Page 14 of Mountain Target

Of course I am.

The motorcycle.

The muscles.

What if their new neighbor was into something illegal?

“Stay away from him, Ren. We don’t know him.”

“He told us his name. Beau. And I know his last name is Fontaine.”

“How do you know that?” Val asked, sharply.

Has he been speaking to Ren again?

“Relax, Aunt Val. It’s on his mailbox.”

Beau Fontaine.

“So we know his name. But we don’t know where he works, or anything about him, really.”

“You could ask him.”

“I’ll do no such thing.”

I have enough problems in my life without borrowing additional ones.

“Now, come on, help me set the table, Ren. The pancakes will be ready in a minute.”

7

Beau

The senior scientist’s name was Tom Bristow. According to Alex, who’d spent some time googling the man, he was some kind of hotshot seismologist, referred to in the media as the earthquake whisperer. He and his team basically traveled the world looking for the next earthquake to validate their predictions. Apparently, their company was close to finalizing an agreement with a multinational corporation in California to take their work to the next level.

So, Tom Bristow was reputedly a genius.

It’d only taken Beau a few minutes to realize he was also an asshole.

His three younger team members, two men and a woman, fluttered around him, eager to please and, as far as Beau could tell, doing most of the work as they loaded things into the helicopter.

“Careful with that, Liam,” the man growled. “It’s worth more than your life.”

The man in question, tall, skinny and freckled, nodded, unperturbed, and continued dragging what looked like a hard-shelled suitcase across the tarmac. This was obviously business as usual for them.

“He looks just like Papa Smurf,” Ry said dryly from his spot against one of the SUVs they’d driven up in.

Beau swallowed back a snort. The comparison was spot on. With his white beard, blue shirt and red hat, the irritable scientist really did look like a Smurf.

Soon enough, Papa Smurf—Bristow—turned his sharp, aqueous-looking eyes on Beau’s team, who were busy prepping their own equipment.

If he thinks he’s going to treat my men like he treats his team, he’s got something else coming.

“Shouldn’t your men be helping us, instead of standing around, Monsieur Fontaine?”

That’s Commandant Fontaine to you.

Beau’s first instinct was to growl, but he swallowed it down. This guy was friends with the president. Beau wasn’t going to earn any praise from the colonel for pissing him off. He had to be diplomatic.