The words settled between us like a stone in deep water. Then the door swung open.
Two men entered—sharp suits, precise movements, eyes scanning the room in stepped motions. Not locals. Not dealers. Government? Military? Something worse?
I felt my pulse pick up.
"We need to leave," she said, already shifting in her seat.
I forced myself to stay relaxed, even as my nerves screamed. I met her gaze, and in that moment, we both knew.
We weren’t being followed.
We were being hunted.
The feeling shifted. Conversations dipped into an unnatural lull. A waitress near the bar stopped mid-step, her eyes glazed toward the newcomers. Near the patio, a woman who had been laughing moments ago suddenly gathered her things, speaking in hushed tones.
Then came the scrape of a chair against the floor. The man at the back table stood, adjusting his jacket.
I swallowed hard.
"Side exit," my partner whispered.
I nodded, forcing a casual movement as I stood, my breath slow, measured.
Every instinct told me the second we stepped outside, everything would go to hell.
We still don’t know what happened. If someone got caught or killed? The day it happened, we went to a local eatery.
The place smelled of charred beef and fried plantains, the scent mixing with low voices and occasional bursts of laughter. I leaned back in my chair, taking in the dim lighting, the uneven wooden tables, the soft hum of conversation. It felt normal. It felt safe.
It wasn’t.
Across from me, my partner stirred her drink slowly, the ice clinking against the glass. She hadn’t touched her food.
"Something feels off," she said, her voice barely more than a breath.
I smirked, forcing ease into my posture. "Paranoia makes a good agent, but right now, we’re just two rich criminals enjoying a meal."
She didn’t laugh. Her fingers tightened around the glass, her gaze toward the entrance, sharp but careful.
"Third table in the back," she said under her breath. "He’s watching us."
I didn’t turn at once. Instead, I picked up my napkin, wiped the corner of my mouth, and let my gaze drift naturally over the room.
A lone man sat at the back, hunched over his drink, pretending to read a newspaper—but his eyes rose up too often, too deliberately.
"You recognize him?" I asked, voice low.
She hesitated, and that hesitation made my stomach clench.
"No. But he knows us."
The words settled between us like a stone in deep water. Then the door swung open.
Two men entered—sharp suits, precise movements, eyes scanning the room in stepped motions. Not locals. Not dealers. Government? Military? Something worse?
I felt my pulse pick up.
"We need to leave," she said, already shifting in her seat.
I forced myself to stay relaxed, even as my nerves screamed. I met her gaze, and in that moment, we both knew.
We weren’t being followed.
We were being hunted.
The feeling shifted. Conversations dipped into an unnatural lull. A waitress near the bar stopped mid-step, her eyes glazed toward the newcomers. Near the patio, a woman who had been laughing moments ago suddenly gathered her things, speaking in hushed tones.
Then came the scrape of a chair against the floor. The man at the back table stood, adjusting his jacket.
I swallowed hard.
"Side exit," my partner whispered.
I nodded, forcing a casual movement as I stood, my breath slow, measured.
Every instinct told me the second we stepped outside, everything would go to hell.