Forty-three staff by his count, most of them showing signs of fatigue—slumped shoulders, half-finished coffee cups, the thousand-yard stare of people whose day started before dawn. A few looked anxious. They’d crack first under pressure.
No one registered as an immediate threat. But then, the best threats never did.
At the front of the room, a woman addressed the assembled staff, one hand on the edge of the table beside her. Emma Vann. Director of Talent & Hiring. She had been the HR director at Ivory Sands in Florida until she was promoted to the task force team.
She didn’t appear nervous. At all.
Most people in her position showed tells—shifting weight, over-projecting, fidgeting with notes. She stood balanced, grounded, completely in control of the room without raising her voice.
Command presence.
Interesting.
Zach had seen it before—rare, and not something you could fake. People had it, or they didn’t.
The staff were listening. Really listening. That told him everything.
As polite applause began, he slipped back through the door into the evening air. He’d seen what he needed to see: Emma ran a tight operation, maintained discipline without being rigid, and commanded respect without demanding it.
He hoped the island wouldn’t test it. But in his experience, hope was a tactical error. Better to prepare for the test and be pleasantly surprised when it doesn’t come than to hope it off and get caught unprepared.
The sensor blind spot in the southeast quadrant wouldn't fix itself. And seven minutes was a long time for someone who knew when the cameras went dark.
Long enough to get onto the island.
Or off it.
Chapter 3
Stress Management
Emma didn’t hearhim arrive.
The back of her neck prickled—a subtle indicator that someone had invaded her space.
Someone large. Someone who took up more than his fair share of the atmosphere.
She glanced up. Zach Steele stood inside the HR suite doorway, silent as stone, sharp eyes scanning the room the way soldiers did when entering unfamiliar territory: cataloging exits, obstacles, people. His gaze swept once across the filing cabinets, Morgan’s workstation, the bulletin board with the staff birthday calendar, before settling back on her.
His attention locked on her, eyes the color of winter mornings. Unsettlingly direct.
She’d met him months ago, of course, when she was promoted, but she’d been too worried about Lena then to notice much about him other than his size.
Zach wasn’t just tall; he wasbuilt—solid from years of physical discipline, not gym vanity. His shoulders filled the door frame, but without the swagger some men adopted. His tactical security shirt fit well enough to suggest someone knew his exact measurements.
Morgan looked up from her desk, undoubtedly feeling the weight of his presence. “Uh… hi.”
He gave her a brief nod—polite, economical—but his eyes didn’t waver from Emma as he prowled into the room with no wasted energy. No shuffle or hesitation. Only controlled, deliberate motion that suggested a man accustomed to calculating every step before he took it.
“We have a problem with one of your hires.”
Emma folded her arms—not defensively, just anchored—and raised a brow. “Well, good morning to you, too.” She gestured toward the small conference table near the window. “Which one?”
Zach’s focus drifted to the tray on the counter beside Morgan’s desk where a half-empty loaf pan emitted the luscious smell of warm banana bread.
Morgan followed his gaze. “Emma baked, if you'd like some.”
“Stress management,” Emma offered dryly.
