Chapter 19
GIDEON
Ididn't sleep.
Wouldn't. Old instincts, the kind drilled into you until they're more reflex than thought. In the field, sleep meant vulnerability. Sleep meant missing the sound of a boot on gravel or the metallic whisper of a weapon being drawn.
And Hazel needed me awake.
She slept fitfully beside me, her breathing uneven, punctuated by small sounds that broke my heart—whimpers, half-words, the kind of noises that come from dreams you can't escape.
Every time she shifted, my hand found her automatically, a steady pressure on her hip or shoulder, something to anchor her to now instead of then.
The inn helped, at least. A place this old was its own early warning system—every floorboard had an opinion, every hinge announced itself, every window rattled its frame when the wind changed direction. If someone tried to get in, I'd hear them long before they got close.
I lay there in the dark and ran the day's events on a loop, frame by frame, looking for what I'd missed.
Sam Jarrow stepping out of the cab. The way he moved—careful, pained, like a man who'd learned to make himself small. The new backpack. The worn clothes. The tired eyes that swept the property with something that wasn't quite wariness and wasn't quite familiarity.
I should have known then.
Should have felt it the way I'd felt ambushes in Indonesia, the way I'd sensed snipers in Mosul before they squeezed the trigger. That crawling sensation at the base of your skull that says wrong, wrong, wrong.
But I'd been dulled. Softened by happiness and morning sunlight and the easy rhythm of fixing things instead of breaking them. I'd looked at Sam Jarrow and seen a weary traveler who needed a bed, not a threat who needed eliminating.
The blueberry muffin. That strange, specific question. That a blueberry muffin?
What the hell had that been about?
And the way he'd grabbed it, clutched it to his chest like someone might take it back. Hunger, I'd thought. But now I wondered if it was something else. A signal, maybe. Confirmation of something. Like a man who hadn’t had a blueberry muffin in decades.
The way he'd paused on the stairs, looking up like it was Everest. The way he'd asked about the owner before he'd even made it to his room. The private smile when he'd first seen Hazel.
He'd known exactly who she was.
Had come here specifically for her.
And I'd checked him in. Had handed him a key. Had pointed him up the stairs and offered him lunch.
I didn't do regret. Couldn't afford it in my line of work—every decision made was the right decision with the information you had, and second-guessing got you killed. But lying there in the dark with Hazel's shallow breathing in my ear, I came damn close.
I should have trusted my instincts. Should have leaned into that first flicker of unease instead of explaining it away.
I wouldn't make that mistake again.
The night dragged on. I counted Hazel's breaths, listened to the house settle, tracked every sound from outside—the ocean's endless rhythm, the marsh grass rustling, a raccoon or possum moving through the underbrush. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
But I stayed alert, anyway.
Around three a.m., Hazel's breathing changed. Faster, shallower. A whimper escaped her throat, then a word I couldn't quite catch. Her body tensed beside me.
"Hazel," I said quietly, my hand sliding to her shoulder. "You're safe. I'm here."
She jerked awake with a gasp, eyes wide and unfocused in the dark.
"Breathe with me," I said, keeping my voice low and steady. "In for four. Out for six."
She followed my lead, her chest rising and falling in sync with mine until the panic ebbed. When she finally relaxed, she turned into me, pressing her face against my chest.
"He was in the kitchen," she whispered. "Just standing there. Waiting."
"He's not here," I told her. "And he won't get to you. I promise."
She didn't respond, just held on tighter. Eventually her breathing evened out and she slipped back into sleep, but I felt the tension still coiled in her muscles. Her body knew what her mind was trying to forget—that monsters were real, and sometimes they wore familiar faces.
Dawn came slow, the way it does near water—gray first, then silver, then that pale gold that makes everything look freshly made. Light crept across the floorboards, climbed the walls, found Hazel's face and softened it.
She stirred, a small sound escaping her throat. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then sharpening as the room came back to her. I watched her remember where she was. Who she was with. What had happened.
"Hey," I said quietly.
"Hey." Her voice was rough from sleep and crying. She blinked at me, then frowned slightly. "Did you sleep at all?"
"Some." The lie came easy.
She studied my face with those sharp green eyes, and I knew she didn't believe me. But she didn't push. Just reached up and touched my jaw, fingers light as air.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"For what?"
"For staying. For being here. For—" She swallowed. "Everything."
I caught her hand, pressed my lips to her knuckles. "You want coffee? Something to eat?"
She considered it, like the question required real thought. Then nodded. "Yeah. Both."
"I'll go see what Maude's got going."
"Okay." Her eyes drifted closed again, exhaustion still pulling at her despite the hours she'd spent trying to sleep. "I'll be here."
I slid out of bed carefully, pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, and headed downstairs.
My body felt wrong—wired and heavy at the same time, that particular exhaustion that comes from staying vigilant all night. But my mind was sharp, running through scenarios and contingencies, cataloging every inch around the Inn.
The kitchen smelled like coffee and something sweet—cinnamon, maybe, or brown sugar. Maude stood at the stove, hair pinned neat as always, apron tied with the kind of bow that said she'd been doing this since before I was born.
"Morning," she said without turning around. "How is she?"
"Better. Color's back. She wants coffee and food."
"Good." Maude nodded, satisfied. "Eating's important. Keeps the body from giving up on the mind."
I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her work. "Maude, I need to talk to you about something."
She glanced over her shoulder, reading my tone. "All right."
"I'm worried about your safety. And Hazel's. I think—" I paused, choosing words carefully. "I think it might be better if you went somewhere else for a little while. Just until we sort this out. I'll pay for wherever you want to go. Hotel, friend's house, whatever."
Her hands stilled on the spatula. Then she set it down, wiped her fingers on her apron, and crossed to a drawer by the refrigerator. She opened it, lifted a folded dish towel, and revealed what was underneath.
A revolver. Old but well-maintained, the kind of gun that had seen decades of use and still worked perfectly.
"My daddy taught me to shoot when I turned ten," she said matter-of-factly.
"Bottles on fence posts, then clay pigeons, then targets at the range in town.
I'm not what you'd call a sharpshooter, but I can hit what I'm aiming at, if it's close enough.
" She looked at me, eyes steady and clear.
"And I'm not one for running, Gideon. This is my home.
Has been for thirty years. Some murdering piece of trash isn't going to chase me out of it. "
I stared at her for a long moment, then felt a smile pull at my mouth despite everything. "Yes, ma'am."
"Besides," she added, closing the drawer with a decisive click, "that girl needs me. And I suspect you do, too."
"We do," I admitted.
She nodded once, the matter settled, then turned back to the stove. "Now—coffee and food?"
"Could you handle that?" I asked. "I need to make a call."
"Of course." She was already pulling out eggs and butter. "I'll make her a proper breakfast. Nothing light about it. Girl needs her strength." She glanced back at me. "Do you want anything?"
My stomach answered before I could, a low growl that made Maude laugh.
"I'll take that as a yes," she said. "A man like you needs a real breakfast. Give me a few minutes and it'll be ready."
"Thank you."
"Go on, then. Make your call. I've got this handled."
I nodded and stepped out onto the back porch, phone already in my hand. The morning air was cool and damp, the marsh waking up around me with bird calls and insect hum. I pulled up Elias's number and hit dial.
He answered on the second ring. "Gideon."
"Tell me you've got something," I said.
A pause. Then: "I don't."
The frustration in his voice made me go still. I hadn’t known him long, but was certain Elias didn't get frustrated. Elias got results.
"What do you mean you don't?" I asked carefully.
"I mean I've been digging for twelve hours straight and I can't find who authorized Sam Jarrow's release. The paperwork is there—signed, sealed, processed—but the authorization doesn't match any standard protocol. Someone buried this deep, Gideon. Whoever did this has serious reach."
My jaw tightened. "How deep are we talking?"
"Federal level, at minimum. Maybe higher." He paused. "This isn't random. Someone wanted him out and wanted him at that inn."
"Why?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out." Another pause, longer this time. "You remember the target I mentioned on the helicopter? The one we've been hunting?"
My pulse kicked up. "Yeah."
"This is probably connected. Has to be."
"So, who's the target?"
"We are," Elias said, the two words dropping into my brain like anvils. "I'm coming to Kiawah. I'm bringing friends."
Normally I worked alone. Preferred it that way. Fewer variables, less chance of someone else getting hurt. But this—this was different. I was more than happy to take the help.
"When?" I asked.
"Give me an hour."
Relief hit me harder than I expected. "Good."
"One hour," he repeated. Then the line went dead.
I stood there for a moment, phone still in my hand, staring out at the marsh. The sun was higher now, burning off the morning mist, turning the reeds from gray to gold.
Then I turned and headed back inside, pulled by the smell of Maude's cooking and the need to be near Hazel.