Chapter 4: Shattered Trust

The first bullet shattered the diner's window, sending glass cascading like deadly rain. Blake shoved me behind the counter as tactical-clad figures poured through both entrances, their weapons trained on our position.

"FBI!" Blake shouted, but his badge meant nothing to these people.

"Stand down, Agent Blake," the lead figure called back. "We're here for Morrison. This doesn't have to involve you."

I pressed against the counter, my heart hammering as I tried to process what was happening. These weren't random attackers—they knew Blake's name, knew we'd be here. Someone had been watching, waiting for exactly this moment.

"Kate," Blake whispered, his back pressed against mine. "There's a service door behind the kitchen. When I create a distraction—"

"I'm not leaving you."

"You have to." His voice was urgent, desperate. "They don't want me dead—they want you alive. That gives me leverage."

Before I could argue, he was moving, rising from behind the counter with his weapon raised. "Agent Ryan Blake, FBI! You are interfering with a federal investigation!"

The response was immediate—multiple muzzle flashes lighting up the dim diner. But Blake had anticipated their reaction, already rolling toward the kitchen as bullets chewed up the space where he'd been standing.

I ran. Past overturned tables and terrified customers, through the kitchen where an elderly cook cowered behind industrial refrigerators, toward the service door Blake had indicated. My hands shook as I fumbled with the lock, expecting any second to feel a bullet between my shoulder blades.

The door opened onto an alley filled with dumpsters and the smell of rotting food. I could hear shouting from inside the diner, more gunfire, and what sounded like Blake's voice giving orders. But I couldn't stay to help—staying would only give them what they wanted.

My car was two blocks away, parked on a side street where Blake had insisted we leave it. "Always have an exit strategy," he'd said, and now I understood why.

As I ran, my mind raced through possibilities. The tactical team had known exactly where to find us, which meant either Blake had led them there, or someone had been monitoring our communications. The burner phone he'd given me—could it have been compromised?

I reached my car and fumbled with the keys, hands still shaking from adrenaline. As the engine started, I caught a glimpse in my rearview mirror of figures emerging from the alley behind me. They were following, but on foot—I had a chance.

My apartment was out of the question. My office at the FBI building was equally dangerous. Sarah's house would put her at risk. I needed somewhere safe, somewhere I could think and figure out what the hell was happening.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of a cheap motel on the outskirts of town. The kind of place that took cash and didn't ask questions. I paid for a room under a fake name and locked myself inside, finally allowing myself to process what I'd witnessed.

Blake had protected me. When armed figures had come for me specifically, he'd put himself between us and created an opportunity for my escape. That didn't sound like the behavior of someone working with my enemies.

But then again, I'd seen him in my apartment through a psychometric vision. I'd felt his presence, witnessed him placing the threatening note. Those visions were never wrong—were they?

My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: Are you safe?

I stared at the message, torn between hope and suspicion. It could be Blake, checking on my welfare. It could just as easily be whoever had been in my apartment, fishing for my location.

I typed back: Who is this?

The response came immediately: Someone who's been trying to keep you alive. We need to meet.

Prove you're who I think you are.

A pause, then: You told me yesterday that you don't trust anyone. I said it was a smart policy but must get lonely.

Blake. It had to be Blake—no one else had been present for that conversation. But how had he escaped the tactical team? And why hadn't he used the burner phone he'd given me?

Where? I typed.

Pier 47. One hour. Come alone and watch for surveillance.

I deleted the conversation and turned off my phone. An hour would give me time to circle the area, check for ambushes, maybe even figure out if Blake was truly on my side or playing a deeper game.

The pier was exactly the kind of place I'd choose for a clandestine meeting—multiple escape routes, clear lines of sight, and enough ambient noise from the harbor to mask conversation. I arrived forty minutes early and positioned myself in the parking lot of a nearby restaurant where I could observe the entire area.

Blake arrived precisely on time, driving a different car than I'd seen him use before. He parked at the far end of the pier and walked slowly toward the railing, his hands visible, making no threatening moves. Either he was genuinely trying to appear non-threatening, or he was very good at playing the part.

I waited another ten minutes, scanning for backup, for watchers, for any sign this was a trap. When I was satisfied he'd come alone, I approached from behind.

"Don't turn around," I said, my hand resting on my concealed weapon.

"Kate." His voice carried relief and something else—exhaustion, maybe, or pain. "Thank God you're alive."

"How did you escape?"

"They weren't there to kill me. Just like I said—they want you alive, they want me out of the way." He started to turn, but I stopped him with a sharp command.

"I said don't turn around. How do I know you're not working with them?"

Blake sighed, his shoulders sagging. "Because if I were working with them, you'd already be in custody. They had you surrounded, Kate. I gave you the only chance you had."

"Maybe that was part of the plan. Maybe you needed me to trust you."

"Maybe." His voice was quiet, resigned. "Or maybe I've spent the last two years of my life building a case against a conspiracy that reaches the highest levels of the federal government, and you're the key to bringing them down."

Despite my suspicions, something in his tone made me believe him. "Turn around. Slowly."

When Blake faced me, I could see evidence of the diner fight—a cut on his forehead, bruising on his jaw, torn clothing. His eyes held a weariness I recognized from my own mirror after particularly difficult cases.

"How many of them were there?" I asked.

"Eight that I counted. Professional, well-equipped, definitely not FBI despite what they claimed." Blake rubbed his jaw gingerly. "They knew exactly who we were, where we'd be, what we'd discussed. Someone's been monitoring us closely."

"The burner phone you gave me—"

"Clean. I checked it myself." Blake pulled out his own device and showed me the screen. "But your regular phone, your car, maybe even your clothes could be bugged. They've had access to your apartment, remember?"

The thought of being monitored so intimately made my skin crawl. "What do they want with me?"

Blake was quiet for a long moment, staring out at the dark water. "I think you know what makes you special, Kate. I think you've known for years."

My heart stopped. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"The Morrison trafficking case. Ninety-seven percent success rate on missing persons. The way you seem to know things about crime scenes that aren't in the reports." Blake's voice was gentle but insistent. "You have abilities they want to control or eliminate."

The pier suddenly felt too exposed, too vulnerable. "Even if that were true—"

"It is true. And they know it." Blake stepped closer, his voice urgent. "Kate, I've seen their files. They have documentation on dozens of people like you—psychics, telepaths, precognitives. Some disappear voluntarily, some are recruited, and some..."

"Some end up like David Chen," I finished.

"Or like Lisa Park's original stalker. Did you wonder what happened to the FBI agent who was following her? He's listed as killed in action, but there's no record of what action. No case file, no incident report."

The implication was clear—the FBI agent had outlived his usefulness and been eliminated. Just like Chen and Torres, just like anyone who got too close to the truth.

"What do you want from me?" I asked.

Blake reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick envelope. "I want you to help me destroy them. This contains everything I've gathered over two years—names, locations, operational details, financial records. But it's not enough. I need someone on the inside, someone they trust."

"Wilson."

"Director Wilson is either a willing participant or a useful idiot. Either way, he's the key to their operation." Blake handed me the envelope. "I need you to find out which."

I took the envelope, feeling its weight. "And if he's willing? If Wilson has been using me this whole time?"

"Then we take him down too."

The commitment in Blake's voice surprised me. This wasn't just professional duty—it was personal. "Why does this matter so much to you?"

Blake was quiet for so long I thought he wouldn't answer. Finally, he said, "Because I lost someone. Someone like you, someone with gifts that should have been protected instead of exploited."

"Who?"

"My sister." The pain in his voice was raw, unguarded. "She could see things—past events by touching objects. Sound familiar?"

My breath caught. Blake's sister had psychometric abilities like mine.

"The Bureau recruited her five years ago. Told her she'd be helping solve crimes, saving lives. For a while, it seemed legitimate—cold cases getting solved, missing persons found, real good being done." Blake's hands clenched into fists. "Then the assignments got darker. They wanted her to read objects from active investigations, to invade suspects' privacy without warrants. When she refused..."

"They killed her?"

"They drove her to suicide. Told her she was mentally ill, that her visions were delusions. Isolated her from family, from anyone who might support her. By the end, she thought she was insane."

The raw pain in Blake's voice made my chest ache. I understood the fear, the isolation, the constant worry that your abilities made you crazy. If I hadn't had Wilson's encouragement and Sarah's friendship, I might have ended up the same way.

"I'm sorry," I said, meaning it.

"Don't be sorry. Help me stop them."

I stared at the envelope in my hands, knowing that accepting it would change everything. Once I started down this path, there would be no going back. The FBI had been my life for five years—my career, my identity, my purpose.

But if Blake was right, that life had been built on a lie. Wilson hadn't been protecting me—he'd been using me. My success rate, my instincts, my ability to close impossible cases—it had all been valuable because of what I could do, not who I was.

"What's our first move?" I asked.

Blake's smile was fierce, determined. "We find Lisa Park and get her somewhere safe. Then we figure out exactly how deep this conspiracy goes."

As we walked back toward our cars, I felt something I hadn't experienced in years—hope. Not just for solving the case, but for finally being honest about who I was. Blake knew my secret and wasn't afraid of it. More than that, he valued it as part of what made me uniquely capable of helping.

But as I drove away from the pier, checking constantly for surveillance, one question nagged at me: if Blake hadn't been in my apartment, who had left that threatening note?

And why did they want me to suspect the one person who might actually be trying to save my life?