Page 48 of Jason Bourne (Seals on Fraiser Mountain #7)

Zoe

H arris laced his fingers on the metal table like he owned it. “Detective Brewer,” he purred, “you brought a bodyguard to an interview. Cute.”

I didn’t look at Forest. If I looked at Forest, I’d remember hands, heat, and an empty conference room at City Hall that was never going to be the same.

“He’s not my bodyguard,” I said crisply, flipping open the file.

“He’s the guy who hauls you out of a ditch when your mouth writes checks your crew can’t cash. ”

Harris smirked. “Crew? I’m just a man who likes food trucks.”

Forest’s shoulder brushed mine as he came to stand behind me. Not touching, not quite—just heat and gravity. I hated how my heartbeat counted it.

I slid a photo in front of Harris. “Your ‘food truck’ bought six pallets of fake soda syrup that somehow tested thirty percent fentanyl base. Here’s the bill of lading. Here’s your signature.”

He glanced down, bored. “Never seen it.”

“Sure,” I said. “And I never wear heels that ruin my soul.”

“Detective,” Forest murmured, “you want me to—”

“I got it,” I said without looking back, then tapped the table. “Let’s talk about last night’s call. The one from a burner pinging off Pier Nine.” I lifted my eyes, level. “You had a meet. You didn’t show. Someone else did.”

Harris tilted his head at me like I was a particularly interesting documentary. “You’re good,” he said. “But you’re not listening.”

“To what?” I asked.

“To the humming,” he said, glancing at the ceiling. “Lights. Vents. Cameras. They’re never off, are they?” His smile sharpened. “Which means whatever I say here gets… curated.”

My jaw ticked. “This isn’t a plea negotiation.”

“Then consider it a public service announcement,” he said lightly. “Check your evidence locker. Maybe… shelf three, bin B. Or don’t. Up to you.”

My spine went cold. I kept my face stone. “Who’s your leak?”

Harris’s gaze flicked over my shoulder to Forest. “Who’s yours?”

That punched a nerve. I snapped the folder closed. “Interview’s on a break.”

I pushed away from the table and marched out. The hallway smelled like old coffee and new lies. Forest followed, quiet tread, big presence.

“Don’t,” I said.

“I haven’t said anything.”

“Then don’t think anything,” I hissed. “He’s playing with us. He wants me paranoid.”

Forest leaned a hip against the wall, looking maddeningly calm. “You’re not paranoid. You’re precise.”

I hated that his voice made heat curl low in my stomach. “Stop being supportive when I want to be mad.”

His mouth twitched. “Noted.”

The ancient vending machine at the end of the hall glared at me like a metal toad. I jammed in a dollar for water; it ate it with a smug whirr.

“Of course,” I muttered.

Forest stepped past me, tapped the side with two knuckles, fed it a different bill, and—because the city was clearly in love with him—five bottles tumbled out like slot-machine cherries.

I stared. “Are you… a vending machine whisperer?”

“Mountain trick,” he said deadpan, handing me a bottle. “You compliment the machine. Tell it it’s doing great.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever—”

He leaned close, voice a rumble. “You’re doing great.”

I almost choked on air. I took a very professional gulp of water instead. “Back to the room,” I said, because moving forward was my religion.

When we went in, Harris was studying his reflection in the two-way glass. “You should visit the pier tonight,” he said, casual as a weather report. “Ask for extra sauerkraut.”

“I’m allergic to theatrics,” I said. “And ferments.”

He smiled. “Lucky for you, I’m not.”

Forest’s fingers brushed my elbow—a whisper of a question. I ignored the shiver and slid a sad, precinct-grade donut across the table. “Enjoy. It’s gluten-free because our sergeant is on a wellness kick and hates joy.”

Harris took a bite, grimaced. “This is a crime.”

“Confess and I’ll bring you real sugar next time.”

He chewed, swallowed, eyes on mine. “You won’t make it to ‘next time’ if you go alone.”

The room tightened around us.

“Good news,” I said coolly. “I never go alone.”

Behind me, Forest didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.

The evidence locker was a cathedral of chain link and fluorescent hum. I swiped in, did the dance with the logbook, and walked to shelf three, bin B, because apparently we were living in Harris’s little riddle.

I lifted the lid. Sat there: a city-issued property bag with my case number and a phone that shouldn’t exist.

I held it up to Forest. “Never logged. Never assigned.”

He took it, thumb brushing the edge of the seal without breaking it. “He wanted you to find it.”

“Because there’s something on it,” I said. “Or because someone wants to see if I’ll report it and out myself as not-a-team-player. It’s bait.”

Forest’s gaze met mine, steady. “So we don’t bite. We document, we cross-check, we bring this upstairs. Together. Then we'll ask for extra sauerkraut tonight.”

I lifted a brow. “You volunteering to go on a date to a hot dog cart?”

His mouth tipped toward a smile. “If it keeps you from getting shot, I’ll buy you the whole cart.”

“Forest—”

“Zoe,” he said, low, “you can take care of yourself. I know that. I’ve seen it. I’m not here to clip your wings.” His voice softened, almost a secret. “I’m here to fly next to you.”

Something in my chest did a very inconvenient, very hopeful thing. I cleared my throat. “Fine. You can be my wingman. But if you say ‘goose’ I’m tasing you.”

“Noted,” he said, and his eyes warmed. “What’s our cover?”

I considered. “We’re a couple on a date. You’re the guy who insists artisanal mustard matters. I’m the woman planning your funeral.”

“That a joke?”

“Romcom,” I said, and surprised both of us by smiling. “Try to keep up.”