I gave up. "Okay."
The next time, he moved faster. The choke came quicker, tighter, but the same instructions. Chin, drop, grab, stomp, twist. I broke free in half the time.
"Better," he said. "Again."
I turned, half-expecting him to give me a little breathing room, but he didn't. This time the grip was real. I followed the steps, and felt his hold give, but when I was spinning to look at him, I stumbled forward, almost tripping and planting my face into his chest. He steadied me, hands catching my shoulders.
I braced, waiting for the next instruction, but he just stood there, looking down at me like he was seeing through all the layers of my fake bravado. Then he stepped back. "This can save your life."
I wiped a forearm across my brow, trying to keep it together. "Thanks," I said.
He shrugged. "Don't thank me. You might need it."
"Is this part of your job now? Teaching your client self-defense?"
There was a pause. He looked down at my hands, flexed his own. "Don't run this route again for a while."
"Where should I go?" I asked, confused.
"Someplace more public. Daylight hours only. And vary your routine." He rattled off the instructions with a cold certainty, but I could tell itwasn't just that. He was probably running a simulation in his head, accounting for every possibility.
I didn't argue. I just nodded, feeling the blood roar in my ears.
He was gone then, feet barely making a sound on the dirt.
I stood for a minute, processing the fact that he'd just taught me how to break a chokehold, and then vanished into a thin air, leaving nothing behind but the ghost of his tight grip and a new set of rules to live by.
Deep down, I understood that I had to prioritize safety, but all my mind clung to after today's encounter was the press of his body against mine.
Oh, this was dangerous, very dangerous.
26 target three
Caius Valmont sat at his desk, motionless, as the lead investigator fanned the contents of the yellow envelope across the polished wood.
The office was a glass box thirty stories above the city, engineered for intimidation—black ceiling, flood of bright light, everything expensive and geometric. Even the air had been stripped of impurities by the intricate ventilation system, so the only thing you could smell was the faint solvent from the carpet and, right now, a thread of bad cologne trailing off the investigator's lapel.
Typically, the blinds on the walls facing the reception were left open, but today they were shut. Caius had also demanded not to bother him while he was in the meeting.
He didn't need for anyone in the firm to see or question the nature of his discussion with the man from Bale Security.
He didn't offer a seat to the investigator. He simply allowed the man to spread the photos across the surface of the desk, then waited for the first words.
"Security pulls from both incidents," said the investigator, Ben Talbot. He wasn't a subtle man—meaty hands, neck built for holding weights, salt-and-pepper hair buzzed. But his body language was different, subservient.
Aaron Bale had assigned the man tasks from Caius in the past and Caius was happy with the results.
Caius studied the first photo. A dim corridor, walls with questionable paint color. In the left third was a man. Height was hard to determine, wide in the shoulders, wearing a dark coverall. The face was a void—angle and shadows all combining to black it out. In the next photo, the same man was in a different hallway and on a different day. Caius recognized the interior of the Mid-Wilshire venue where Thorne's downfall had begun. He'd been to that venue himself a few times. On different occasions.
"The timeline fits," Talbot said. "Based on the preliminary analysis of his body build and movements, it's safe to say it's the same person. He was present at both events and disappeared after. Credentials captured on camera during first even didn't clear out. In second instance, they belonged to someone else." He tapped a finger to the sequence. "Always alone. Never uses a main exit. Knows how to avoid cameras. Proficient in camouflage. He's a pro."
Caius flipped through the photos in silence. The man's face was never visible, but the body was the same—athletic, disciplined, probably ex-military.
"Could it be private sector?" Caius asked. His voice was clipped, no wasted syllable. "Mercenary. Freelancer."
Talbot gave a noncommittal shrug. "We tried cross-referencing builds with known contractors in the area. Nothing matches. He was careful to stay out of line-of-sight for all the biometric cameras."
"Not an amateur hour."
