Page 79 of Forged in Fire
“Nice form,” I say as I pull up beside her, matching her stride effortlessly.
For a moment, there’s no response aside from her measured breathing. Then she catches sight of me from the corner of her eye and startles slightly. She removes an earpod with the careful politeness of someone who doesn’t want to encourage unwanted conversation.
“Sorry, what?” she asks, still maintaining her stride. Her voice has that cultured Ivy League accent that money and privilege buy. I keep up easily, my breathing barely elevated despite the pace.
“I said nice form.” I offer her a smile—the kind that doesn’t quite reach my eyes but looks friendly enough to an unsuspecting civilian.
“Oh. Right. Sure,” she says, her tone dismissive. She’s already categorizing me as another annoying man who thinks jogging next to a woman constitutes an invitation for conversation. She fixes her eyes on a spot ahead of us, clearly hoping I’ll take the hint and move along.
I don’t.
“This your regular route?” I bob my head forward to where the wide avenue extends through towering cottonwoods. The early morning light touches bare branches, stripped by winter. “The park is beautiful this time of year.”
“Uh-huh,” she responds curtly, her jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. She increases her pace slightly—a subtle signal that she wants me gone.
I match her speed without effort. “I enjoy winter runs myself. Though I’ll admit, I’m looking forward to spring.” I keep my toneconversational, almost lazy. “All those new beginnings, fresh starts. Don’t you think?”
She turns her head toward me, and I catch the first flicker of unease in her eyes. “Sorry… Is there something I can help you with?”
The question comes out with forced politeness, but there’s an edge underneath.
I give her my most winning smile—the one I’ve perfected over years of getting close to targets who thought they were safe. “Sure. Want to take a break and catch your breath?”
“Look, I’m flattered and all, but I’m married.” She raises an elegant hand, flashing a large diamond on her ring finger. The gesture is meant to be dismissive, but I’m not one to be dismissed so easily.
“I know,” I say simply. “But I still think you should catch your breath.”
The casual certainty in my voice makes her stumble slightly. Bright blue eyes narrow on me with the sharp focus of someone who’s just realized they might be in real danger. Those eyes fly wide when I adjust the hem of my sweat top with deliberate slowness, revealing just enough of the Glock tucked into my waistband for her to see.
The color drains from her face. “I… I… Shit.”
She stumbles more seriously this time, her carefully maintained rhythm shattered. I catch her arm before she can fall, my grip firm but not bruising. No need to leave marks—this isn’t about hurting her. It’s about information.
“Let’s sit down.” My voice stays calm, reasonable. “There’s a quiet spot just around the corner.”
She nods quickly, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts that have nothing to do with the running. I guide her toward a secluded bench tucked behind a cluster of evergreens, positioned perfectly out of sight from the main walking paths.I’ve scouted this location. No security cameras, minimal foot traffic, multiple exit routes.
We sit down. I angle myself so I can watch the approaches while keeping her in my peripheral vision.
“Give me your phone,” I say, maintaining that same mild, conversational tone. The contrast between my casual demeanor and the request seems to unnerve her more than if I’d threatened her outright.
“Yes. Of course.” She practically shoves it at me, her hands shaking badly enough that she nearly drops it. “I… I… don’t have any money on me, but… but…” She looks down at her hand, starts frantically trying to work the diamond ring off her finger. “Here. Take this.”
“I don’t want your ring, Rebecca.”
Her mouth drops open, and the ring slips from her nerveless fingers, bouncing off the bench to land in the dead leaves at our feet. “How do you know my name?”
I don’t answer. I’m studying her phone instead, noting the expensive case, the custom wallpaper—a photo of her on some tropical beach, looking disgustingly happy. “I need to access your contacts. Unlock it.”
I turn the screen toward her. Her hand shakes as she fumbles with the biometrics, missing the sensor twice before managing to get it right.
“Please… Please, don’t hurt me.” Her voice cracks on the words, and I catch the scent of fear rolling off her.
“That depends,” I tell her, scrolling through her contact list. “On how cooperative everyone decides to be.”
I find what I’m looking for and dial the number. It rings twice before a familiar voice answers.
“I told you not to call me at work, Poppet.” Sharp with irritation but laced with affection. “This line might not be secure.”
