Good.
"Let's step outside," I said, my voice flat and dangerous in a way that made Klein's grin falter for half a second.
It returned immediately. "Sure."
I led him out onto the porch, closing the door behind us with more control than I felt, every ounce of self-control I had going into not putting my fist through his smug face and consequences be damned.
If there was ever a piece of shit in government garb, it was Special Agent Trevor Klein.
The man had made it his personal mission to derail my career years ago when I was still at Bragg. All because the Danes from Valentine had some money—not even that much, just enough to notice. Because our father had disappeared under circumstances Klein decided were suspicious without a shred of actual evidence, just conjecture and conspiracy theories. Because this ladder-climbing son of a bitch had nothing better to do than try to drag me down with bullshit accusations that went nowhere because they were based on nothing.
It had all gone to shit when I finally went to my commanding officer. Laid it all out—the harassment, the implied threats, the way Klein kept showing up places he shouldn't be, asking questions he had no right to ask. Some calls were made—the kind that happened in rooms I'd never see with people whose names I'd never know, people who made problems disappear. Next time I talked to the colonel, the old man had smiled that dangerous smile and said Special Agent Klein would either spend the rest of his FBI service in bumfuck Alaska counting salmon or get the hint and become a barista at Starbucks.
And now here he was. Another complication from my past, reborn and grinning like he'd won something, like he'd been waiting years for this moment.
"You still with the FBI?" I asked, keeping my voice level, controlled.
Klein's grin didn't falter. "I am. And I'm in town on a very important investigation."
"What's that got to do with me?"
"Everything," he said smoothly, like he'd rehearsed this in the mirror. "You. Your friends. Your new ... connections. I always knew you were dirty, Dane. Knew you didn't deserve to wear the uniform?—"
I took a step closer, close enough that he had to tilt his head back to meet my eyes, close enough that I could see the fear flicker across his face for half a second before his training kicked in and he remembered he was supposed to be in control here.
Good. Let him remember what happens when you corner someone who's been trained to end threats efficiently.
But Klein recovered fast, the fear vanishing behind that practiced smugness. He motioned casually to the people passing by on the street—early risers, joggers, people walking dogs, people living normal lives who had no idea what was happening on this porch.
"It would very much help my case if you'd punch me in the face right now," he said conversationally, like we were discussing the weather. "Leave a good bruise. Maybe bust my lip. Break my nose. That makes great camera work. Perfect evidence. Assault of a federal agent in broad daylight. I'm sure the Bureau would love that."
I stepped back, forcing my hands to unclench, forcing myself to breathe through the rage.
I wouldn't give him the pleasure. Wouldn't hand him exactly what he wanted on a silver fucking platter.
"What do you want, Klein?"
He pretended to look bored, like this whole conversation was beneath him, like he had better things to do. Even yawned, stretching it out for effect. "I'll be in touch. And Wyatt? Don't leave town. Just like I found out where you're staying—nice place, by the way, very … quaint—the FBI can track you wherever you go. Best to stay in Charleston and … cooperate when the time comes."
He gave me another up-and-down look, like he was deciding whether to say something else pompous and rehearsed, then settled for something glib I didn't catch as he walked away,hands in his pockets like he didn't have a care in the world, like he'd just won round one.
I watched him go, seething, every muscle in my body still coiled tight with violence I couldn't release, with the desire to follow him and finish what he'd started years ago.
Then I went back inside.
Mama P was still in the kitchen, cracking eggs into a pan with more force than necessary, her mouth set in a hard line. She glanced up when I entered, her eyes sharp and knowing. "Everything okay?"
I answered honestly, the only way I knew how with her. "I'm not sure."
She snorted, the sound full of disgust. "Didn't like the look of that man one bit. If he's an FBI agent, the Bureau must be in need of a firing squad. Or better hiring practices."
I nodded, not trusting myself to say more without letting the anger bleed through, without saying something I'd regret, and headed to my room.
Closed the door. Sat on the edge of the bed, still breathing hard, still soaked with sweat and adrenaline and the aftermath of wanting to hurt someone.
The smart thing to do would be to run. Call my current CO. See if he could pull the same strings the colonel had pulled at Bragg, make Klein disappear into some assignment so remote he'd never bother anyone again. Get out of Charleston before this got worse, before Klein found whatever he was looking for.
But then my mind settled on Dominion Hall.
