My hands moved on autopilot, but my mind was a storm.
Because tomorrow, I’d be gone.
Because in Montana, nobody knew my hands yet.
Because I’d built my whole life on being this person, and now I was walking away.
I straightened, forcing my voice to steady. “Okay,” I said to the owner, and to myself. “Dr. Sato’ll be with you in a minute.”
Ranger’s eyes stayed on mine. And I had to blink hard, because for the first time all week, my optimism didn’t feel like strength.
It felt like a choice I was making on purpose.
One year, I told myself again.
I can do one year. Right?
Chapter 2
Reluctant Protector
Austin
The succulent on my desk is thriving, which is more than I can say for most of my clients’ budgets.
It sits in a white ceramic pot, the soil dampened forty-eight hours ago, angled toward the window at exactly twenty degrees to maximize morning sunlight. It is balanced and predictable, like everything else in my office.
My desk is squared to the window and the door: pens are parallel to the edge of the desk, and the papers are aligned with the calculator. Everything at ninety degrees. The Denver skyline stretches beyond the glass wall—steel and glass stacked in orderly lines. Even the traffic below hums in a pattern I’ve learned to expect.
Order is what makes the world function. I used to think strength did, back when my uniform was camouflage instead of charcoal gray, and my weapon of choice wasn’t a calculator, but a precisely calibrated MKA1. But numbers… numbers don’t lie. They don’t bleed; they don’t break; their lives aren’t hanging in my hands. They balance or they don’t.
And in this office, they balance. Accounting isn’t life or death, but everyone seems to spend it like they won’t see tomorrow, until tomorrow comes.
A calendar alert dings from my phone. Nine o’clock sharp.Client: Browne.
I frown. I don’t have a client named Browne. I would remember. I never forget a meeting. The last time I missed one, I was crawling out of the Hindu Kush with a busted radio and a few missing men.
I check again. Browne. Nine a.m. My screen doesn’t lie, but the entry isn’t mine.
Which leaves two possibilities: either my system has been compromised—unlikely—or this Browne fellow is about to walk through my door.
I glance at the clock. Eight fifty-nine.
Right on cue, there’s a knock at the door of my office.
I sit back in my chair, spine straight, eyes narrowing. The succulent, oblivious to my dilemma, leans peacefully toward the sun.
The knock comes at exactly nine. I can appreciate Browne’s punctuality.
I slide the folder I was reviewing into a neat stack and straighten in my chair. “Come in.”
The door opens, and a man steps inside like he owns the place—or at least like he’s owned several rooms exactly like it. Mid-sixties, sharp suit, battered leather satchel slung across his shoulder. His silver hair gleams under the overhead light, his eyes carry seasoned, amused patience.
“Mr. Adams,” he says warmly, his voice carrying that old-world resonance. “You haven’t changed. If only the world were half as organized as your desk.”
I rise and take his offered hand. His grip is firm and confident.
“Mr. Browne?” I ask. “You’re not on my client list.”
