Golden Hour | Cole Stewart AU

High Stakes Game

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Please read the note at end of chapter for an important update

COLE

The Urgent Affairs Bureau stands in the dead center of Pennsylvania Avenue, across a fountain that is shaped like a bird, framed by rows of small square windows that are tinted black.

The guard pats me down three damn times before passing me a Visitor's badge.

I pin it to my jacket, and slip through the revolving door before he changes his mind.

Cool air slaps my face the moment I step inside, a relief from the burn of the sun.

The hurried clink of heels and shoes echoes down the hall, fluorescent lighting bouncing off the wall.

The elevator dings open every other minute, crisp neatly pressed suits step in and step out, phones pressed to their ears, hands filled with files.

Yet heads turn, eyebrows arch, eyes linger on my back as I walk. A man stares at me unabashedly, saying something to the woman next to him from the corner of his mouth. She stops ruffling through the pages and mutters something back to him.

I did not miss this place.

"Mr. Stewart." A voice calls out before I can get another step. "Please follow me."

The man raises his hand to his earpiece and jerks his head at the elevator. I barely get a look at his badge before he turns, the name Eric Watt printed on his ID. He seems to be in his early forties, with blond hair cropped to the end.

The elevator stops on the third floor, opening up to a long hallway, and doors that stretch all the way to the end.

"In here." He says, opening the last door in the narrow hallway. He turns on the lights. "Someone will be here in a minute. Please wait."

*

*****

"I'm going to need you to repeat that again."

The man's eyebrows rise and fall, a crease appearing on his forehead.

A badge shines against his expensive navy blue suit, the letters UAB engraved on them.

The government sure as hell has money to keep their finest men well-dressed.

I take a deep breath. "Which part?"

He's good. Asked all the right questions, and poked holes in my story where things were not adding up.

But he's not operating alone. His eyes jump to the blinking red light embedded in the ceiling.

Someone is feeding him instructions.

I'm being watched and I have no idea who's on the other end.

A statement? Right.

This was a goddamn interrogation.

My jaw feels too tight and I roll my tongue in my mouth, forcing my muscles to relax.

"Sure," I lean back. "I almost missed him. You see, a car was blocking him. I had to go around it," I pause, thinking back to the day. "He was dead."