Page 16 of Crosscurrent

The bakery woman was quiet and careful, like her. But the signs were there, if you knew where to look. She held her weight on the balls of her feet when an unknown customer came in, and the basement under her building hummed in a way ordinary basements did not. There was an operation under that roof. Sweet and Sawyer, they called it now.

Cara the bakery woman didn’t know anything about her circumstances, but that wouldn’t stop the Neptune goons. They’d hurt her until she convinced them she wasn’t lying. And then, they’d hurt her some more just for fun.

Because of her.

She thought briefly about alerting the police. The old chief in this town had been on the wrong payroll; this new one, she hadn’t been able to read yet. So no, she was not handing the warning to a uniform.

An anonymous warning. Scary enough to be taken seriously, but not frightening enough to create outright panic. Lots of people froze when they panicked. The bakery woman was, she believed, a person who would verify before she acted. Which would take time the woman did not have.

The warning had to be in person. Now.

6

3:02 a.m. Cara’s phone buzzed her out of a dead sleep.

She came awake — fast, no transition, hand on the phone before her brain caught up to what woke her. Heart pounding, she wiped the sleep from her eyes and blinked at the pulsing screen.

PERIMETER ALARM — SIDE DOOR — ALLEY SENSOR.

Okay. Okay. She silenced the notification and stared at the wall beyond the foot of her bed. She needed a plan of attack. But first, she needed a clear threat assessment. She’d planned for this, too many times to count. No sense in blowing it now.

A small-town burglar wouldn’t bother with Sugar & Salt at three in the morning. The cash drawer would be empty, and the streetlamp on Marina Street gave the alley enough light that any kid with a brick would pick somewhere else. If it was a burglar, they were the stupid kind.

But it was the least likely possibility.

More likely, whoever had ordered Roger Schlenkman's death at the trial in New York had finally found her.

She forced herself to consider the idea dispassionately. It was slightly more probable than a random burglar, but there was a final, much more reasonable answer. Someone Sweet and Sawyer Investigations had crossed wanted payback. Ugly, for sure, but not catastrophic.

But that was all yet to be determined. She rolled out of bed. She needed clothes, and a weapon, in that order.

Her phone buzzed again.

Gabe: I got the ping. ETA 9 minutes. Do not go down. Do you hear me? Stay. Put.

She debated ignoring the text, but facing down an angry former Special Agent would be way worse than handling whoever had just broken into the bakery.

Moving silently, she pulled on jeans over her sleep shorts. Father, keep his hands steady on the wheel.

She slid her phone into her pocket and headed through the dark apartment to the kitchen. The streetlight outside gave plenty of light to work with. She slid the boning knife from the block next to the stove, gripping it the way she’d been taught, Filipino style, not reverse.

Ears straining to hear anything from the bakery below, she curled into the chair next to the front window and waited for Gabe.

The alley below was empty. The streetlamp’s halo caught the wet pavement. The kitchen door of Sugar & Salt was down at the end of her sightline. No way to tell whether it was open or closed.

A second text came in.

Gabe: 4 minutes. Eyes on the alley?

Cara: Yes. Empty.

Gabe: Stay where you are.

Cara: I’m staying.

Finally, headlights washed across the far end of the alley.

Gabe’s truck.