“Morning, Marjorie,” I call as I head for my office.
She runs after me, and when I stop and turn, lowers her voice. “Dax wants to see you, and he’s in a mood.”
Brilliant.
I don’t pause at my office. Don’t set my bag down or make tea. No one wouldeveraccuse Dax of having a sunny disposition, but for Marjorie to warn me about his current mental state, it must be bad.
Four quick raps on his office door—we each have our own unique knock so he doesn’t have to wonder who wants to talk to him—and he snaps, “Get your ass in here, Ronan.”
Fuck. It’s worse than I thought. A few locks of his hair stand up, like he’s been tugging on them—a sure sign he’s frustrated or angry—and the moment I shut the door behind me, he gets to his feet.
“What the fuck were you thinkin’? I’ve spent the past few hours on the phone with Boston PD, tryin’ to convince them it was a goddamned coincidenceyourcar was spotted less than two blocks away from an abandoned building on Newbury Street where at least six shots were fired last night.”
“I got a lead on Zephyr. Facial recognition match on traffic cameras in the area.”
Dax feels around for the arm of his chair and carefully sits back down. “And?” Steepling his fingers in front of him, he waits for me to continue.
“The only buildin’ showin’ signs of entry was the old comic book shop. I checked it out and found a backpack with a change of clothes, a sleepin’ bag, and some granola bars inside. No Zephyr.”
“Then how’d you get yourself shot?”
At my sputtering, he shakes his head with a sigh. “Ford checked out your vehicle as soon as I got off the phone with Detective Barton. Your steering wheel and front seat were covered with dried blood.”
“Were?” I ask.
“The cleaners left an hour ago. Barton’s a good cop, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he showed up with a warrant before the end of the day.”
“Fuck me. Dax, I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”
“No, you didn’t. We’re a team here, Ronan. A family. We don’t keep secrets, and we sure asfuckdon’t go dark when we get in trouble.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he spins his chair around to face the window. Though the temperature isn’t much above freezing today, the sun’s out, and this time of morning, it streams into Dax’s office. He might not be able to see more than shadows and vague hints of color, but he told me once he can feel the warmth of the sun through the glass.
“When I came down the stairs with the backpack, a man attacked me from behind. Hit me over the head, landed a couple of good kicks. Then demanded I tell him where Zephyr was. We fought, and he shot first. Hit me in the shoulder. The whole encounter only lasted six, seven minutes. I fired four rounds. Two hit him square in the chest, but he was wearin’ body armor. I verified he was still alive, then got the fuck out of there.”
Dax braces both hands on the window, and his shoulders relax slightly. “Still doesn’t explain why you didn’t call me as soon as you were safe. Or why you didn’t check your fucking messages or show up here until after 10:00 a.m.”
Pulling out my phone, I swear under my breath. Five texts since I left my apartment an hour ago. “These all came in while I was drivin’. Figured you wanted an update on the case, and that’s what I was comin’ here to do.”
“Well, go on, then. Finish your report.” He doesn’t turn around, his fingers splayed over the glass like he needs the warmth to keep him from knocking me on my arse. Knowing Dax, he probably does.
“Are youcertainZephyr is the one who killed Yoden?” I ask. I have to force my next words out over the fear that this will be the last case I ever work alone. “The asshole with the CZ75 wasn’t interested in bringin’ her to justice. He wanted her dead.”
Dax sits up straighter, his chair completely silent as he spins to face me. “You read the same file I did. Zephyr’s prints and DNA were all over the crime scene. Yoden had corresponded with a friend in Brazilian Intelligence three times over the week prior. He knew he was being followed, and his last email contained a photo of a woman that matches Zephyr’s description.”
“Somethin’ about this case doesn’t feel right.” Mostly convinced he’s not about to beat the crap out of me, I sink into the chair across from him. “If she’s an assassin, why the blood and prints at the scene? By all accounts, she’s between thirty and thirty-five years old. Wren found less than a dozen photos of her, yet Yoden managed to take one? The evidence in that file is textbook. And the very first rule you taught me?”
“If things appear too perfect, they probably are.” Dax takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “I remember. But that doesn’t change the assignment. She’s wanted in half a dozen countries for various crimes, and I told Yoden’s brother she’d be brought to justice.”
For years, I could never get a read on Dax. His personality was that of an angry boulder, and I was convinced the man didn’t feel a fucking thing. Now? I don’t know if it’s his wife, Evianna, who softened him around the edges or his brother-in-arms, Ryker McCabe, walking back into his life that did it. Maybe both. But he’s hurting, and I don’t know why.
“Dax? Is everythin’ all right?”
For a long moment, he doesn’t respond, and I don’t know if I should ask him again or ignore the silence growing between us. Leaning forward, I’m about to tell him it’s none of my business when he swallows hard and slides his glasses back into place.
“Maxwell’s wife called me last night. Max had a heart attack at his gym. By the time the EMTs showed up, he was gone. I made him a promise, Ronan. Justice for his brother. And you know how we all feel about promises.”
“If you make a promise, you keep it.”Wren’s words echo on a loop, and I wonder if Dax is hearing them too. “I know.”
“Find Zephyr and turn her over to the authorities. I’ll make some calls and delay extradition back to Antwerp until Wren can do some more digging into the crime scene reports and any aspect of Zephyr’s file you think is ‘too perfect.’”
