Deke reached SONR’s bunker at the summit of one of many mountain ridges surrounding Asheville. Unlike a lot of the natural areas in this region of Western North Carolina, this pocket of wilderness had never been timbered or destroyed by fire. Tulip trees thicker than the widest SUV thrived here. Abundant populations of ginseng covered the hills, and black bear, bobcats, and elk roamed the valleys.

What made the location perfect for SONR’s headquarters was the absence of humans. No trails zigzagged the ridges, no campsites dotted the landscape, and no engines pierced the air.

When he approached the entrance, an armed figure broke away from the shadows. “Commander.”

Outside his wide-brimmed cowboy hat and handlebar mustache, Wes Crawley appeared ready for combat.

He nodded toward his weapons specialist’s AR15. “Expecting trouble?”

“Taj’s surveillance cameras picked up a drone on our southern border. Thought I’d keep an eye on things for a while.”

“Probably a hobby aircraft that got away from its owner. Good to take extra precaution, though.”

Wes rapped out a series of knocks. Not that he needed to with Taj watching their every move through the entrance cam.

It didn’t take long for the telltale sound of sliding deadbolts. The door squeaked open, and Keone appeared.

“Welcome back.” Keone stepped aside for him to enter.

Looking at the bunker from the outside, no one would guess at the vastness within. Matteo designed the structure to nestle into the mountain, be a living, breathing part of it, leaving only the south-facing side vulnerable to detection, though not the only way out. Once past the double entrance barrier, a dozen pods snaked off a large circular area known as the Status Room. The epicenter of SONR. Or, as Jax like to say—where the magic happened.

Dropping his backpack on the floor next to a well-used brown leather couch, Deke took in his team one more time, still unable to believe that any of them would betray their mission or each other. Even though Keone hadn’t been able to identify the leak yet, Deke had taken a leap of faith last night.

He’d brought the team up-to-speed on the MedTour and Distributor and shared what little facts he had on the murder case involving his brother. Every single team member had offered their assistance with his personal situation. Though he’d expected no less of them, their unblinking support had left him tight-throated for several minutes. When he’d warned them about using SONR’s resources to ferret out information on Dylan’s case, they’d all smirked, and Wes had murmured something about family coming first.

“What’s the latest?” he asked. “Anything on the kid with the bear claw?”

“Not much dirt on the stepfather,” Jax said. “Successful real estate agent and well-respected family man. The only blot on his record was a DUI conviction, five years ago.”

“Came across some folks reporting the family as odd,” Keone added.

“In what way?” he asked.

“They’re somewhat social, but mostly tend to stay to themselves. No one could recall ever getting an invite to their home.”

“Is he a hunter?”

“Every chance he can get.”

“Dig deeper. I got the distinct impression that Amy was scared of her husband.”

“What about Noah’s biological father? Did Amy’s story pan out?”

“Yep,” Jax said. “He died two years ago from complications after an appendectomy. By all reports, Kyle McMann had been a loving husband and terrific father.”

He paced in front of the couch. Ever since he and Evie’d parted, he’d felt…restless. Like he’d left something undone, left a part of himself behind. “Rae, anything on Gracie Gilbert’s autopsy yet?”

“Medical Examiner hasn’t released his report yet.” Rae broke open the cap on her water bottle. “My contact saw the body arrive. He said the sheet slid off the corpse’s foot, revealing discoloration around the toes.”

“What kind of discoloration?”

“He only saw it for split second, but he said the area was dark, like a severe contusion.”

“Maybe it got stepped on during the assault.”

“I’m not sure her foot could have gained that level of discoloration before she died.”

“Could’ve gotten the contusion a hundred different ways,” Keone said.

“Or it’s not a contusion at all,” Deke added. “Any luck locating my brother, Taji?”

“If he turns on his phone, uses his credit cards, or withdrawals money from his bank, I’ll have him pegged within seconds. Matteo’s keeping an eye on his apartment.”

“Matteo? What’s he doing back to work?”

“Same could be asked about you.”

“What about your kid brother’s friends?” Wes asked, joining the group. He secured his AR into a long gun cabinet by the door. “Should we be talking to any of them?”

“I have a few names, but I don’t know if he’s even hanging out with them anymore.”

“Worth a shot.”

“We’ll have to tread carefully. There’s a sergeant—Prickett—who would love to see me in jail for interfering with his investigation.”

“What’s the matter? Did you destroy his sand castle?”

“Worse. His high school girlfriend decided she liked the looks of me more.”

“Was that before or after alcohol?”

“You do realize I’m doling out assignments, right?”

“Some things are worth the punishment.”

“Speaking of girlfriends,” Jax said. “Does Dylan have one?”

“Damned if I know.” Deke recalled the gregarious blonde his brother had been seeing when they were still on speaking terms. “He used to date a Leah.”

“Got a last name?”

“Brunner? Brewster? Brist—Bristow. That’s it. Leah Bristow.”

Jax tapped on her keyboard for several seconds. “Looks like she’s still in the area. 567 Fulton Road, Rockton.”

“I know the place.” Deke jotted down a couple names and handed them off to Jax. “Once you have those addresses, pass them on to Keone and Wes. I’ll pay the girlfriend a call.” He checked his handgun before sliding it back into his chest holster. “Rae, I want the results of that autopsy. If you still can’t get it, find out from your contact if Gracie Gilbert had any controlled substances in her system.”

“I’m on it.”

“Check on the police report, while you’re at it.” He caught Taji’s eye. “Anything from Matteo?”

“Just got a text. All’s quiet at your brother’s apartment.”

“Tell Matteo to hang tight. I’ll join him after my interview with Leah.”

“Haven’t the police already swept the place?” Keone asked.

“Yes, which is why I want to take a look. Even though I haven’t seen Dylan in months, I still know my brother and can spot his screwups a mile away.”

“Heed your own advice,” Keone warned. “The cops are almost certainly surveilling his apartment. Stay sharp.”

He swung his pack onto his back, snapping it into place at his waist. After exiting the bunker, he stretched his legs into a steady jog. In order to avoid detection, they parked their vehicles near the bottom of the mountain, though they had an ATV available to cart up equipment.

As much as he’d like to rail at Dylan for getting himself mixed up in a murder, the Gracie piece wasn’t adding up. Why would a well-liked mom, with two kids, who’d never been involved with controlled substances, all of a sudden turn to drugs?

He couldn’t see Dylan as a murderer either. Not because of the family connection. Slitting someone’s throat took a lot of balls and a steady hand. It was far more intimate than shooting a person from twenty yards away. The act was up close, personal. The killer might have even held Gracie in his arms as he drew the knife through flesh, muscle, and tendons.

No sign of false starts was evident on Gracie’s neck. The killer had made one, clean, swift slice, and that was it.

Dylan had been one of those quirky boys who removed worms from the driveway so they wouldn’t get squashed. One time, he’d cried until their mom agreed to use live mousetraps instead of the spine-crushing ones. Then he’d cajoled her into driving him to the nearby national forest to set the rodent free. All these years later, the conservationist in him cringed at the thought of his family introducing new strains of disease into the national forest through their vermin rescue efforts.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t reconcile that the gentle-spirited kid had become a coldhearted killer. But people changed.

Dylan had been a sweet kid before he’d become the family terror at thirteen. A hardcore thrill-seeking hooligan who never seemed to be aware of the destruction he always left in his wake.

Had he run through his repertoire of physical and chemical stimuli and now sought something more psychological?

Primeval?