Page 139 of Only the Hunter

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” he murmurs.

“Be careful.”

“Always.”

Chapter 27

Gabe

I meet Dahlia Evans in a park. Given it’s January and the temps are in the low forties, we have the park to ourselves. It’s cloudy and the forecast calls for rain within the hour.

When I greet her, we shake hands, but thanks to her mittens, I take nothing away from the exchange—zero personality assessment.

Her hair is a mix of curly and wavy, steely gray with strands of white mixed in, as well as every shade between the two. She’s wearing sunglasses, which might be odd on an overcast day, but even though it’s cloudy, there is a bright hue that forces me to squint if I look skyward. She’s dressed in a long skirt and bundled in a coat.

She’s not what I imagined Dad’s colleague to look like. She met Mom once, years ago, shortly after his funeral service. She hadn’t been able to make the service, but she reached out to Mom and they ended up meeting for coffee.

Personal interest aside, by the time we’re both seated on the park bench, I’ve determined that this woman wouldn’t knowingly aid a human trafficking ring. She’s dressed well enough, but she’s not dressed like someone who retired with millions. Her mittens and scarf don’t even match—appearances aren’t something she stresses over.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” I say.

“It’s not a problem.” She scans the area like she’s expecting someone, but it’s just us and the bare trees.

“How has your mom been?”

“She’s good,” I say, the question an unnecessary reminder of our ties. “She says to tell you hi.”

“You told her we’re meeting?” If I’m not mistaken, there’s censure in her tone.

“Yes.” I can’t see her eyes, and I wish I could. It would allow for a better read, but I take in her pastel-colored mittens, swallow, and go for it. “She doesn’t share the same degree of curiosity that I do, but⁠—”

“She understands yours.” She presses her lips together, and cocks her head, as if deciding. “I’ll tell you what I know, but I don’t know that it will bring you the relief you’re seeking.”

“I’m grateful for anything you’re willing to share.”

“Hold the gratitude. If ever called to testify, I would refuse. And I don’t know much of value. He didn’t die in the field. Your father died in prison.”

I don’t speak for a moment. Prison. Not the field. Not the way they told us.

“Prison,” I repeat, because saying it makes it real in a way that hearing it doesn’t.

I came here hoping for information on who killed him—not this.

“It’s not unusual for captured intelligence personnel to land in prison. Something you might want to consider before you sign with the NSA.” She sniffs and rubs the top of her nose with a mitten. “I’d been told an agreement was brokered. That’s how it works. Trades—for people, usually.”

“With what country?”

“Russia. He was trying to cross into Poland—almost made it—when they picked him up. They had him for months.”

That information tracks. Mom hadn’t heard from him in a couple of months. It wasn’t unusual for him to go radio silent, as she called it, but it had been an unusually long period of time when an officer showed up at our door.

I want her to say more, so I prod with, “Mom said it was unusual to go so long without hearing from him.”

“We were sent to retrieve an exposed asset.”

“We? You were with him?”

“We were holed up in a hotel near the border, waiting for a window to cross. He was apprehended in the lobby—must have been made before we ever got that far. The asset and I escaped out the back.”