Page 46 of Crosscurrent

“WHAT?” Manny shouted back.

“Piper got a fifteen-thirty.”

A crash came from somewhere behind the pass-through. Not a serious crash. Probably.

“Fifteen-thirty?” Manny bellowed. “Get out! That kid is getting tacos for life.”

For one brief moment, the whole Grill felt bright and harmless again.

Then the man at the far end of the counter turned on his stool.

Cara catalogued the important details automatically. Late thirties. Clean-cut in a way that cost money to maintain, wearing khakis with a blue half-zip, a leather messenger bag at his feet. Nothing about him looked wrong, which pinged her radar hard.

His gaze flicked to the pastry tray in her hands, then to the Sugar & Salt logo on her hoodie. Recognition settled into his expression one beat before he smiled.

“Cara Sweet?”

Her throat tightened. Not visibly. Never visibly.

The smart answer was probably, “Who’s asking?” The safer answer was probably, “No.” But denial only worked if the other person was uncertain, and this guy looked very certain.

Cara gave him a small, careful smile. “Depends who’s asking.”

“Diego Ortiz.” He stood smoothly and offered a hand. “Northwest Community Conservancy.”

The name meant nothing. His confidence, on the other hand, meant everything.

“We’ve been speaking with a few business owners around town,” he said. “Small coastal communities, heritage preservation, long-term local anchors. I’ve heard excellent things about Sugar & Salt.”

Around town. There it was—a soft little hook hidden inside a perfectly polite sentence.

Cara shook his hand. His grip was warm. Dry. Practiced.

“That’s great to hear.”

A slight south-Texas inflection colored his voice. Or someone had taught him one. She couldn’t tell yet.

Reagan drifted behind Ortiz with a full coffeepot in hand and the relaxed expression of a waitress topping off customers. Only Cara knew Reagan well enough to recognize the posture: weight balanced, eyes alert, one move away from violence if necessary.

“Do you have a few minutes to talk?” Ortiz asked.

Cara glanced toward the front windows. Sunlight. Tourists. A couple laughing over clam chowder.

No black SUV in sight. No obvious watchers. Which did absolutely nothing to comfort her.

She knew what this was now. Not recon. Not information gathering.

Neptune wanted to see how she reacted when danger walked through the front door smiling politely. More importantly, they wanted her off-balance enough to do something impulsive afterward. Run, hide, warn people badly, expose the team. They were tightening the psychological perimeter.

Too bad for them, she had grown up around predators.

She perched on the stool one over from him, angled so she could see his hands, the front door, and Reagan in the reflection of the coffee urn. “I have a few minutes.”

Ortiz pulled a leather notebook from his bag and slid a card across the counter.

Diego Ortiz. Senior Program Officer. Northwest Community Conservancy. Portland, Oregon.

“What kind of preservation, specifically?” Cara asked.