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We didn’t leave the ops room. Couldn’t. The messages kept rolling in, a relentless tide of highs and lows like a stakeout stretched across the whole damn city. One minute, we’d get a lead that sounded promising—“Saw a blonde in a black SUV near Mount Pleasant”—only for the AI to cross-check it and flag it as too vague, too far off Hart’s profile. The next, some asshole would send a dick pic with “Found her!” scrawled over it, and I’d groan, scrubbing a hand down my face while Claire muttered, “Fucking idiots.”
But we kept going, scanning every line, chasing the signal through the noise. The minutes blurred, the flickering monitors casting shadows across her face, and I caught myself watching her more than the screens. Theway her lips pressed together when she focused, the way her fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the table, the way she didn’t quit, didn’t falter, even as the night dragged on. She was relentless, and it made me want her so bad it hurt.
Then, not long after daybreak, it happened. A ping cut through the hum—a message from some listener namedchipshot59. I leaned over Claire’s shoulder, reading it aloud as it popped up:“Just saw Hart check in for a massage at the Daniel Island Club. Blonde, fancy, with a couple suits trailing her.”
My pulse kicked up, sharp and fast. “Bingo.”
Claire’s head snapped to me, her eyes wide, blazing with that hunter’s glint I’d seen at the pier all those weeks ago. “Daniel Island Club. That’s what, twenty minutes from here?”
“Fifteen if I drive,” I said, already moving, adrenaline flooding my system like a shot of pure heat. I grabbed my phone, texting our tech wizard.
Tap the club’s surveillance feed. Now.
Claire was on her feet, shoving her laptop into her satchel, her movements quick and sure. “You think it’s her?”
“I think we’re about to find out.” My phone buzzed back— fast as always.
Feed’s live. Blonde woman, mid-40s, checked in 10 mins ago. Husband and three bodyguards with her. Matches Hart’s profile. Sending stills.
The images loaded—a grainy shot of Evelyn Hart, all polished poise, striding through the club’s lobbytaking off oversized sunglasses, her husband at her side, three suits in dark jackets fanned out behind her. I turned the screen to Claire, and her lips moved into a grim, feral smile.
“Let’s go get the bitch,” she said, voice low, lethal, echoing my own thoughts so perfectly I almost laughed.
I didn’t have to say it—she’d beaten me to it. I grabbed my keys off the table, the Bugatti’s fob cold against my palm, and headed for the door, Claire right on my heels. The ops room’s hum faded behind us as we hit the hallway, the weight of what we were doing settling into something sharp and focused.
Outside, the air was thick and humid, as usual. The kind of Charleston weather that clung to your skin. I unlocked the car, sliding into the driver’s seat as Claire climbed in beside me, her satchel dumped on the floor, her posture coiled tight like a spring ready to snap. I gunned the engine, the low growl vibrating through us, and peeled out of Dominion’s gates, tires chewing gravel then asphalt as we hit the road.
“Fifteen minutes,” I said, eyes on the stretch ahead, the city blurring past. “We’ll be there before she’s done with her massage.”
Claire nodded, her hands flexing in her lap. “She’s got bodyguards. Three of them.”
“Yeah,” I said, voice steady. “I’ve got us.”
She shot me a look—half challenge, half trust—and I felt it hit me low, a jolt that had nothing to do with the speed I was pushing. I’d lost my shit with Sinclair, let the beast out, but with her beside me, I was locked in again. Cool. Controlled. The surfer vibe was back, but sharper now, edged with something deadly. Hart wasn’t slipping away this time.
+++
The Daniel Island Club loomed ahead, a sprawl of manicured lawns and low-lit luxury, the kind of place where Charleston’s elite hid behind membership fees and velvet ropes. I swung into the lot, parking out of sight near a service entrance—old habits from darker days. Claire was out before I’d even killed the engine, her steps silent on the pavement, her gray eyes scanning the building like a predator locking onto prey.
I followed, my hand brushing the pistol holstered under my jacket, a reflex more than a plan. “Service door,” I said, nodding toward the side. “Less eyes.”
She didn’t argue, falling into step beside me as we moved, shadows swallowing us. My phone buzzed—my tech guy again.
Hart’s still in the spa. Husband’s at the bar. Guards split—two outside, one inside.
“Perfect,” I muttered, relaying it to Claire. “We’ve got a window.”
Her smile was tight, dangerous. “Then let’s not waste it.”
We slipped through the service door, the buzz of the club’s HVAC masking our steps. The hallway was narrow, lined with staff lockers and carts—backstage for the rich and pampered. I led the way, muscle memory kicking in from years of moving unseen, Claire a silent force at my back.
The spa was close—I could smell the lavender and eucalyptus bullshit wafting through the air. A staffer in a crisp white uniform passed us, barely glancing up from her clipboard, and I kept my pace steady, casual, like we belonged. Claire matched me, her presence electric, her focus razor-sharp.
We hit the spa’s entrance—a frosted glass door, soft music seeping through. I paused, glancing at her. “Ready?”
Her eyes met mine, fierce and unyielding. “Let’s end this.”
I pushed the door open, and we stepped inside, the game shifting from hunt to strike. Hart was in there, oblivious, thinking she’d outrun us. She hadn’t. Not this time.