The last time I was responsible for protecting someone. Twelve good men and women who trusted me to bring them home safe. The ambush in Kandahar that turned a routineextraction into a massacre because some analyst in Washington fed us bad intel.
Six of them died that night. Six people who followed my orders into a kill zone. I can still hear Martinez calling for his mother. Can still feel Rodriguez's blood on my hands as I tried to hold his intestines inside his body.
The nightmares haven't stopped in five years. They just learned to wait until I'm weak.
I force the memories down and head for my cabin. There's work to do.
Eighteen hours later,I'm standing on my porch in the dying light, watching a black SUV navigate the final switchback to my property.
The cabin is ready. I've moved nonessential gear to the storage shed, cleared the second bedroom that's been collecting dust for years, and run a full security sweep of the perimeter. Motion sensors active. Cameras positioned. Weapons cleaned, loaded, and staged at strategic points throughout the property.
Everything is in order.
Everything except the churning in my gut that won't settle.
The SUV pulls to a stop thirty feet from the porch. Federal plates, tinted windows, armored without advertising the fact. The driver's door opens first revealing a man in his fifties steps out. Broad-shouldered, buzz cut going gray, alert eyes of someone who's been doing this long enough to develop a sixth sense for danger.
US Marshal David Taylor. We spoke briefly on the phone. Seems competent.
"Cross." He approaches with his hand extended, but his attention is already scanning the tree line, cataloging sight lines and potential threats. I respect that.
"Marshal." I shake his hand. "Any trouble on the road?"
"Clean transport. Switched vehicles twice, took counter-surveillance routes. If anyone followed us, they're better than I am."
They might be. The Castellanos have been evading federal prosecution for three generations. They can afford the best.
Taylor turns back to the SUV and opens the rear passenger door. "Ms. Russo, we're here."
For a moment, nothing happens. Then a pair of legs swing out, and a woman emerges that makes my brain short-circuit.
The file said thirty-four. It didn't mention she'd look like a pinup model crossed with a shark in a three-piece suit. Maybe five-six, with curves her tailored blazer can't hide and legs that go on despite her height. Black hair pulled back in a severe bun, olive skin, cheekbones that could cut glass. Dark eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, scanning her surroundings with sharp assessment.
Those eyes land on me.
Heat. Immediate and unwanted. Electric. The kind of reaction I haven't had in years and sure as hell don't have time for now.
"Mr. Cross." Her voice is low, controlled. "Thank you for agreeing to this arrangement."
"It's just Cross. Or Deck." I keep my voice flat, ignoring what's trying to settle in my gut. "Let's get you inside. Standing in the open isn't smart."
Her expression shifts. Is that annoyance? She doesn't like the obvious restated. I file that away as she nods and moves towardthe porch with a grace that shouldn't be possible in four-inch heels on uneven ground.
Who the hell wears heels to a mountain safe house?
Taylor follows with her bags. She travels light with one rolling suitcase, one messenger bag, one small cosmetics case. Smart. Someone who packs heavy thinks they'll have time to unpack.
Inside, she stops at the center of my living room and turns in a slow circle. Her eyes flicker to the wood-burning stove, the handmade furniture, the walls lined with books and tactical maps, the kitchen with its cast iron cookware and no microwave.
"Charming." I can't tell if she's being sarcastic. "Very... rustic."
"Generator's solar with battery backup. Water comes from a well. Nearest neighbor is my security team, eleven miles south. Cell service is nonexistent, but I have satellite coms for emergencies." I move past her to stoke the fire, catching her perfume. Expensive. Doesn't belong here. "Second bedroom is down the hall on the right. Bathroom is shared. I'll give you a security briefing after the marshal leaves."
"I look forward to it." Definite edge now. "Though I should mention, Mr. Cross, that I've survived two assassination attempts in six weeks. I'm familiar with security protocols."
I turn to face her. Our eyes lock. She doesn't look away. Doesn't flinch. Just meets my stare with the stubbornness of someone who's been underestimated her whole life and learned to push back.
"Surviving isn't the same as understanding threat assessment. You got lucky. Twice. Luck runs out."
