Page 6 of Pursuit of Her

Her city. The one she'd sworn to protect. The one that had nearly killed her.

Reagan slowed as she approached the overlook, her breath steady despite the punishing incline. At forty-two, her body remained a precision instrument—lean, strong, and battle-tested. The scars that mapped her skin were records of lessons learned, each one a reminder of vulnerability overcome.

The sun breached the eastern desert as she reached the ridge, igniting the landscape in gold and crimson. Below, Phoenix Ridge stirred to life: fishing boats dotting the bay, early commuters beginning to fill the arteries of downtown, and the lighthouse beam fading as daylight rendered it obsolete. From this distance, the city looked pristine, its corruption invisible to the naked eye.

But Reagan knew better. She'd seen the rot that festered beneath the progressive façade, the network of powerful men who protected each other while preying on the vulnerable. She had mapped their connections, tracked their movements, and documented their crimes—evidence that had once disappeared from official channels now stored securely in her mountain hideout, waiting for the moment of reckoning.

Three down. Five to go.

The news about Judge Harmon would break soon if it hadn't already. The thought sent a ripple of satisfaction through her chest—not pleasure, exactly, but the grim contentment of a job meticulously executed. Another predator removed from the equation. Another piece of evidence released into the world that could no longer be buried or denied.

Reagan turned away from the view and began her return journey, her pace quickening as she descended the trail back toward her cabin. The structure came into view as she rounded the final bend, a deceptively modest building of weathered cedar and stone that blended into the surrounding forest. Solar panels gleamed on the south-facing roof, catching the morning light. To casual observers—hikers who occasionally passedthrough the remote area—it might appear to be a simple retreat, perhaps owned by some reclusive writer or artist seeking isolation.

They would never suspect that beneath the rustic exterior lay a tactical command center with security that would make military installations envious.

Reagan approached from the blind side, avoiding the carefully hidden motion sensors that guarded the perimeter, a habit ingrained by years of vigilance. She entered through the side door, her hand automatically reaching for the biometric panel disguised as a weather-beaten shutter hinge. The lock disengaged with a soft click.

Inside, the cabin presented two faces. The public spaces—a small kitchenette, sitting area with woodstove, simple bedroom—maintained the rustic façade. But behind a false wall in the bedroom closet lay the nerve center of her operation: walls covered with surveillance photographs, case files, and maps; multiple computer screens displaying security feeds from strategic locations throughout the city; communications equipment that allowed her to monitor police and emergency frequencies; and an arsenal of custom weapons stored in a hidden compartment beneath the floorboards.

Reagan peeled off her sweat-dampened running clothes and stepped into the shower, letting the steaming water sluice away the morning's exertion. As she washed, her fingers traced the jagged scar that curved from her left shoulder across her ribcage—a souvenir from the night everything changed. Ten years ago. The night she should have died.

The night she realized the system she'd sworn to uphold was designed to protect the powerful, not the vulnerable.

Clean and dressed in tactical pants and a fitted black thermal, Reagan moved to the command center, the false wall sliding silently on hidden tracks. She powered up the main system, the screens blinking to life with current information: police frequencies, news feeds, and surveillance footage from carefully placed cameras around the city.

And there it was—the breaking news crawl across the bottom of the local station's feed: "JUDGE MALCOLM HARMON FOUNDDEAD IN PROSPERITY HEIGHTS HOME; POLICE INVESTIGATING POSSIBLE CONNECTION TO VIGILANTE KILLINGS."

Reagan allowed herself a moment of cold satisfaction before switching screens to access the camera she'd positioned with a view of Phoenix Ridge Police Department headquarters. The feed showed increased activity, patrol cars coming and going with greater frequency than normal. A media van had already stationed itself across the street.

She tapped a sequence of keys, accessing a different feed, this one from a discreet camera positioned with a partial view of the penthouse apartment in the Lighthouse Tower. The highest residential building in Phoenix Ridge, its glass-walled units offered spectacular views of the bay and cliffs. But Reagan's interest wasn't in the scenery.

Through the lens, she caught a glimpse of movement—a woman in a tailored suit striding purposefully across a minimalist living room, phone pressed to her ear. Captain Eve Morgan, heading out to take command of the investigation.

Reagan's fingers hovered over the keyboard as she watched Eve disappear from view. Something twisted in her chest, an old ache that ten years hadn't dulled completely. She'd watched Eve from afar all this time, tracking her meteoric rise through the ranks from promising detective to the youngest captain in department history. Watched as she built walls around herself, transformed from the passionate, idealistic officer Reagan had loved into someone harder, more controlled, more isolated.

My fault. My choice.

But necessary. Eve could never have known what Reagan had discovered ten years ago—the network of powerful men who controlled Phoenix Ridge from the shadows, the depths of their corruption, and the lengths they would go to protect themselves. The same men who had arranged for Detective Reagan Shaw to disappear permanently when she'd gotten too close to exposing them.

They'd almost succeeded.

Reagan turned from the screen showing Eve's apartment and focused instead on the wall of evidence she'd accumulated over the past decade. Photographs of eight men connected by red threads—a visual representation of business dealings, club memberships, political contributions, and shared secrets. Reginald Sinclaire and Nathaniel Peterson's images were now crossed out with precise red lines. This morning, she would add the third mark across Judge Malcolm Harmon's face.

But her attention was already shifting to the next target.

Richard Davenport, CEO of Phoenix Ridge Capital, stared back at her from his corporate headshot—silver-haired and square-jawed, his smile never reaching his cold eyes. Beneath his photograph were statements from three women who had worked under him, each describing sexual assault followed by threats and eventual dismissal. All three cases had been settled out of court with ironclad NDAs.

Reagan knew better. She had the evidence that had mysteriously vanished from the police files—evidence she would make public after ensuring Davenport faced the consequences of his actions.

She reached for the drawer beside her workstation and withdrew a small wooden box inlaid with mother-of-pearl. It had been a gift from Eve on their second anniversary. "Something beautiful to keep your secrets in," she'd said with a smile that still haunted Reagan's dreams.

Inside lay a photograph, edges worn from handling: Eve and Reagan in their patrol uniforms, arms around each other's shoulders, laughing at some forgotten joke during their academy days. Before the darkness. Before the truth. Before the choice that had torn them apart.

Reagan's fingertips traced Eve's face in the image, the ghost of a touch she would never feel again. Then she closed the box with a decisive click and turned to her planning board.

Richard Davenport. Tonight.

The hunt continued.

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