Choke Point by Ridley Pearson Read Free Book Online

photographers.” Dismissive. She scoots back her chair. “Besides, I filed that story. I’m on to other things.”
    “No, you’re not.” He waits just long enough for her anger to stir. “You’re on leave. You’re working freelance.”
    “And who are you working for, Mr. Steele?”
    “One of your sources is dead. Another, assaulted.”
    “And you’re my guardian angel.”
    He doesn’t answer. For a moment he is at a loss for words. She’s not what he’d expected.
    “What kind of photographer spots people watching other people? Or maybe you made it all up to impress me. Maybe you hired that man. It’s a lot of trouble to go to for some photo credits.”
    “It’s a tough economy.”
    Her laughter carries across the lounge. She covers her mouth, reminding him of Grace. Her eyes shine. A closer look tells him she’s exhausted.
    “I don’t trust you, Mr. Steele.”
    “Google my work. A picture’s worth a thousand words. You have my number.” Dulwich and Rutherford Risk have established both as part of his cover. He’s credited from Melbourne to Monterey.
    “If you follow me again, if I see you again, I will call the police.”
    “These people weren’t afraid to kill an EU bureaucrat. What chance do you think a reporter has?”
    She stands, a pillar of righteousness. “A photographer has a better chance?”
    “Do you trust them?” he says.
    “They’re killers,” she returns.
    “The police, I mean,” he says, surprising her. “Do you trust them?” She sits back down, weary now, fearful even.
    Her silence reaches across the small table like the smell of fear.
    “Can a sweatshop be run without police on the take?” he asks. “I’m asking. I don’t know Amsterdam well.”
    Her eyes burn with hatred and resignation. He knows which one is meant for him.
    “You intend to find the sweatshop.”
    “Knot shop,” she corrects. “The young girls are recruited because their fingers are so small. Faster knots. Women, too. But the girls are far cheaper—a few euros a day if they’re lucky.”
    “And then? Do you stop if you get the story?”
    “Would you stop there?”
    “I would not,” he says.
    “Neither shall I.”
    “And they will kill you. What is the point of that?”
    “Were you sent to warn me?”
    He laughs. “The man in the café should have been enough for that.”
    “Indeed.” She nods thoughtfully.
    “You’re out of your element.”
    “And you are not?”
    He doesn’t want to oversell. Doesn’t want the shrug mistaken as a promise. Doesn’t want to scare her off. There’s a connection between them, but it’s fragile at best.
    “Two is better than one. We proved that at the café.”
    “How do I know you didn’t set that up for my benefit?”
    “You don’t. Though to be honest, I’m not that smart.”
    She can’t fight the curl at the edge of her lips. “I doubt that,” she says. “All for a photo credit or two? I doubt that as well.”
    “And you? Strictly humanitarian? No whiff of prizes, of peer recognition?”
    “So crass.”
    “I know who you are,” he says. “Professionally speaking, of course. I know what this story would mean for me. I don’t deny it. Do you?”
    “I do. Absolutely.”
    “All right then, I’ll accept you at your word.”
    “We are at cross-purposes,” she says.
    “Not at all. You need a wing man. Clearly.”
    She considers this. She doesn’t like him, but there’s the promise of tolerance as she purses her lips and looks down at her hands.
    He senses she’s not the type to shave her legs or underarms regularly. European. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows contradict the stringiness of her hair. He wonders if her present circumstances are responsible or if this reflects her personal grooming.
    “Don’t follow me. Don’t text me.”
    “You will come to find out that you don’t have to tell me things twice.” She stands and heads to the door without looking back.
    He considers letting her go. Can’t stop himself.