Chapter Eleven:
The lake breathed in slow, even pulls.
Matt sat at the table by the window, coffee steaming lightly in his hand, eyes moving between screens without urgency. Morning light slid across the water and into the room—clean and unremarkable. He liked that. It made the work honest.
He ran the yacht club again. Entrances. Service corridors. Locker rooms. Balconies no one lingered on.
Two paths stayed open. Close and personal—suppressed pistol, controlled environment, proximity erasing variables. Or distance—a rifle, elevation, patience. A single line drawn from intent to outcome.
Matt planned for both. Exit routes overlapped on his screen like veins. He measured collateral not in theory but in footsteps—who stood where, who moved when, how noise traveled once the sun went down and alcohol softened attention.
He took a sip of coffee and let it cool his mouth. No hurry. He packed his bags for his overnight in Baltimore.
Tonight was just about getting in and investigating it for himself. Hopefully come up with a viable plan and stake out the area in person.