Chapter 1 - The Man Above the Table
I crawled beneath a stranger’s table while my ex searched the restaurant for me.
The stranger dropped a napkin, saw my face, and whispered, “Play along.”
Three days later, my corporate login appeared on a shipment I had never touched.
But that night, beneath several thousand dollars’ worth of polished walnut and white linen, I knew nothing about shipments.
I knew only that Jared Sloan was ten feet away.
And getting closer.
Rain had followed me through three blocks of downtown Seattle, through an alley behind an Italian restaurant where entrées cost more than my weekly grocery budget, past a startled line cook, through a swinging kitchen door, and beneath the first table hidden behind a velvet curtain.
My wet rose-colored trench coat had wrapped itself around my calves.
My hair stuck to my cheeks.
One of my boots was untied.
I didn't care.
Outside the curtain, Jared's voice drifted through the restaurant.
“I know she came in here.”
Not asking.
Calling.
There was a difference.
There had always been a difference with Jared.
Three months earlier, I had changed the locks on my apartment.
Then my phone number.
Then my email.
At the freight logistics company where I worked, I had moved my desk away from the glass lobby because the sight of his truck once had sent me into the restroom until my hands stopped shaking.
For ninety-two days, he had mostly disappeared.
On day ninety-three, I attended a coworker’s farewell dinner.
Jared had been waiting outside.
I ran.
Now, beneath the table, I heard expensive shoes stop beside me.
Polished black oxfords appeared beneath the tablecloth.
Charcoal trousers.
Long legs.
The chair moved.
Someone sat down.
I stopped breathing.
Above me, a waiter said, “Mr. Varga. Your usual?”
“Bourbon.”
The voice was low.
Calm.
Not kind exactly.
More like the voice of a man who had never needed to repeat himself.
“Apologies for the disturbance, sir.”
“Handle it.”
The waiter disappeared.
I stared at the stranger's shoes.
Then the tablecloth moved.
A folded napkin dropped beside my boot.
For one terrible second, I thought it was an accident.
Then the man leaned down.
Dark hair.
Sharp cheekbones.
Gray-green eyes.
A black tattoo disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt.
His expression didn't change when he saw me.
That was almost more frightening.
I expected surprise.
Anger.
Questions.
Instead, he studied my face for less than two seconds and whispered, “Play along.”
Then he picked up the napkin and sat upright.
I had no idea what that meant.
Five seconds later, Jared ripped open the velvet curtain.
“Hey.”
Silence.
I could see only shoes.
Jared's cheap brown loafers.
The stranger's black oxfords.
Neither moved.
“I'm looking for someone,” Jared said.
The man above me took a sip of bourbon.
“This is a private table.”
“I just need to know if a woman came through here.”
“What woman?”
“My girlfriend.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
Ex-girlfriend, I thought.
I hadn't been his girlfriend for three months.
Jared continued.
“Brown hair. Pink coat. She's upset.”
The stranger's glass touched the table.
“Then perhaps you should stop following her.”
My heart stopped.
Jared went quiet.
“How do you know I'm following her?”
Another pause.
Then the man said, “Because men searching for someone who wants to be found don't look under tables.”
For the first time since entering the restaurant, I nearly laughed.
It wasn't funny.
Nothing about this was funny.
But terror does strange things to your brain.
Jared stepped closer.
“Who are you?”
The waiter answered before the stranger could.
“Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to return to the main dining room.”
“I asked him a question.”
The stranger spoke.
“My name won't improve your evening.”
Something changed outside the table.
I couldn't see Jared's face, but I heard it in his voice.
Recognition.
“Varga?”
The man didn't answer.
Jared took one step backward.
Then another.
“Right.”
His tone had changed completely.
“Sorry. Wrong table.”
The curtain closed.
I listened to his footsteps cross the marble.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Thirty.
I still didn't move.
Finally the stranger tapped twice on the tabletop.
“He's gone.”
I pushed the tablecloth aside.
The restaurant seemed impossibly bright after the darkness underneath.
The stranger remained seated.
Up close, he was younger than his voice had suggested.
Maybe thirty-seven.
Tailored charcoal suit.
Black shirt open at the throat.
Tattoos along his neck and chest.
A silver watch that probably cost more than my car.
He turned his bourbon glass slowly between two fingers.
“You planning to live under there?”
“I haven't decided.”
One corner of his mouth moved.
Not a smile.
Almost.
I crawled out.
My knees protested.
I stood and immediately grabbed the chair because the room tilted.
The stranger noticed.
He didn't touch me.
I appreciated that more than he could have known.
He simply pushed a glass of water across the table.
“Drink.”
“Is everything an order with you?”
“Yes.”
That almost-smile appeared again.
I drank.
The water tasted like survival.
“Thank you.”
“You should call the police.”
“I have.”
That erased the trace of amusement from his face.
He looked toward the curtain.
“More than once?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“Temporary protection order. Documentation. Advice to keep records.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“Useful.”
“You sound skeptical.”
“I've learned that paperwork is excellent at proving what already happened.”
There was something in the way he said it that made me stop.
“You know Jared?”
“No.”
“He knew you.”
“Different problem.”
That was when the waiter returned.
He leaned toward Mr. Varga and murmured something.
Varga's expression changed by half a degree.
It was enough.
“What?” I asked.
“He didn't leave.”
My stomach dropped.
“He's outside?”
“He's in a black pickup across the street.”
Of course he was.
Varga looked at me.
“Do you have somewhere safe to go?”
“Yes.”
“Does he know where?”
I didn't answer.
He understood.
“My car can take you somewhere else.”
I hesitated.
Every lesson about strangers I'd learned as a child screamed at me.
Then again, I had just spent several minutes hiding beneath this stranger's furniture.
“Who exactly are you?” I asked.
“Adrian Varga.”
“That doesn't answer the question.”
“It answers enough for tonight.”
“I don't get into cars with men who say things like that.”
“You climbed under my table.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“I was improvising.”
His eyes softened with something dangerously close to amusement.
“Then improvise once more.”
An hour later, one of his drivers dropped me at a small hotel on Queen Anne under a reservation that wasn't in my name.
Varga never asked for my phone number.
Never followed me upstairs.
Never asked for anything in return.
Before I got out, he handed me a black business card.
No title.
No company.
Just:
ADRIAN VARGA
and a phone number.
“Why are you helping me?” I asked.
He looked out the rain-streaked window.
“Because you asked the room for help without saying a word.”
“I didn't ask you.”
“You chose my table.”
“That was random.”
“Most important things are.”
I almost threw away the card.
Instead, I put it in my wallet.
The next morning, I went to work.
I was a compliance analyst for Northline Maritime Logistics, which sounded more impressive than it was.
Mostly, I reviewed customs documentation, cargo classifications, vendor approvals, and digital authorization records for shipments moving through Seattle and Tacoma.
I liked the predictability of numbers.
People lied.
Numbers usually needed help.
Monday passed normally.
Tuesday almost did.
Wednesday at 9:14 a.m., my supervisor appeared beside my desk.
“Khloe?”
I looked up.
Martin Ellis was holding three printed pages.
He wasn't smiling.
“Conference room. Now.”
Inside were Martin, our head of security, and someone from legal.
My stomach tightened.
“What happened?”
The security director turned a laptop toward me.
A shipment authorization filled the screen.
Container NXU-481970.
Origin: Vancouver.
Transfer: Seattle.
Final destination: Antwerp.
Approval timestamp: Monday, 2:13 a.m.
Authorized employee:
KHLOE BENNETT.
I stared.
“I didn't do this.”
Nobody spoke.
The security director enlarged the audit trail.
My username.
My credential token.
My digital signature.
Everything looked legitimate.
“I was asleep.”
Martin rubbed his forehead.
“The system says you approved it.”
“The system is wrong.”
Legal finally spoke.
“Khloe, that shipment is currently being held.”
“For what?”
The woman hesitated.
Then answered.
“Because the declared contents don't match the inspection record.”
My heartbeat accelerated.
“What was declared?”
“Industrial pump components.”
“And what was actually inside?”
She slid a photograph across the table.
Not drugs.
Not weapons.
Nothing dramatic.
Stacks of sealed electronic modules.
Each carrying an identification number.
I stared at one.
Then another.
And suddenly forgot how to breathe.
I had seen that numbering format before.
Not at Northline.
At Jared's company.
Sloan Systems Consulting.
My ex-boyfriend's company.
I looked up.
“Where did you get this shipment?”
Martin answered quietly.
“That's what we're trying to determine.”
My phone vibrated inside my pocket.
Unknown number.
One message.
YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED UNDER THE TABLE.
And for the first time, I understood something that scared me more than Jared standing outside a restaurant.
He hadn't found me there by accident.
Someone had wanted me running.
May you like
Someone had wanted me afraid.
And while I was hiding beneath Adrian Varga's table, somebody had been using my name.
