Page 173 of Fractured Allegiance
"Then act like it." She straightens, adjusting her coat. "Stay sharp. Stay smart. And whatever happens at that meet, remember who you are and why you're there."
She walks away without another word, hands in her pockets, blending into the sparse morning foot traffic along the trail.
I stay at the railing a few minutes longer.
The tracker feels heavy in my pocket.
I head back to my apartment.
The drive is automatic—muscle memory taking over while my mind runs through what's coming. Naomi's words loop in my head: Stay professional. Don't react. Stay sharp.
I can do that.
I have to.
By noon, I'm showered, dressed in clean clothes—dark jeans, button-down, nothing that draws attention. I check my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Same face. Neutral expression. I practice it once: the look of a man who doesn't care about one missing woman.
It doesn't sit right, but it'll have to do.
I pocket the micro-tracker Naomi gave me, making sure it's concealed in my jacket's inner lining. Easy to access, impossible to spot.
Then I head to the logistics office—the shipping coordination hub where I'm supposed to be working when I'm not running jobs for Drazen.
The office is busy when I arrive. Phones ringing, guys moving between desks with manifests and cargo schedules. I sitin my office, pull up shipping logs I'm supposed to be reviewing, and try to look like I'm working.
My mind isn't settled. It's running scenarios, calculating risks, imagining what I'll find at 5 PM.
But I don't let it show.
I keep my face neutral. My movements routine. Just another day.
Around 3 PM, one of the coordinators—Harry—stops by my desk asking about a container schedule. I give him an answer, keep my tone even, professional. He nods and moves on.
Good.
At 4:07 PM, my phone buzzes.
I glance down.
Unknown number.
The message is short, clear:
5 PM. Harlow Tower, Penthouse Suite. Dom will meet you in the lobby.
I stare at the screen for a moment, then delete the message and pocket the phone.
Naomi was right.
Harlow Tower. East-side high-rise overlooking the waterfront.
One of Drazen's properties—expensive, private, the kind of place where security doesn't ask questions.
I pull out the micro-tracker, hold it under my desk where no one can see, and press the button for three seconds. A faint vibration confirms activation.
Naomi's team will be watching now.
I close the shipping logs on my screen, grab my jacket, and stand.
