Ian jogged up the stairs of the Manhunters’ temporary headquarters, an industrial building just south of Whitefish, forty minutes south of Hazard. Level one was leased by a drop-ship company. Roman Steele, Manhunters’ founder and commander, had arranged a short-term lease of the second floor, which had been abandoned by a telemarketing company gone belly up.

He hit the top step, turned the corner, and paused. The perimeter of the space had been cordoned off with glass-walled offices, all surrounding a sea of cubicles. In one glance, Ian pinpointed Roman in an office on the right, standing at the printer and talking to the company admin, Camille. Across the space on the left, Everly sat at a conference table, chatting with Sam. And both were shoving something delectable into their mouths.

Ian’s gaze darted to a telltale pink box adorning the conference table and huffed a laugh. “No way.”

Ian, Sam, Everly, and their boss, Roman, had all been on different military Manhunter teams, but their work brought them together from time to time. And no matter where they found themselves, Everly never failed to locate the best donuts in a hundred-mile radius.

In the thirty seconds it took Ian to reach the conference room, his mouth started watering. At the door, he stopped, hands on hips, and pinned her with a look. “How in the hell did you find your caliber of sinkers in this frozen wasteland?”

Leaning back in her chair, Everly popped the last piece of a donut into her mouth, crossed her arms, and offered a superior smirk. “I’m just that good, Heller.”

“She is, man,” Sam declared around a mouthful of apple fritter. He licked his fingers, muttering, “She really is.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Ian made his way around the table toward the box. “Got any crullers in there, girl?”

She frowned. “Cru-what?”

Ian tipped back the lid and found three perfect crullers among half a dozen other fried delicacies. He grinned at Everly and pulled one of the tender pillows of sugary goodness from the box. “I think I love you.”

He dropped into a chair and stuffed the heavenly fried dough into his mouth.

Every bakery made crullers a little differently, and they were all good. But this kind was his favorite—light, airy, melt-in-your-mouth moist. The sugary softness exploded in his mouth, and Ian moaned with pleasure.

“Okay.” Roman strolled in and dropped a packet of papers in front of each of them. “Forget the donuts.”

“Forget the donuts?” Ian said around the last bite of his own. “There are crullers in there, dude.”

Roman’s gray eyes homed in on Ian with the intensity of a laser. “You better not have eaten the chocolate one.”

He opened his arms wide. “How long have we been friends? Have I ever—and I mean ever—stolen your chocolate cruller?”

Roman smirked. They both knew Ian had no scruples when it came to crullers.

“What was I thinking?” His boss slapped an information packet hard against Ian’s chest. “Sounds like you made unexpected inroads with Savannah and Jamison Bishop today.”

Ian shot a look at his conniving teammate. That girl was always stirring shit. “More like a less-than-friendly discussion.” He glanced at Sam, their tech genius. “Get anything interesting from the bugs in either of the Bishops’ offices?”

“They are seriously the lamest law enforcement group on the planet,” Sam complained while dusting fritter crumbs from his hands, his mouth, the chest of his black sweater. He’d let his stubble grow into an almost-beard that caught everything. “No practical jokes, no good-natured ribbing.”

“Is that a no?” Ian asked.

Before Sam could confirm, the tap of high heels halted the conversation. Everyone turned their attention to the stairs. Gianna Bliss slowly came into view and immediately started toward the conference room. Ian had met her a couple of times while he’d been in the military when she’d come to brief the team on the high-value targets they’d been tasked to capture or kill. At that time, she’d been with the CIA.

Since then, she’d swapped out chasing foreign bad guys for the homegrown kind, living and operating in the US. She must just have stepped off one of the FBI’s private jets. Dressed in a navy power suit, she was probably fresh from one of those high-level DC meetings. She held a trench coat over one arm and a briefcase in the other hand. If her attire hadn’t screamed This is serious business, her expression would have.

And she wasn’t alone. Liam Moore was with her. As Mason’s handler, Liam had reported him missing and been on the op with the Manhunters when they’d located his body. But today, instead of fatigues, he was dressed in a suit, looking just as professional, just as somber, as Gianna.

Roman turned to face her. “This is a surprise.”

Gianna paused at the door and exhaled in one hard breath. “There’s been a development.”

“Must be significant for you to jump the jet,” Roman said.

“It is.” Gianna tossed her trench coat over a chair and dropped her briefcase on the table. She was one of those stunning women who stopped traffic—tall, lithe, confident. She was also wickedly intelligent. Everything other women both envied and loathed. To top it off, she was one of the few women with power in DC.

As the director of the Joint Interagency Task Force, Gianna led a group of agents from various law enforcement departments on tenuous black-ops missions. She reported directly to the director of the NSA and the president. And she used the Manhunters when critical missions needed finesse, raw power or went awry—like one of her undercovers getting killed under suspicious circumstances while hunting a counterfeiter.

“Liam,” Roman greeted.

“Roman.” Liam took the closest available seat. Then glanced around the table with a nod to the others. “Heller, Slaughter, Shaw.”

When Liam’s attention returned to his boss, Gianna, Ian, and his teammates shared a silent glance, confirming the new tension in the room.

Gianna pulled a file folder from her briefcase and tossed it on the table with a slap. Papers and photos spilled out.

Ian homed in on the images first—the gruesome photos from the remnants of a plane crash. He reached for one showing a charred piece of the plane’s tail, and every shred of joviality he’d been feeling just moments ago fled.

“Flight one-twenty-one?” He lifted his gaze to Gianna. “The seven-forty-seven that went down in New York last month?”

“Killing all three hundred and thirty-four people on board and one hundred ninety-eight people on the ground,” Gianna confirmed, “including one of my colleagues. Tens of millions in damage to a city that’s already seen too much tragedy.”

Sam and Everly had also pulled several photos from the melee, documenting the carnage.

Ian asked what everyone wanted to know. “What does that have to do with this mission?”

“We just received confirmation that the terrorists who blew up this plane are linked to the smuggler distributing passports from here—this little dot on the map,” she said. “The four terrorists’ passports have identical flaws in their printing and the same hacker’s code in the RFID chip. And all four passports originated from employees working for Bishop Mining.”

A shock wave traveled the length of Ian’s spine. His teammates wore equally surprised expressions.

“After checking with Interpol,” she said, “we’ve confirmed that the same errors were seen in passports used by terrorists who have attacked across the globe—London, Paris, Brussels.”

This op just got very interesting.

Everly shot him a sassy I-told-you-so look.

“Just to clarify,” Ian said. “The terrorists manipulate Canada’s soft spot for refugees and immigrate there, then search out like-minded men—if not men from their own terrorist cells—and open themselves up to recruitment by Bishop for cheap labor in the work-visa program? After a year in the mine, they grab a US passport and hit the road?”

“They also crash planes, blow up buildings, and target large venues with modified semiautomatic weapons,” Gianna added.

Ian raised his brows, shook his head, and tossed the photo back into the pile. “That’s fuckin’ devious.”

“And fuckin’ terrifying,” Everly added as she scowled at a photo.

“The media know something is up,” Gianna said. “We’ve managed to keep a lid on the details, but I don’t know how long that will last. The public is petrified, and the media is fueling the fear with speculation a little too close to home.”

A heaviness settled on the room. Everyone there knew that when a country’s sense of safety and security was threatened, the economy plummeted. People canceled travel plans. They stopped spending their money at cinemas, restaurants, and malls. They avoided crowded arenas like concerts and sporting events. And they held everything dear very close—including cash. Add to that an angry public demanding answers for the horrific loss of life, and you had the perfect storm for every politician.

And the politician breathing down Gianna’s neck happened to be the leader of the free world.

“Is there any sign of the ledger?” Gianna wanted to know. “It just went to the top of our priority list.”

“No,” Ian said. “We searched both offices at the sheriff’s station and Bishop Mining top to bottom and inside out. Whatever ledger Mason was talking about isn’t in either office.”

“We’ll search and wire up both homes,” Roman assured her. “We haven’t gotten anything from the bugs in the wife’s home, but Ian’s made positive inroads with both her and son.”

“Good,” Gianna said, focusing on Ian. “Once the divorce is final, she won’t be able to hide behind spousal privilege when she’s on the stand. Having someone she can trust and lean on now might be a treasure trove of information.”

The conversation had just gone off the rails. “Wait. What?”

“Dig,” she told Ian. “If we’re not getting anything directly from the Bishop men, mine the ex-wife for dirt. Messy divorces always yield valuable fruit. Use the information to flip Hank or Lyle or both. I want that ledger. I want Lyle and Hank Bishop. I want everyone who had anything to do with Mason’s death and the counterfeiting, even if they only knew about it and didn’t disclose. Everyone within reach is going down. Hard.”

Her phone rang. Gianna picked up her trench and her briefcase and strode out of the office, answering her phone with a crisp “Bliss.”

“I guess she’s under a little pressure,” Sam spoke first.

Gianna had closed herself in Roman’s office and paced the length of the glass wall with her phone to her ear.

Roman exhaled slowly, his jaw muscle jumping. “Liam, why don’t you fill in some of the gaps regarding Mason’s mission?”

Liam sat forward and met everyone’s gaze in turn. He was a clean-cut, lean blond. A pretty boy who looked like he fit better in an office analyzing data than in the field getting dirty. If Ian hadn’t seen the man rappel into that mine with his own eyes, he never would have believed Liam capable.

He pulled another folder from a briefcase and passed stapled packets of information to each Manhunter.

“What’s the background on this ledger?” Everly asked.

“A guy in the mines told Mason that Bishop kept a detailed list of some kind that contained the name of every person he’d issued a fake passport to. His name was Tully, and he was due a passport, but Bishop was dragging his feet, so he went to Bishop’s office for a chat. Only Bishop was in the toilet, so the guy got nosy and found an open ledger on his desk with names and dates. Bishop walked in before he could memorize anything, but from working in the mine, he’d recognized names of coworkers, and dates corresponded to the days they started. In light of the new link between terrorists and the passports, that ledger doesn’t just contain the names of people who are guilty of passport fraud—”

“They’re potential terrorists,” Everly finished. “What happened to the guy, Tully? Can we talk to him?”

“He’s disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” Ian asked. “As in he was fired, quit, left town?”

“We suspect he’s dead. The day after his conversation with Mason, Tully was called back to Bishop’s office to pick up his passport and never returned to work. Never cleaned out his apartment. Never picked up his final paycheck. Never contacted his family again.”

“They thought he saw something that could have taken them down and killed him,” Everly said.

“Looks that way,” Liam confirmed.

“But why go to the trouble to hide Tully’s body and not Mason’s?” Everly asked.

“Two people getting close to the scheme at the same time?” Roman said. “Mason may have been a warning to the others.”

“Why would Bishop keep that kind of information in a paper ledger?” Ian mused. “Kind of nineteenth century.”

“Pen and paper keeps the information out of a hacker’s reach,” Sam said.

“But it’s so…concrete, so…permanent,” Everly said. “Even Third World warlords are more tech savvy.”

“Bishop’s no warlord,” Roman said. “He’s a fuckin’ miner. But if he caught Mason trying to grab the ledger after Tully had seen it, he’d have moved it or just gotten rid of it altogether by now.”

Ian leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “If you can tie the false passports you already have back to Hazard, why not just arrest Bishop and pressure him to give us the ledger and the name of the counterfeiter?”

“Because everything we have is circumstantial. We have no evidence of Lyle counterfeiting or even being the person who gave out the passports to employees. According to other miners, Baulder does that.”

“So Bishop keeps his hands clean,” Ian said.

“We need that list,” Liam said. “Those names are our top priority. We need to track down every person who was given a passport to nail the terrorists among them. Those who weren’t involved in terrorism are still guilty of passport fraud. They’ll be willing to talk for a reduced sentence, and they’ll be able to pin Bishop as the mastermind.”

“What about Mason’s killer?” Ian asked. “And the counterfeiter?”

“We want them too, but the list is the key to finding these terrorists and stopping them before they kill more Americans.”

“This is a pretty big deal,” Ian said. “Why was the operation so small? Why was Mason the only one undercover?”

“At any one time,” Liam said, “there are over a thousand terrorist threats throughout the United States. Before we connected the known terrorists’ passports to Bishop Mining, this was considered a small operation. My resources were tied up in bigger, deeper, more dangerous operations. Discovering the link between the terrorists on flight one-twenty-one and men who worked for Bishop pushed this operation into the red zone. Gianna shuffled resources around. I’ve been freed up to join you here. I’ll be working with Sam, developing background and intel.”

“What kind of leverage can we get on Bishop from his ex-wife?” Roman asked, his gaze alternating between Ian and Everly.

“There’s a lot of animosity between them,” Ian said. “And they’ve been living apart for, what?” He glanced at Sam. “Two years?”

“Three,” Sam said.

“I just don’t know what kind of information she would have considering the two of them have been apart so long.”

“Or she could know everything,” Everly countered. “Maybe his crimes contributed to the divorce. She probably knows things that would help. Things she doesn’t even realize have power.”

“We could offer both Savannah and Rosen a way out,” Ian suggested. “They might jump at something as simple as relocation and work somewhere else in Montana.”

Roman nodded. “Rosen could be our eyes and ears inside the department. The ex could provide intel or evidence on Bishop’s ethical improprieties. Let’s start with Rosen,” Roman told Everly. “Propose the scenario. See how he responds.” Then he looked at Ian. “Since you’ve already made headway with the ex and son, stay focused there. Trade roles with Everly. Build trust. See what you can get while holding your cover.”

Ian cut a look at Everly—who was smiling like a little shit. “Whoa, boss. No one’s going to believe me as a waiter in a café.”

“We don’t have the luxury of time here,” Roman said. “Make it work.”

“I saw a help wanted sign at the mechanic’s shop a few storefronts from the café,” Everly offered with a flutter of lashes. “You’d make a great grease monkey.”

Ian gave Roman a pleading look. “Come on—”

“Do it.” Roman scooped up the contents of the folder Gianna had scattered across the table. “And do it fast.”

Roman turned out of the conference room and headed toward his office.

Ian glared at Everly, who was still smiling. “You little—”

“Don’t say anything you can’t take back,” she said in a singsong.

“I did some preliminary background on the ex,” Sam told Ian. “Her father is an unknown entity. Her mother is alive, but they appear to be estranged. Mother lives in Los Angeles, and get this, she’s been a devout Scientologist for over a decade. She’s married and has more children with the new husband—all working within the Scientology movement. I’ll hack her VPN today.” He rubbed his hands together and grinned. “Anyone want to place a wager on what I’ll find?”

“Not me.” Everly stood and tugged on her parka. “I’ve already hit my jackpot.” She shot that gleaming grin at Ian. “I always wanted to be a miner, and you know I play better with boys. Don’t think I’d know what to do with a girlfriend. And kids? Eesh.” She faked a shudder, then met Ian’s gaze again. “Look at this as a chance to brush up on those flirting skills.”

On the way out, Everly patted Ian’s arm. “Oh, and I hope you like Pepto-Bismol pink. Your side of the duplex interior is covered in it.”

“Payback’s a bitch, Shaw,” Ian yelled at her back.

Everly kept walking with the sway of triumph in her step. “Bring it on, Heller. Bring it on.”

* * *

Roman hated this damn office space. With all the glass, he had nowhere to collect his thoughts without anyone watching.

He paused at his office door. Gianna had finished her call and now stood at the window, looking out at the blanket of snow, one arm crossed over her middle, the other hand rubbing her temple. She’d shed her suit jacket, and her hair had come loose from the sophisticated coil. Strands hung in loose spirals along the sides of her face; a few wisps trailed the nape of her neck.

Longing hit him low and hard. Longing to press his lips to that spot on the back of her neck. To feel the curve of her spine against his chest. For the millionth time since their one and only night together, Roman wished he’d slowed down and savored. But they’d been so hungry, hurting so badly…

He let his eyes close on the bittersweet memory and whispered, “Fuck.” Then pushed the door open.

Gianna glanced over her shoulder with a look that took him back two years. A look of pain, of hopelessness, of pleading that pierced his heart. She only let the vulnerability show for a split second before she recovered. “Sorry. I lost it a little with the team in there.”

He didn’t respond. What could he say? She’d lost her lover in that plane crash, a former assistant district attorney in DC. When the silence carried, he managed a rough “It’s understandable.”

“I’m getting pressed from every side—the president, the secretary of defense, Congress, Homeland Security… Not to mention my own rabid need to catch these guys. All those people. So many lives…” She exhaled heavily. Her shoulders sagged, and her brow pulled with sadness. “Roman…”

The softness of her voice, the turbulence in that one word, twisted his gut. But he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t want her, because he couldn’t have her. Not the way he wanted: heart and soul. She’d spent one night in Roman’s bed. Then turned around and spent two years with a fancy suit. Roman had found a way to work with her, but he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. This time around, he couldn’t give her what she was looking for—distraction, a warm body, solace.

“I’ve got Everly on Rosen,” he told her. “She’ll work him as a CI and find her way into the mines.”

Gianna turned, a single line appearing between her brows. “A woman in the mines? Isn’t that…I don’t know, odd? Wouldn’t that increase suspicion?”

They were back to business. Good. This, Roman could do. “There are six other female miners. It’s not all that rare.”

“Six out of, what? Six hundred?”

“Everly’s not great with kids, and Savannah Bishop is devoted to her son. Ian’s already befriended the kid, which gives him an in with the mom. It’s the fastest route. We’ve already got audio surveillance at her home. Sam and Liam will continue digging into the digital trail.”

Her clear hazel eyes stayed sharp on him, but thoughts churned in the background. Her mind was busy calculating, assessing, strategizing. That was Gianna—always thinking. Which made him wonder—for the hundredth time—where her mind had been during their night together. Had she been thinking of another man then, the way Roman thought about Gianna when he was with other women now?

Finally, she exhaled, lowered her gaze to the floor, and nodded. “You know your people. I trust your judgment.”

“Give us a week or two,” Roman told her. “We’ll have enough evidence for warrants at the least.”

“We need more than warrants. If the forger gets spooked—”

“He’ll disappear,” Roman finished. “And we’ll be back to square one. Believe me, I want this guy too. But like you said, if we spook him, we’ll lose him. Just give us a little time.”

She exhaled, nodded, and moved to the chair where she’d tossed her jacket. “Keep me in the loop?”

“Always.” He stepped forward to hold her blazer while she slipped her arms in. Her scent floated on the air, and the soft spicy floral scent lightened his head. One whiff and memories slammed him—a series of film clips flashing through his mind. Skin on skin, breaths hot and quick, moans of pleasure, erotic whispers. Roman’s heart rate jacked up. Fire erupted through his body in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Two years, to be exact.

He helped with her trench, letting it fall over her shoulders before he stepped back—way back—shoving one hand into the front pocket of his slacks and running the other over his damp face and into his hair.

Gianna turned with a soft smile. He could have made himself believe the look in her eyes was longing, but he knew it was most likely regret or pity.

“You look good,” she told him.

God, she made him ache. “You too.”

She tipped her head. “Are you good?”

“Yep.” His answer was immediate and confident. It was also a total lie. “I’m great.”

She nodded. “We’ll talk soon, then.”

He forced a smile and a little twang into his voice. “Yes, ma’am.”

She laughed, just a light sprinkle of humor that quickly died. “Roman…”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got this.” He pulled the office door open, needing space to get his head straight. “Your Gulfstream awaits.”

But she didn’t move. Her hand pressed against his chest, and the feel of her touching him, reaching for him, nearly dropped him to his knees. “Stay safe.”

“Of course.” His voice came out ragged.

She nodded, but her gaze kept scanning, looking for…something. “Promise me.”

The woman didn’t just steal his breath, she ripped it from his lungs. He covered her hand and gave it a squeeze. “I promise.”

* * *

Savannah paced the hallway outside Hank’s office, waiting for Lyle to exit. The last thing she needed was to see them both twice in one day, but she needed to confront this custody issue head-on.

The older man’s voice rose, and his tone prickled the skin on the back of Savannah’s neck. He was angry, hammering Hank about something he hadn’t done to Lyle’s expectations, she was sure. Some things never changed. Lyle was still an abusive bastard—physically and mentally—and Hank still allowed his father to degrade and rule him.

But that was Hank’s problem now. Savannah didn’t care what either of them did as long as it didn’t affect Jamison—which was the real problem. Because as long as they were both in her son’s life, Jamison would be exposed to their abuse. It wasn’t too bad now; Jamison was a great kid. But as he grew and became his own person, as natural rebellion progressed, Savannah could see conflicts that would erupt in physical punishment and emotional abuse.

No way would she let that happen.

“It’s too soon.” Hank’s lowered voice drifted through the glass. “People are watching. They’re still nervous over Mason’s death. Rumors about a killer among us are still flying.”

A fist of uncertainty tightened in Savannah’s chest. She leaned against the wall just beyond the window and focused on the conversation.

“If I don’t deliver on my promises,” Lyle said, “more than Mason’s death will be flying around the gossip rings.”

“Keep your voice down,” Hank told him.

“Make the pickup tomorrow night at eight, son, or I’ll find someone to run against you in the next election.”

Savannah pulled in a sharp breath. Lyle wouldn’t make that threat lightly. Without Hank in a position of power, Lyle also lost power.

“I’ll text you when they’re ready,” Lyle said. “Drop them at my house after you pick them up. I have to deliver at the end of the week.”

The door to Hank’s office jerked open. Lyle barged out of the room, saw Savannah, and stopped dead. His expression was familiar—furious and indignant. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

She straightened and crossed her arms. “Waiting to talk to Hank.”

He took one menacing step toward Savannah. Her gut hiccupped with fear, but she held her ground. “Looks like you’re eavesdropping.”

“Only someone with something to hide would think that.”

Hank stepped into the hall, scowling. His gaze jumped from Lyle to Savannah. “What the hell do you want?”

She forced her voice steady. “To talk about our son—unless that’s too much trouble.”

“Fuck,” he bit out, turning back into his office. “What the hell now?”

Savannah stepped around Lyle, glad to be out from under his icy stare, and entered Hank’s office. “I’m sorry discussing Jamison is such an inconvenience.”

“Shut up.” He dropped into the chair behind his desk and scanned the paperwork scattered there.

She was so sick of being treated like shit. She deserved so much better. Ian’s crooked smile flashed in her head. Yeah, that. That’s how she should be treated.

But then, Hank used to have a charming smile too.

He cracked a pen against his desk. “What?”

“You told me to shut up.” She forced her spine to steel. Forced attitude through the fear. “I know from past experience that if I speak without an invitation, I end up with your knuckles against my face.”

He gave her the you-fucking-bitch stare and stabbed a finger toward the door. “Shut that door.”

She ignored him. “I won’t be here long. I just wanted to point out the irrationality of fighting for full custody of Jamison.”

“Don’t start.”

“You can’t even hold up your end of visitation now. You’ve agreed to take him one night every two weeks, but he hasn’t spent any time with you in months.”

“I’m a little busy”—he gestured to his desk—“in case you haven’t noticed.”

“That’s my point.” She dropped the attitude and brought up a compassionate tone. “You’re always busy. Your job is important. The town depends on you. Taking full custody of Jamison would hinder your availability to the people who need you most.”

He pushed from the chair and approached in that menacing way that—in another life—would have had her backing away. Now she stood firm and held his gaze, even while her insides trembled.

“Don’t fuckin’ pretend you care,” he said, his voice low and rough. “You don’t tell me how things work. You don’t tell me how to spend my time or how to raise my son.” He lifted his hand, and Savannah flinched. But instead of hitting her, he jabbed a rigid finger against her chest. “You don’t walk away from me.”

“Stop stabbing at me.” Even as the words came out, she braced for a backhand against her cheek. “It hurts.”

He dropped his hands to his hips. “I told you that if you divorced me, you’d lose Jamison. And I’m a man of my word.”

“You also said you’d honor and cherish me on our wedding day.”

His eyes narrowed. “I also said until death do us part.”

A stream of ice coursed down the center of Savannah’s body.

“If you want our son in your life every day,” Hank told her, “you’ll move back into our house.”

It took Savannah a few long seconds to find her voice. “You know that’s not going to happen, and you know you can’t take care of Jamison on your own.”

He lifted both hands out to his sides and stepped back, then turned toward his desk, assessing his paperwork dismissively. “We’re done here.”

Savannah left the office feeling the same way she always felt walking away from Hank—disgusted and dirty…but still terrified. Someone outside their relationship might not have considered the “Until death do us part” comment a threat, but Savannah knew that was exactly what it was.

Once she’d exited the station, she pulled her phone from her pocket and saved the recording on her way to the car. She sent one copy to Audrey, one to Misty, and another to her own email.

She stuffed the phone back into her pocket and slid into the car with a muttered “You’re not the only one building a file, asshole.”