Chapter 8 8

Alya immediately dropped to one knee, ignoring the freezing mud soaking through her trousers.

She lifted the heavy DSLR camera, twisting the barrel of the telephoto lens to zoom in on the VIP convoy.

Through the viewfinder, the image sharpened.

Standing on the red carpet, looking utterly bored and dangerous, was Archer Garcia.

Alya's finger jerked on the shutter button. The camera clicked softly.

Standing next to Archer, practically bowing in subservience, was Kameron Rasmussen, the heir to the Rasmussen empire.

Alya's brain connected the dots instantly. Archer wasn't just a political broker; his capital firm was the shadow financier behind the Rasmussen cartel's legitimate fronts.

A gust of icy wind whipped across the open site. Alya shivered violently. The cold seeped into her bones, triggering a dull, throbbing ache in her chest.

She gritted her teeth, ignoring the pain, and kept her eye on the viewfinder.

Kameron pulled a thick, leather-bound supplementary contract from his jacket and handed it to Archer. It was the physical proof of the illegal kickbacks.

Alya zoomed in on the document. She needed the signature page.

Suddenly, Archer stopped talking.

He didn't look at Kameron. He slowly turned his head, his dark eyes scanning the desolate, muddy landscape of the construction site.

It was as if he could feel her looking at him.

Alya panicked. She threw herself sideways, pressing her back against the massive, mud-caked steel treads of an idle excavator.

She held her breath, her heart pounding a frantic, dangerous rhythm against her ribs.

Archer's line of sight was blocked by the machinery, but his eyes locked onto a small flash of charcoal fabric flapping in the wind.

He recognized the cut of the coat.

Archer's blood ran cold, and then boiled over into pure rage. His intel network had failed. They should have warned him the moment this demeaning assignment was given to her. He was too late.

He turned to the site manager, who was sweating profusely despite the cold.

"What the hell is that?" Archer demanded, pointing a long finger toward the excavator.

The manager wiped his forehead. "Oh, that's just a reporter from BCF, Mr. Garcia. They send the bottom-feeders out here. She's harmless."

Hearing the words BCF and bottom-feeder applied to Alya made a muscle in Archer's jaw twitch violently.

He looked at the freezing mud, the biting wind, and knew Alya was out there, sick and freezing, because of some petty office politics.

Archer wanted to walk over there, pick her up, and burn the entire BCF building to the ground.

But Kameron was watching. If Archer showed any weakness, any connection to Alya, the Rasmussen cartel would use her as leverage.

Archer forced his face into a mask of aristocratic disgust.

"This site is a safety hazard," Archer barked loudly, his voice carrying over the wind. "It's a disgrace. If that reporter gets pneumonia and sues, it delays my permits."

Kameron looked panicked. "Mr. Garcia, I assure you-"

"I don't care," Archer cut him off ruthlessly. "Build a heated media pavilion. Right now. Get her out of the mud, or I pull my funding in sixty seconds."

The manager started screaming orders at the crew.

Behind the excavator, Alya heard the commotion. She peeked around the steel tread.

Three construction workers were sprinting toward her, carrying a portable industrial heater and a thermos of hot coffee.

"Ma'am! Please, come to the trailer!" one of the workers begged.

Ten minutes later, Alya was sitting inside a dry, heated portable office, wrapping her freezing hands around a steaming cup of coffee.

She looked out the plexiglass window.

Fifty yards away, Archer was standing by his Maybach. He was looking directly at the window of her trailer.

Even through the distance and the glass, Alya could feel the crushing weight of his stare. It was a look of pure, possessive warning. Stay in line.

Alya lifted her chin, refusing to be intimidated. She looked down at her camera screen.

The photo of the contract was crystal clear.

Archer saw her dismiss him. He clenched his fists, turned around, and got into his car. The door slammed shut with a heavy thud.

Alya connected her camera to her phone and uploaded the encrypted file to her dark web server.

She had the weapon. Now, it was time to go back to the office and use it.