Every part of me recoiled. This undercover gig was supposed to be a one-time favor—help the feds gather intel, then go back to my life at Warrior Security. I wasn’t law enforcement. The darkness that let me play men like Oliver wasn’t something I wanted to feed.
And now there was Mia. Alive. Safe. Back in my life in ways I hadn’t dared to hope for. Whatever came next, I wanted her in it.
Oliver was going to be the feds’ problem now.
But I couldn’t say any of that. So I let him see interest. Consideration. “That’s generous.”
“I don’t make offers I don’t mean.”
“I’ve got overseas commitments for a while. Deals in progress, contacts expecting delivery. Serbia. Morocco.” I shrugged. “If I disappear now, it raises questions. I’ll be gone a few months, unless something changes.”
Oliver nodded. “I understand obligations. I have some of my own.” He glanced around at his men, still loading trucks. “We’ll need to let the heat die down anyway.”
“Smart.”
“When you get back, we’ll talk.” He extended his hand. “I’ll be in touch.”
I shook it because I had no choice.
Bishop watched the whole exchange without expression. But his hand had finally moved away from his weapon.
Nearly thirty hours later, I was stuck in the FBI field office in Billings.
The place had the particular fluorescent grimness of every government building I’d ever been inside. Lights buzzing at a frequency designed to drill into your skull. Plastic chairs shaped by some sadist who’d never sat in one for more than five minutes. Air that tasted recycled, stale, like it had been breathed by a thousand stressed agents before it reached my lungs.
I’d been in the same interview room the whole time. Same bitter coffee in the same Styrofoam cup, gone cold hours ago. Same crappy sandwiches. Same bathroom breaks with someone standing right outside the stall door like I was the criminal. I hadn’t bothered to tell them about my minor wounds. I’d patched them up well enough before leaving Oliver’s compound. I’d live.
Same parade of agents cycling through, each one determined to explain exactly how I’d fucked up their operation.
The written statement sat on the table between me and the latest interrogator—a thin man in his forties named Brennan, with the look of someone who’d spent his career behind a desk and resented everyone who hadn’t. He’d been at this for almost an hour, his voice a steady drone of criticism and second-guessing.
“The woman, Mia Thornton, complicated an already delicate situation.” Brennan tapped the statement with one finger. “She should have been reported immediately. Extracted.”
I’d explained this four times already. My thoughts kept fragmenting, scattering like leaves. When had I last slept? Before the hunt. Before Snake. Before watching Mia disappear into the darkness, not knowing if she’d make it out of this sick game alive.
“Extracted how?” My voice came out rough. “Oliver’s compound was twenty miles from nowhere. Armed men everywhere. Zero safe extraction routes. Transmission jammers, so no way to get messages out easily.”
“So you chose to jeopardize?—”
“I chose to keep an innocent civilian alive.”
Brennan shuffled papers. Unmoved. “About her equipment claim. Ten thousand dollars in destroyed camera gear? The Bureau has no obligation?—”
“She spent days in a situation that would break most people.” I leaned forward, trying to focus through the exhaustion. “And instead of falling apart, she memorized faces. Cataloged details. Every buyer who walked through that compound, she was paying attention so she could help identify them later. Helpyouidentify them.”
“That doesn’t mean?—”
“She did your job. While running for her life.” I jabbed my finger at the table. “Replace her fucking cameras.”
Brennan’s expression didn’t change. He flipped to another page. “There’s also the matter of the deceased. Raymond Kellerman. Known as Snake.”
“What about him?”
“You killed him.”
“He was trying to kill me.”
“So you claim.” Brennan’s tone dripped skepticism. “Self-defense.”
