Page 34 of The Tracker

A file tree appeared. Dozens of folders. Surveillance logs. Financial transfers. Personal correspondence—encrypted and flagged.

Dawson stepped closer. “Was that there before?”

“No, it wasn’t.”

A video thumbnail blinked. She clicked.

Peter’s voice crackled through the speakers, low and distorted, mid-sentence. "—deadline’s moved. Tell him we’re pulling the files tonight. Evangeline’s getting too close." It wasn’t a message meant for her—it was a slip, a leak, something he never meant her to hear.

She recognized the voice with cold fury, not grief.

The betrayal still burned at the edges of her thoughts, but it only sharpened her focus. Recorded message left behind before his death. The sound cut through the air like a blade, sending a shiver across her skin. Evangeline flinched. Her fingers clenched around the armrests, nails biting into the leather. The sound of his voice—so familiar, so final—made her stomach twist. The room seemed to shrink around her, air thick with the scent of cedar and tension, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

Her blood turned to ice.

“I thought I could control him,” Peter’s voice continued. “But I was wrong. He’s not working alone.”

The file cut out.

She turned slowly toward Dawson. “This just became a war.”

He nodded. “We’ll handle it. Together.”

She sat down hard in the leather chair, her pulse a low roar in her ears. She remembered the first time she’d stepped into a room like this, fresh from grad school, trying to prove she belonged. One of the senior VPs had called her 'kiddo' in front of the whole department. Her cheeks had burned, but she’d smiled through it, tucked it away. She’d turned that insult into fuel. Every underestimation since then had been cataloged, measured, converted to momentum. Now, that memory rose up—not as pain, but as armor.

They had no idea what she’d survived to sit here. And she wasn’t done surviving yet. Her hands clenched into fists, then slowly relaxed, though the tightness in her chest refused to ease. The pulse in her throat thudded against her skin, a visceral reminder that rage and resolve were twin fires burning just beneath her surface. This wasn’t just about a corporate takeover or a message sent in blood. This was personal. Layered. Old.

And if they thought she’d fold?

They didn’t know her at all.

Her phone vibrated, startling her. She glanced down. There was static. Then, a single message appeared.

You were never meant to be more than a pretty face. Stop digging, Evangeline.

She stared.

And smiled.

“Fuck that.”

12

DAWSON

Dawson knew trouble by the way it moved—fast, quiet, and always aimed for the softest damn spot. He’d felt it building since they left Shaw Petrochemical, since Evangeline read that message on her phone from an unknown number and went pale beneath the fluorescent lights. She hadn't told him what it said—not yet—but he saw the shift in her eyes. The mask sliding back into place.

He’d held her all night, waiting. For her to open up. For the next shot to fire. For whatever game their enemies were playing to take its next brutal turn. Each time she turned in the bed, he watched the lines of tension in her shoulders, listened for the stutter of her breathing. She was unraveling, but she wouldn’t let herself fall apart. Not in front of him. Not in front of anyone.

There was a moment before dawn when he nearly woke her, thumb hovering over her cheekbone, wanting to say—You can let go. I’ll catch you. But instead, he sat on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on the faint city glow beyond the window, cataloging threats. The sense of looming danger pressed down on his chest, as familiar as the weight of his old service weapon. He remembered the rhythm of a cartel cleanup back in Laredo, bodies dropped silent, comms going dark just before the stormhit. This felt the same—an invisible line tightening around their lives.

He rolled out of bed without waking Evangeline. She lay tangled in the sheets, one bare hip just visible, golden hair spilling across his pillow like a banner someone might follow into battle—or madness. Her phone was still in her hand. When he carefully eased it free, the screen lit up.

A text thread from an unknown number. A threat. A taunt.

He didn’t wake her. Not yet. She deserved a few more minutes of peace before the world came crashing in again.

His own phone pinged and he moved into the main room. He muttered a curse against mobile phones—useful, yes, but always intrusive.

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