1
GRAYSON
The mountain road spits gravel under my tires as I take the last switchback too fast. Muscle memory from places I don't think about anymore.
My phone buzzes on the passenger seat. Marcus again. Third time in an hour.
I let it ring.
The cabin comes into view around the bend, tucked into a shoulder of pine and granite like it's trying to disappear. Two stories of dark log, wraparound deck, generator shed out back. Isolated enough that the nearest neighbor is a forty-minute drive and a rough one at that. Owner's a buddy of Marcus from his Navy days. Safe house, as far as safe houses go in the Crimson Hollow area.
I kill the engine and sit there a minute, watching the tree line.
Habit. Old habit. The kind that doesn't leave you even when the job's done and the desert's six years behind you and the only threat on this mountain is a pissed-off black bear looking for trash.
My phone lights up again. I pick it up.
"Tell me you're there."
"I'm here."
"She lands at Kelowna in about two hours. Driver's bringing her up. You'll meet her at the cabin."
"Marcus."
"Gray."
"I said yes to a weekend. Quiet cabin, keep an eye on the road, don't let her do anything stupid. That's it."
"That's it."
"So why do you sound like you're about to tell me something I'm not gonna like."
A pause. I know the shape of Marcus's pauses. This one's got weight to it.
"She's stubborn, man. Just. Heads up."
"Stubborn how."
"Stubborn like our mama. Stubborn like she doesn't think she needs protection because she's been taking care of herself since she was sixteen. Stubborn like if you tell her to stay put, she'll walk out the door just to prove a point."
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
"Marcus."
"I know."
"You said weekend. Perimeter checks. Bad coffee."
"And you'll get all of that. Plus my sister. Who I love more than anything. Which is why I'm asking you and not one of those corporate security clowns who'd hold her purse and call it protection."
I let out a slow breath through my teeth.
The last time I took a personal detail, a woman named Aisha Khoury died in my arms on a dirt road outside Amman. Journalist. Thirty-four. Two kids. She'd been asking the wrongpeople the right questions and I was supposed to get her to the embassy. We made it four miles.
I don't do personal details.
I told Marcus that. I told him I was done. I told him I was out in the mountains fixing fences and cutting firewood and not getting attached to anything with a pulse.
