Page 39 of Pursuit of Her

The sun hung low in the western sky as Eve reached the summit. Sweat cooled against her skin in the late afternoon breeze that swept across the clifftop outlook.

From her position at the clifftop overlook, Eve could see the entire city spread before her—the harbor with its forest of sailboat masts, downtown's gleaming towers, and the distant lighthouse that had guided ships safely to port for over a century.

This spot had always brought her clarity in moments of crisis. Tonight, she needed that clarity more than ever.

The weight of her badge pressed against her hip, a constant reminder of the oath she'd sworn and the institution she'd served for twenty years. An institution now revealed as compromised at its highest levels, protecting predators rather than victims.

Eve removed the badge, feeling its familiar contours against her palm. The metal caught the sunlight, flashing with a brilliance that seemed at odds with the darkness it now represented.

Her phone vibrated—another call from Martinez, the seventh in the past hour. Eve had abandoned her official device in a taxi headed for the airport, a misdirection that would buy her time but not much. Soon, Brooks would initiate official protocols for a missing officer, deploying resources that wouldmake movement through the city nearly impossible.

Eve had perhaps two hours before that happened. Two hours to decide which path to take.

The secure phone contained everything she'd gathered: photographs of Harmon's ledger, Ingrid's forensic evidence, Foster's financial connections. Enough to expose the Phoenix Network, but only if properly leveraged.

Eve thought of Reagan's words during their confrontation: "The system protects men like them. Not those they hurt." At the time, she'd dismissed it as vigilante justification. Now, with Brooks actively suppressing evidence and Martinez hunting her, those words carried the weight of truth.

The sun dipped lower, shadows stretching across the city like fingers of approaching night. Somewhere in Phoenix Ridge, Reagan was preparing to execute Arthur Pembroke—continuing her mission of blood-soaked justice.

The secure phone vibrated with an incoming text:Financial records confirmed. J. Brookscoordinated evidence removal in all four vigilante victim cases. Documented connections to Senator Fairchild. Need extraction point. Compromised at office. —F

Foster had found the connections, but at a cost—her cover was blown, and now she, too, needed to disappear. The circle of trusted allies was shrinking by the hour.

Eve made her decision. She punched in a number on the secure phone—not Reagan's, but one connected to her underground network.

"I need to reach S," Eve said when the call connected. "Tell her the captain needs to meet before tonight's operation."

"Verification phrase?" the anonymous voice responded.

"The system failed. We did not," Eve replied, quoting the vigilante's calling card.

A pause. "Lighthouse Point. One hour. Come alone."

The call ended abruptly. Eve returned the badge to her belt—not as a symbol of the institution she'd served, but as a tool she would use to right its wrongs.

As twilight deepened over Phoenix Ridge,Eve made her way down from the cliffs. The choice had been made. Now came the consequences.

8

REAGAN

The abandoned warehouse in Phoenix Ridge's old industrial district had been gutted by fire a decade ago, its charred bones left to rust beneath desert sun and coastal storms. To the city's elite, the building represented nothing but an eyesore awaiting demolition. To Reagan Shaw, it represented sanctuary—one of many invisible spaces her network had claimed from Phoenix Ridge's forgotten corners.

Reagan moved through the cavernous main floor in silence. The building's exterior remained deliberately decrepit—broken windows unrepaired, graffiti encouraged, chain-link fence strategically compromised to suggest squatters rather than organization. But beneath this carefully maintained facade of abandonment lay something else entirely.

She pressed her palm against a rusted metal panel that looked no different from countless others lining the warehouse walls. A hidden scanner read her fingerprints, and the panel slid aside to reveal a service elevator.

As the elevator descended, Reagan verified the weapons secured against her body: the 9mm at her hip, the knife at her ankle, the garrote wire concealed in her watch band. Old habits from years spent as prey rather than predator.

The doors opened to the bunker that served as her operation's nerve center: clean white walls, state-of-the-art technology, and the quiet hum of computer systems processing data from surveillance points throughout the city. Power lines tapped into the municipal grid through pathways untraceable even to Phoenix Ridge's utilities department.

Four women waited around a central planning table, their faces turning toward Reaganas she entered. These weren't vigilantes or mercenaries; they were professionals who'd found the system stacked against them and had chosen another path.

"You're late," Mira Branford observed, her tone neutral but her dark eyes sharp behind rectangular glasses. At forty-seven, the former prosecutor had once been the rising star of the District Attorney's office before her career mysteriously derailed after she'd pursued a sexual assault case against Sebastian Harrington ten years ago.

"Complications," Reagan replied simply. "Martinez has doubled surveillance on Eve."

"Captain Morgan is officially on administrative leave as of this morning," Sophia Gresham reported, turning her laptop screen to show the internal police bulletin. "Commissioner Brooks cited 'procedural violations' and 'conduct unbecoming.' The real reason is she's getting too close."

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