting absorbed her footsteps as she navigated the darkened hallway toward the northwest corner where light still spilled from beneath a door.

Richard Davenport's office. The nerve center of his empire, and the place where Rosalie Gresham had been assaulted before being systematically destroyed for daring to speak out.

Thirty seconds.

Reagan drew her weapon, screwing the suppressor into place. No hesitation. No doubt. No mercy for a man who had shown none.

She opened the door without knocking.

Richard Davenport looked up from his desk, irritation flashing across his face at the interruption. Silver-haired and square-jawed at fifty-three, he exuded the arrogance of a man accustomed to unquestioned authority.

"Maintenance is scheduled for morning," he said dismissively, barely glancing at Reagan. "You can come back then."

"I'm not here to fix anything, Richard," Reaganreplied, closing the door behind her and removing her cap in one fluid motion. "I'm here about Rosalie Gresham."

The name registered instantly. Davenport's expression shifted from annoyance to wariness, his hand moving subtly toward his desk drawer.

"Don't," Reagan warned, her weapon now visible and aimed with unwavering precision at his forehead. "Both hands on the desk."

He complied. "Who sent you? What do you want? Money? I have plenty?—"

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