“If youeverbreathe a word—”
“About what? You callin’ Wren ‘sweetheart’? I’ll take your secret to the grave.” I rub my hands on my thighs under my desk. Even more than three thousand miles away, Ryker terrifies me. Wren’s complete opposite in every way, he and Dax can command a room—or an army—without saying a word.
He stares at me for another few seconds, then nods and his voice fades, “We’re getting an ‘on call’ light.”
Wren laughs, a musical, happy sound as she readjusts the camera, then presses her hand to her stomach. “I have to eat something soon or I’ll be in a world of hurt.” A blender whirrs in the background, and she sighs. “I didn’t mean one of your protein-electrolyte-superfood shakes, Ry. Somethingnormal. Like…eggs. Or toast. Cereal?”
“Nope. Shake first, then cereal.”
Pixel yips several times, and Wren narrows her eyes at me over the call. “Remember. You didn’t talk to me ortouchthat file. I have to go. Call me if you need help with any of the grunt work once you talk to Dax.”
Before I can reply, the call drops. The brief glimpse into wedded bliss leaves me with an ache deep inside. Every word of Wren and Ryker’s bickering was filled with such intense love and respect, that baby is going to be the luckiest kid in the whole fucking world.
My phone beeps twice with a message from Dax.“My office. Five minutes.”
Time to see what this surprise is all about.
* * *
Rappingfour times on Dax’s door, I only wait two seconds for him to tell me to come in. “Take a seat,” he says, his voice gruffer than usual. Behind his tinted glasses, dark circles brace his eyes. Rubbing the back of his neck, he waits for me to sit before he clears his throat. “We didn’t land until 4:00 a.m., so I’m going to keep this short.” After pressing a button on his keyboard, he continues. “Voice Assist, initiate file transfer. Source folder: Yoden. Destination folder: Ronan.”
I pull out my tablet and tap the notification. Photos spread across the device. A body, half-decomposed, unrecognizable as the smiling man on the other side of the screen. “Double-tap to the head, then tossed into the Tietê River missin’ both hands? Professional hit.”
“Yup. Jasper Yoden, forty-seven years old. He was in São Paulo for his daughter’s wedding,” Dax says.
“Fuck. And he never made it?”
“He made it. Disappeared somewhere between the hotel and the airportafterthe ceremony.” He skims his fingers over his desk until he finds his coffee mug and takes a sip. “There’s not enough caffeine in the world today.”
“We can do this tomorrow—”
Shaking his head, Dax sets the cup down, removes his glasses, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yoden’s brother lives in Seattle. He served with Ry and me before we joined the Special Forces, and we ran into each other at a coffee shop the day after Thanksgiving. Spent a couple hours catching up.”
Dax isn’t what you’d call “a talker.” Three years of working with the man, and the longest conversation we had was when he promoted me. A couple of hours catching up? That’s got to be a record for him.
He drains the last of his coffee and leans back in his chair. “Maxwell Yoden has been in contact with the General Intelligence and Security Service in Antwerp. Jasper was Belgian, and while the São Paulo police handled the initial investigation, they worked closely with the Belgians. The case officer knows exactly who killed Jasper. Problem is…they haven’t been able to find her. A murder four years old? It’s barely getting any resources. So Maxwell asked if we could track the suspect down.”
“You said ‘her.’ Awomandid this?” Scrolling through the photos of the murder scene—Yoden’s hotel room—I shake my head. “This is too cold and calculatin’.”
“You’ve never met Inara,” Dax says, his lips twitching once in whatmightbe a smile. “You can’t be a sniper without havin’ a healthy dose of cold and calculating.”
“What’s the job? Who am I backin’ up this time?”
A single chuckle—so short I almost miss it—and he replies, “No one. You’re on your own. Dante Lambert is your contact with the General Intelligence and Security Service in Antwerp. He has reason to believe Yoden’s killer is in Boston. The job is to bring her in. Whatever it takes.”
The words “you’re on your own” play in a loop in my head until he clears his throat and I set my tablet on the edge of his desk. “Whatever it takes?”
He removes his glasses. It doesn’t matter that I’m just a hazy silhouette to his eyes, the power of his stare makes me want to squirm. I’m only a couple of years younger than he is, but right now, I feel like Sister Mary O’Leary is about to rap my knuckles with a ruler. “Whateverit takes.”
Chapter Two
Zephyr
“Ladies and gentlemen,we’re starting our descent. The captain has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign. Please return your seat backs and tray tables to their upright and locked position.”
The announcement jolts me awake from the first good sleep I’ve had in a month. Planes—once I’ve walked up and down the aisles and assessed every passenger—are the only place I truly feel…safe. Once we’re in the air, they become massive safe rooms. No one in or out, no one sneaking up behind me to try to cut my throat, breaking in to kill me in my sleep, or chasing me through a maze of dead-end streets only to shoot me with a tranq gun and bring me back to the cartel.
I shudder, the memories of every single one of those events rushing back now that I’m awake.
