“Your family business can wait. Rowan’s won’t. Someone tried to run her off the road last night. Second attempt in three weeks. The police are useless. There’s too many leaks. My usual detail is compromised. I need someone I can trust. Someone who doesn’t flinch.”
The words hit like a suppressed round—quiet but deadly accurate. Protection detail. High-profile principal. I don’t do babysitting gigs; they’re too messy, too personal. But Elena Sands doesn’t ask twice, and her network? It’s the kind that could open doors we need for Dad’s trail. “Details?”
“Rowan’s a journalist. Investigative type. Poked the wrong bear—corporate corruption, ties to organized crime. Now she’s got a target on her back. I need you to get her to a safe house, keep her breathing until I neutralize the threat. Simple.”
Nothing’s simple with high-profiles. They come with egos, drama, and a knack for ignoring protocols. “I don’t do long-term. And I’m not a nanny.”
“You do protection. And you’re the best at it. Your record speaks for itself. No attachments, no distractions. Perfect for this. Name your price.”
I name a number that could fund our Dad hunt for months. An exorbitant amount. Something ridiculous. She doesn’t even pause.
“Done. Wheels up in two hours from your location. I’ll send coordinates for a private strip outside South Carolina. Rowan will meet you there. She’s… spirited. Try not to shoot her.”
The line clicks dead before I can respond. I lower the phone, staring at the screen for a beat. Spirited. Great. Code for pain in the ass.
Nash is already striding over, arms crossed. “What the hell was that?”
“Side gig. Salt & Steel Security. High-profile principal in Tidehaven, South Carolina. Immediate extraction and protection detail. Daughter of Elena Sands. Threats escalating.”
Crewe joins him, binos slung around his neck. “Now? We’re about to roll on the camp.”
I meet his eyes, then Nash’s. “Now. This pays big enough to bankroll whatever comes next with Dad. And Sands connections could give us intel we don’t have. You guys push on without me. I’ll handle this quick, catch up in a few days.”
Mack steps into the circle, phone pocketed now. “You sure? Sounds like a clusterfuck waiting to happen.”
“Always is.” I shrug, but there’s a knot in my gut I can’t ignore. “But it’s just a job. In and out.”
Jace chuckles from the Jeep. “Famous last words, bro.”
Colt nods. “Watch your six. And if she’s hot, send pics.”
I flip him off, but Nash isn’t laughing. He claps my shoulder. “Check in every twelve hours. No radio silence. And Sin... if Mom’s right about Dad, if this feels off?—”
“I know.” I cut him off, not wanting to dig into that wound. “I’ll be fine. Go get our answers.”
They load up without me, the convoy kicking up dust as they peel out north. I watch them go, the wind tugging at my jacket, until they’re just specks on the horizon.
Tidehaven. Rowan Sands. Spirited.
I don’t know what I’m walking into. But I know one thing for damn sure: if trouble’s gunning for her, it’s going to have to go through me first. And I don’t flinch.
TWO
ROWAN
If you ever want to see how much someone loves you, announce you’re “fine” and then watch your mother spend a small fortune proving you are not.
I’m standing on a private airstrip outside Tidehaven, clutching a tote bag that cost more than my first car, wearing sunglasses that make me look like a celebrity who has either committed a crime or is about to commit one. The wind keeps slapping my hair into my lip gloss like it has a personal vendetta.
Two hangars. One small terminal. A line of tinted SUVs that scream,We don’t do soccer practice.
And me. Rowan Sands. Investigative journalist. Professional pot-stirrer. Current star of an unwanted action movie titled:Girl Gets Murdered For Asking Questions.
My phone buzzes for the fourth time in five minutes.
MOTHER: Where are you standing right now?
I thumb out a response with stiff fingers.
