Chapter 10 - The Bait on the WaterfrontThe historic Pioneer Square district of Seattle at 2:00 AM was quiet, foggy, and atmospheric. Historic brick buildings cast long, gothic shadows over the wet cobblestone streets, while the distant horn of a container ship echoed across Elliott Bay.
Parked discreetly inside a nondescript black van parked near the ferry terminal, Marcus Hale and his tactical team monitored a bank of high-definition surveillance monitors.
Seated in the back of a luxury town car parked three blocks away, wearing an oversized cashmere coat that concealed my advanced pregnancy, I stared out the tinted window toward an abandoned waterfront warehouse designated as our meeting point.
The trap was elegantly simple.
Using the detained operative’s encrypted comms device, Marcus had sent a secure ping to Vanessa Cole’s private terminal indicating that the primary objective—my elimination—had encountered an unexpected complication regarding trust fund access codes, requiring an in-person verification meeting at the old waterfront pier.
We hadn't waited long.
At exactly 2:14 AM, a sleek, silver Mercedes Maybach pulled silently up to the loading dock of the warehouse.
The passenger door opened, and Vanessa Cole stepped out.
She looked immaculate, even in the damp Seattle chill. Dressed in a floor-length white wool designer coat, her blonde hair styled in a flawless blowout, diamond earrings catching the pale amber glow of the streetlights, she walked with the terrifying, predatory grace of an apex predator closing in on a wounded deer.
She pushed open the heavy wooden sliding door of the warehouse and stepped inside into the dim, cavernous space.
“I expected professional results, not amateur hour,” Vanessa’s cold, crisp voice echoed off the concrete walls as she stood alone in the center of the room. “Where is the operative?”
From the shadows near the second-story gantry, I stepped out into the faint pool of overhead light, my hands resting calmly over my coat.
“He’s currently indisposed, Vanessa,” I said clearly, my voice ringing out across the empty warehouse.
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Vanessa froze. She whipped her head around, her eyes narrowing as she spotted me standing alone on the metal walkway overlooking the floor. For a fraction of a second, genuine shock flickered across her features, instantly replaced by a predatory, mocking smirk.
“Claire,” Vanessa purred, taking slow steps toward the center of the room. “Look at you. Thirty-four weeks pregnant and playing secret agent in a damp warehouse. Where’s your precious billionaire husband? Did he finally figure out you’re more baggage than benefit?”
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