Milf Hunter: Seducin Chapter 720: Meeting With Agent Claire

Chapter 720: eting With Agent Claire

The night was a slow, suffocating beast. I had asked SERA to track Claire and her team, not expecting much at 2 a.m.—just another stretch of ti to endure in the quiet hum of my own thoughts.

But SERA’s response jolted

awake. Claire was inside a pub, a glass of vodka in front of her, untouched. Her team, anwhile, was scattered across the city, guarding Andrey and scouring for the locations of every safe house tied to Nickolai. The stakes were high, the pieces moving in the dark.

An idea struck , reckless and compelling: I would go to her.

But there was a problem. Claire knew my face—or at least, the face I wore in the world of n. Jack Reynolds, the billionaire, is the enigmatic owner of Immortal Enterprises.

If she were as vigilant as her reputation suggested, she’d question my sudden appearance. So, I set the stage. I instructed SERA to plant a digital trail—a flight manifest, security footage, anything to suggest I had arrived in Russia two days prior, just another wealthy man on business.

I didn’t need a plane. I dissolved into mist, the night air rushing past

as I streaked toward the pub. Halfway there, a thought stopped

cold: What am I wearing? The answer was absurd. Pajamas. The kind ant for solitude, not for stepping into a den of intrigue. I veered sharply toward a 24-hour mall, its fluorescent lights a stark contrast to the velvet darkness outside. Inside, I moved like a shadow, selecting a black suit—tailored, understated—and a full-length coat that would swallow the light. In minutes, I was dressed, transford, ready.

The pub was a low-lit cavern, the air thick with the scent of alcohol and the murmur of hushed conversations. I materialized just outside, my body solidifying as I stepped through the door. The warmth inside was a stark contrast to the cold outside, but it did little to thaw the tension coiling in my chest.

Claire sat alone at a corner table, her FBI-issued blue coat slung over the back of her chair. The white shirt she wore was pristine, untouched by the gri of the night, and her black pants blended into the shadows beneath the table.

A glass of vodka sat in front of her, the liquid untouched, her fingers tracing the rim as if it were a lifeline. Her gaze was fixed on the glass, lost in thought, her expression unreadable. Around her, a group of n drank in a cluster, their eyes flickering toward her more often than chance would allow.

I approached the bar, the wooden floor creaking softly beneath my steps. The bartender, a burly man with a scar running down his cheek, looked up as I took a seat. "Wine," I said, my voice low but clear.

He nodded, reaching for a bottle without a word, pouring the deep red liquid into a glass. As I turned to survey the room, my eyes t Claire’s—just for a second—before she looked away, her lashes casting shadows on her cheeks.

Does she know?

I didn’t need to wonder long. I reached out with my mind, brushing against the surface of her thoughts like a feather against silk. Her ntal voice was sharp, guarded, but the words were unmistakable: [He... he’s that billionaire, Jack Reynolds. What the hell is he doing here?]

So, she recognized . And yet, she pretended otherwise. The realization sent a thrill through , sharp and electric. This was no accidental eting. This was a chessboard, and we were both players.

I carried my wine to her table, the glass catching the dim light as I moved. Without waiting for an invitation, I took the seat beside her. The scent of her perfu—sothing floral, subtle—mingled with the smoky air. "Arican?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. I wanted to hear her voice, to see how she’d play this.

She turned her head slowly, her eyes locking onto mine. They were a storm—gray, unyielding, searching for sothing. "Yes," she said, her voice steady, but there was a flicker beneath it, sothing unreadable. A challenge. A warning.

The n at the nearby table had gone quiet, their conversation stilled as they watched us. The air between Claire and

crackled with sothing unspoken, a current of tension that humd beneath the surface.

I took a sip of my wine, never breaking her gaze. "Mind if I join you?" I asked, though I already had.

The air in the pub had been thick with the scent of stale beer and cheap cologne, but beneath it, sothing darker lingered—tension, like the quiet before a storm. I had barely registered the shift in the room when my instincts flared.

The n at the nearby table—six of them, rough-faced, their jackets slightly bulging at the sides—moved with a predator’s stillness. Their hands twitched, fingers brushing against the cold tal of guns hidden beneath their coats. Then, the man by the door stood, casual, unhurried, and stepped outside. The click of the lock sliding into place was a death sentence in the making.

Claire had noticed too. I saw it in the way her shoulders tensed, the way her fingers tightened around her glass, her knuckles turning white. But she didn’t move. Not yet. Her eyes flicked toward the n, then back to her vodka, her expression unreadable. Why isn’t she reacting?

I wondered. Does she know them? Are they here for ? No—that was impossible. No one knew I was here. These n had been in the pub before I arrived. Which ant they were here for her.

I pulled out my phone, my fingers flying over the screen as I ssaged SERA: "Identify the n in the pub." The reply ca instantly, glowing in the dim light: "Nickolai’s n."

A cold realization washed over . Nickolai’s n. Targeting Claire. That ant his network was deeper, his reach far more extensive than I’d thought. But there was a silver lining—they didn’t recognize . To them, I was just another face in the crowd, an irrelevant bystander.

Then, everything happened at once.

Claire’s grip locked around my wrist like a vise. "Jump!" she hissed, her voice a razor’s edge cutting through the noise. Before I could react, she yanked

forward with a strength that belied her fra.

The world blurred as she hauled

over the tabletop, our bodies crashing onto the other side in a tangle of limbs. Bottles rattled violently as we landed behind the bar, the wooden shelves groaning under our weight. The scent of spilled liquor filled my nose, sharp and intoxicating.

The first gunshot cracked through the air like a whip.