Snow swirls against the windshield, smearing in thick clumps. The wipers squeak a rhythm matching the frantic thumping in my chest. My fingers cramp around the wheel. I need this job. The email from Peak Wilderness Outfitters remained vague, asking for a consultant to review sensitive discrepancies, but the pay rate made my eyes water.
I desperately need the money. The distraction is a close second. The FBI raided my last client’s office the day after I signed off on their quarterly projections.
A siren wails behind me.
My stomach drops through the floorboard and hits the asphalt.
"No," I breathe. "No, no, no."
Blue and red lights explode in the rearview mirror. Frantic, seizure-inducing strobes demand my immediate compliance.
I pull over to the shoulder, the gravel crunching loudly under my tires. My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Breathe, Mia. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re the auditor. You fix the mess; you don’t make it.
Two vehicles box me in—a dark sedan in the front, an SUV blocking the rear. Men in cheap suits and windbreakers swarm the dying Honda.
"Mia Carlson!" The man at my window barks the name. His buzz cut exposes raw scalp above flat, gray eyes. "Step out of the vehicle."
"Why?" I force my shaking voice to steady. "I was doing thirty-five in a forty limit."
"Step out of the vehicle now, or we remove you."
He yanks the door open before I can unbuckle. Cold mountain air rushes in, smelling of exhaust and snow. He grabs my arm.
"Hey!" I twist away, instinct taking over. "Let go! You can't just?—"
"Federal Agents. You're under arrest for conspiracy to commit wire fraud and embezzlement."
The accusations ring in my ears.
"That's insane," I snap, stumbling as he drags me onto the slushy shoulder. "I’m a forensic auditor. I catch the fraud. I don't commit it. Check my credentials. Check my?—"
"We checked," Buzz Cut sneers. He spins me around, shoving me against the freezing metal of my own car. "Your signature is on the approval docs for the shell companies in the Sterling case."
"My signature was forged!" I yell, acidic panic rising in my throat. "I reported that discrepancy two days ago!"
"Tell it to the judge." Cold steel cuffs bite into my wrists, ratcheting tight as he jerks my hands in front of my stomach. "You're coming with us."
"This is a mistake!" I shout, thrashing against his grip. Heat flares in my chest, a violent contrast to the mountain air. Hot tears of frustration sting my eyes. I spent ten years building an ironclad reputation for being unbribable. Now, a stranger manhandles me on the shoulder of a highway because my ex-boss needs a convenient scapegoat.
"Get her in the car," Buzz Cut orders the other agent.
A low rumble vibrates through the soles of my boots.
A mechanical growl shakes the snowflakes out of the air, deeper than any thunder. A behemoth of matte black steel tears around the bend, roaring toward us while taking up both lanes of the narrow road.
Buzz Cut freezes. "What the hell?"
The truck screeches to a halt ten feet away, angling sharply to block the road entirely. The heavy-duty brush guard reinforcing the grill looks perfectly capable of punching through a brick wall.
The driver’s door opens.
A heavy black leather boot hits the pavement.
The man unfolding from the cab is an absolute mountain. Broad shoulders fill out a black leather cut worn over a thick gray hoodie. Standing easily at six-four, he moves with a terrifying, efficient silence.
He walks toward us, ignoring the agents and the guns they’ve instinctively reached for. Shadows cling to the hard angles of his face, drawing attention to a closely trimmed dark beard and eyes the exact color of a winter storm.
