Blind Spot

CHAPTER ONE · THE ASSIGNMENT

Gage Vaughn

Wednesday, August 12, 2026 | 8:17PM

There are four kinds of people who come looking for me.

The desperate. The dishonest. And the ones who are too fucking stupid to realize they're both.

Joe Moretti falls into the fourth category.

The dangerous ones.

He's sitting across from my desk, looking like he stepped out of a funeral where he personally buried the deceased. Black suit. White shirt. Silver watch. Not a hair out of place.

He hasn't touched the whiskey I poured.

I respect that.

Mostly because it means he's here for business, not conversation.

"You're being unusually quiet," I tell him.

Joe glances at the glass of whiskey before returning his attention to me. "I'm waiting for you to finish entertaining yourself."

I lean back in my chair.

"Careful. That's generally an expensive service."

He doesn't smile.

Of course he doesn't.

Joe Moretti has the personality of a locked bank vault. I've worked with him twice before, and I still couldn't tell you whether the man has a wife, children, or a favorite fucking color.

What I do know is that he works for Richard Santiago.

And Richard has enough money, influence, and questionable business interests to make hiring someone like me a necessity rather than a luxury.

"What do you need?" I ask.

Joe slides a folder across my desk.

Actual paper.

Christ.

"You know they invented computers, right?"

"Open it."

"Bossy."

"Vaughn."

I grin and pull the folder toward me.

There's a photograph clipped to the first page.

A man in his early thirties. Perfect teeth. Expensive haircut. The kind of smile that suggests he's never had to apologize for anything without expecting to be forgiven immediately.

I dislike him already.

"Crawford," Joe says.

"Does he have a first name, or are we going with the single-name celebrity thing?"

"Chase."

I glance at the rest of the paperwork.

Business history. Financial interests. A handful of corporate connections. Nothing particularly exciting at first glance.

"He's negotiating a merger with Richard Santiago's company," Joe explains. "If everything goes according to plan, the deal should close in approximately four months."

"And?"

"And I don't trust him."

I turn another page.

"Richard believes the partnership will expand the company's reach. New investors, new markets, better distribution. On paper, it's beneficial for everyone."

"But?"

"But Chase has been asking questions he shouldn't be asking."

Now we're getting somewhere.

"What kind of questions?"

"Ownership structures. Voting rights. Internal accounts. Who has access to certain financial records."

"Sounds like due diligence."

"Some of it is."

I look up.

"And the rest?"

Joe's expression hardens.

"Some of it concerns operations he hasn't been told about."

Interesting.

Santiago's legitimate businesses are impressive. The man has spent decades building a corporate empire, and his public reputation is practically spotless.

His private business is another matter entirely.

I know enough not to ask questions I haven't been paid to investigate.

"Does Richard know you're here?"

"No."

That gets my attention.

I close the folder.

"Well, shit. Now I'm interested."

Joe shifts forward.

"Richard trusts this man. He thinks Crawford is ambitious, intelligent, and exactly what the company needs."

"Is he?"

"Ambitious? Absolutely."

"Intelligent?"

Joe pauses.

I laugh.

"That bad, huh?"

"He's clever enough to be dangerous and arrogant enough not to recognize it."

I glance down at Crawford's photo.

Joee reaches into his jacket and removes another photograph.

A woman.

Dark hair. Sharp features. Immaculate makeup. Designer clothes that cost more than the average person's rent.

She's standing beside Richard at some corporate event.

"Victoria Santiago," Joe says. "Richard's daughter."

"Pretty."

"She's heavily involved in the merger negotiations."

I study the picture.

There's something about the way she's standing. Perfect posture. Confident smile. One hand resting lightly on her father's arm.

She's looking directly at the camera.

Richard is smiling like a proud father.

Victoria looks like she's already decided where she'll hang his portrait when she takes over his office.

"She doesn't like Daddy being in charge?"

Joe's eyes narrow.

"Victoria is ambitious. She believes she's ready to run the company."

"And Richard disagrees."

"He believes she needs more experience."

Joe folds his hands.

"She's been spending a great deal of time with Crawford."

I glance between the photographs.

"Business partners spending time together. Alert the authorities."

"She's pushing harder for this merger than anyone else."

"Maybe she likes the numbers."

"Maybe."

But Joe doesn't look convinced.

I lean back, turning Chase's photograph between my fingers.

"So let me get this straight. Richard's daughter wants more control. She's enthusiastically supporting a merger with a man you don't trust. Said man has been asking uncomfortable questions about Richard's operations, and you're worried the two of them are planning something."

"Yes."

"Why not tell Richard?"

"Because I don't have proof."

"And because accusing his daughter of conspiring against him would go over beautifully at Christmas dinner."

Joe says nothing.

That silence is answer enough.

"Fine," I say. "What exactly do you want?"

"Find out who Chase Crawford really is. Who he's meeting. What he's planning. Whether he's involved with anyone who could compromise this company."

"Define compromise."

"Financially. Legally. Otherwise."

I let that final word sit between us.

Otherwise. A remarkably versatile word in my profession.

"Richard has operations Victoria knows nothing about," Joe continues. "If Chase starts digging in the wrong places, he could expose things that aren't his concern."

"Does Chase know those operations exist?"

"That's what I need you to find out."

I look at the photographs again.

A greedy businessman. An ambitious daughter. A father with secrets. And a loyal employee who knows where the bodies are buried.

Possibly literally.

Not the worst assignment I've ever taken.

"What about Victoria?" I ask.

"What about her?"

"Am I investigating her too?"

"Only as far as her relationship with Chase concerns the merger."

"Understood."

"And Gage?"

I raise an eyebrow.

"Keep this discreet. If Richard finds out I'm investigating his future business partner behind his back, we'll both have a problem."

I smile.

"Discretion is what you pay me for."

Joe studies me for a moment before rising from his chair.

"I'll expect an update when you have something."

"You'll be the first to know."

He gives me one last look, straightens his jacket, and walks out.

Joe's whiskey remains untouched.

Shame. That's a perfectly good bourbon.

I retrieve the glass, toss back its contents, and savor the familiar burn as it slides down my throat.

His loss.

I lock the office door and return to my desk, loosening the cuffs of my shirt.

Outside, the city continues its usual performance. Traffic crawling through the streets. People drinking overpriced cocktails. Couples convincing themselves they're happy.

Everyone busy pretending their lives are more interesting than they actually are.

Mine, fortunately, doesn't require much pretending.

I run a cybersecurity consulting business.

That's the polite description.

It's what the website says, anyway.

Corporate security. Threat assessment. Digital investigations. Reputation protection.

All perfectly respectable.

And all perfectly accurate.

Just not particularly comprehensive.

Some clients need help finding security vulnerabilities.

Others need to know which executive is selling confidential information, which employee is quietly stealing from the company, or which business partner is preparing to put a knife between their shoulder blades.

People are surprisingly predictable when money is involved.

Sex makes them stupid.

Power makes them reckless.

Combine all three, and they practically investigate themselves.

Chase Crawford strikes me as that particular breed of idiot.

I open the digital files Joe provided.

Financial statements. Employment history. Corporate registrations. A proposed merger agreement thick enough to qualify as a weapon.

I skim through the preliminary details.

Chase has built a respectable career in business development. Several successful partnerships. A growing network of wealthy acquaintances. An impressive ability to turn other people's money into opportunities for himself.

His résumé looks good.

Almost too good.

He's switched companies more frequently than most people change cars, always leaving just before some restructuring, disagreement, or financial disappointment.

Nothing explicitly criminal.

Plenty of reasons to keep looking.

Then there's his social media.

Jesus Christ.

The man is in love with himself.

Golf outings. Luxury resorts. Expensive watches. Pictures beside cars that probably don't belong to him.

Every third photograph features some attractive woman laughing at something he apparently said.

I open one.

Chase standing on a yacht, sunglasses on, champagne in hand.

Caption: Built different.

I stare at it.

"Unfortunately," I mutter, "not built with a fucking brain."

Another photograph shows him beside Victoria at a charity event.

Professional. Respectable.

Her hand rests on his upper arm.

His body is angled toward her.

Interesting.

Not evidence of anything, obviously.

People touch one another.

Sometimes they even manage it without fucking.

But I make a note anyway.

Then I return to his personal information.

Current address.

Known associates.

Family.

Relationship status.

Long-term girlfriend.

I click the accompanying profile.

And stop.

No.

Absolutely fucking not.

I stare at the name on my screen.

Sara Duval.

For a moment, I genuinely consider the possibility that the universe has developed a sense of humor specifically designed to irritate me.

I open her photograph.

Well.

Fuck me.

It really is her.

Some people drift out of your life and become distant memories.

Others remain persistent irritants, turning up just often enough to remind you why you disliked them in the first place.

Sara Duval belongs firmly in the second category.

I've known her since middle school.

Unfortunately.

We weren't friends.

We weren't even enemies.

We simply couldn't stand one another.

Sometimes she started it.

Sometimes I did.

All right.

Usually I did.

But she made it ridiculously easy.

There was something uniquely satisfying about watching Sara lose her patience. Her eyes would narrow. Her jaw would tighten. And then she'd deliver some cutting remark that she clearly believed would shut me up.

It never did.

We'd gone years without seeing each other regularly, but our occasional encounters had done nothing to improve our relationship.

The last time we'd crossed paths, she'd told me I was an arrogant asshole.

I'd thanked her for noticing.

She hadn't appreciated that.

I glance back at the screen.

And now she's dating Captain Yacht Dick.

Of course she is.

I examine Chase's photograph again.

Then hers.

Then his.

"Really, Sara?"

I shake my head.

"That's what you went with?"

I'd have expected better judgment from her.

Not necessarily better taste.

Anyone who found me intolerable was already demonstrating questionable judgment.

But surely she could recognize a walking midlife crisis when one was smiling directly at her.

Apparently not.

I open the relationship information Joe's team collected.

They've been together for a couple years.

Interesting.

Chase's online presence is a shrine to his own ego, yet Sara barely appears anywhere.

A birthday photograph from a while back.

One vacation picture.

A tagged dinner with mutual friends.

Nothing recent.

Not a crime.

Not even particularly suspicious on its own.

But when you're evaluating a man's relationships and loyalties, the things he doesn't advertise can sometimes be more revealing than the things he does.

I add Sara's name to the working file.

Professional necessity.

Nothing more.

At eleven forty-three, my phone vibrates.

Joe Moretti.

JOE: Anything yet?

Impatient bastard.

ME: Yes. Chase has terrible taste in sunglasses.

Three dots appear.

Disappear.

Reappear.

JOE: I'm serious.

ME: So am I. They're criminal.

I set the phone down before he can respond.

Back on my screen, Victoria's photograph sits beside Chase's.

I study their business connections.

They've attended multiple events together over the past several months. Meetings. Charity functions. Industry conferences.

Enough contact to build a professional relationship.

Enough privacy between those events to build something else.

I don't even have proof they're planning anything inappropriate.

But Victoria wants her father's company.

Chase wants money.

And people who want things badly enough have an unfortunate habit of convincing themselves that whatever they do to get them is justified.

I understand that mentality.

Probably better than most.

I scroll through the remaining material.

An upcoming meeting.

Chase and Victoria. Private dinner. Tomorrow night.

No other names listed.

My smile returns.

"Well, isn't that cozy?"

I flag the appointment for closer examination.

A private dinner isn't particularly unusual during merger negotiations. Neither is meeting outside regular business hours.

Still, considering Joe's suspicions, it's worth keeping an eye on.

I lean back in my chair.

The smart move is to focus exclusively on the business investigation.

Follow Chase.

Understand his intentions.

Determine whether Richard's company is at risk.

Collect the fee. Move on. Simple.

I glance at Sara's photograph one last time.

Of course she's dating this idiot. Somehow, that makes perfect sense.

I almost feel sorry for him.

Almost.

I close her profile.

Whatever poor decisions Sara Duval makes in her personal life are none of my concern.

I return my attention to tomorrow night's dinner.

Victoria Santiago.

Chase Crawford.

The daughter of a wealthy businessman, a suspicious merger, and a man with an ego large enough to require its own fucking zip code.

Something tells me Joe's instincts aren't entirely misplaced.

I open a fresh document and begin organizing the investigation.

Four months until the merger.

Plenty of time to find out what Chase Crawford is hiding.