CHAPTERONE
Garrett
The Last Stand Bar & Grille
Blackridge, Montana
Navy SEAL Commander Garrett Crosswas three whiskeys in when the person who was about to change his life forever sat on the barstool next to him.
He didn’t look up from the amber liquid he’d been nursing for the past twenty minutes. The Last Stand wasn’t the kind of place where strangers made conversation. It was where you came to be left alone with your demons and a bottle.
Garrett had plenty of demons.
The jukebox in the corner played something country and melancholic. A handful of locals occupied tables near the back, their voices a low murmur beneath the music. Jake, the bartender, knew better than to ask if Garrett wanted another. He’d pour when the glass was empty. Until then, he stayed on the other end of the bar, polishing glasses that didn’t need polishing.
The September evening had cooled after a warm day, the kind of temperature that reminded you fall was coming to Montana, whether you were ready or not. Through the window on his left, Garrett could see the sun setting behind the mountains, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple.
He didn’t give a shit about the sunset.
Eighteen months since the Navy had kicked him out. Eighteen months of wondering if the kill had been worth his career, his reputation, his entire life.
It had been. He’d do it again.
That’s why he was here, drinking cheap whiskey in a nowhere town, instead of leading his team on some op halfway around the world.
The door opened, letting in a gust of cool air that carried the scent of pine and approaching cold nights. Garrett’s old instincts fired before his brain caught up. In the mirror behind the bar, he catalogued the newcomer while appearing as if he didn’t care.
Female. Five-three, maybe five-four in the heels clicking across the worn wooden floor. Expensive perfume—something subtle that didn’t belong in a dive bar. Designer coat. East Coast money, judging by the way she carried herself.
And she was walking straight toward him.
Shit.
The woman slid onto the stool next to him without asking permission. Up close, she was mid-thirties with dark hair pulled back, intelligent brown eyes that assessed him the way he’d just evaluated her, and a wedding ring on her left hand.
Jake appeared, eyebrows raised. “What can I get you?”
“Water, please.” Her voice confirmed the East Coast thing. Cultured. Confident. “With lemon, if you have it.”
Jake nodded and disappeared to get her order. The woman settled into her seat, crossed her legs, and waited.
Garrett didn’t acknowledge her presence. If she wanted something, she could start the conversation. He felt the itch to move to a booth. To get away from her. But he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of causing him to so much as twitch. He went back to his whiskey.
Thirty seconds of silence. A full minute. Two.
Finally, “Garrett Cross?”
He didn’t answer. Took another drink instead.
“I’m Dr. Genevieve Montgomery.”
“Not interested.”
“You don’t even know what I’m offering.”
“I know I don’t want it.” He still hadn’t looked at her.
She made a soft sound that might have been amusement. From the corner of his eye, he watched her pull a folder from the leather bag she’d set on the floor. She placed it on the bar between them, her movements unhurried.
