Chapter 1 #3
Outside, the block was quiet and green, a pocket between hospitals and galleries—close enough to hear the streetcar bell if the windows were open, far enough that nights stayed gentle.
She turned on the hot water. Steam rose immediately.
The pipes groaned—her building was old, the 1908 Craftsman having been converted to apartments in the seventies—but hot water poured out.
She added the bath salts. Eucalyptus and mint. The scent filled the small bathroom with sharp, clean air—the opposite of three weeks in motel rooms that smelled like industrial cleaner and desperation.
While the tub filled slowly, she headed to the bedroom and slid out of her tactical jacket, unclipped her Glock from the shoulder holster, and set it on the bedside table—loaded, safety on, within reach.
In the living room, her couch waited with that exact spot on the left side where the cushion had molded to her body. The remote sat on the coffee table right where she’d left it. Her bookshelf held paperback romances lined up by author.
Daphne walked to the kitchen and opened the fridge.
Empty except for condiments and a questionable container of leftover Chinese food. Right.
She pulled a bottle of cabernet sauvignon from the cabinet, siphoned out a glass with a Coravin, and let the wine breathe. It was five o’clock somewhere.
Daphne walked back to the living room, picked up the remote, and turned on the TV. Netflix loaded. Friends—season three, episode fourteen. Perfect.
She pulled out her phone and turned off notifications. For forty-eight hours, Daphne Cross was off the grid.
The bathtub was almost full. She turned off the water as steam fogged the mirror, the eucalyptus scent so strong now it cleaned out her lungs.
Daphne stripped out of her tactical pants, the gray long-sleeve shirt, and sports bra. Everything into the hamper.
She stepped into the tub of hot water—almost too hot, but not quite.
This. This was what she’d been dreaming about for three weeks.
She slid down until the water covered her shoulders. Closed her eyes. Let the steam and heat and eucalyptus work.
Her phone rang.
From the living room, loud and insistent.
Daphne’s eyes opened. No.
She’d turned off notifications, which meant whoever was calling had broken through her Do Not Disturb settings. Which meant it was someone on her emergency contact list.
Aw.
The phone kept ringing.
Daphne closed her eyes again and ignored it. Whoever it was could leave a message.
The ringing stopped. Thank heaven.
Daphne sank deeper into the water and let her head rest against the back of the tub. Thirty-two for thirty-two. Perfect record.
The phone started ringing again.
Seriously.
Daphne stood with water streaming off her. Grabbed a towel, wrapped it around herself, and walked—dripping—to the living room.
Her phone screen lit up. Colorado area code.
Oh no. Caroline Kumar.
Daphne stared at the phone while dripping on her hardwood floor.
She could not answer. Could let it go to voicemail.
But Kumar, former mentor and old friend, didn’t call unless it was bad.
Daphne grabbed the phone and hit Accept. “I was in the bath.”
“That’s too much information.”
“Just sayin’—what can’t wait?”
“What can I say? I need you Daph.”
Aw, she was calling in a favor, by the tone of her voice. Daphne closed her eyes. “Why?”
“We have a situation.”
“I just closed a case. I still smell like old coffee and bad motel-room shampoo.” Daphne walked back to the tub, eyed it. Her bubbles were dying. “Not available for two weeks.”
“This can’t wait.”
Of course it couldn’t. “Caroline—”
“I sent you an email.”
“I’m not checking email. I’m not checking anything. I’m officially off the grid for forty-eight hours.”
“Don’t make me say ‘Route 19, sally port three’ and the reroute I never wrote up.”
“Wow. Really? You could have just said please.” She glanced in the mirror. Oh, she’d lost weight on the last op. Too many meals skipped.
“Yeah, well, this is a biggie. I needed a gentle reminder.”
“More like a cattle prod. Whatcha need?”
“Check your email.”
Oh. Caroline didn’t use that tone unless it was catastrophically bad.
“Hold on.”
Daphne walked to her laptop, still on the coffee table where she’d left it three weeks ago. Opened it. Email loading.
Incoming message. Large file.
She opened the attachment.
Crime scene photo.
A woman—late fifties, dark navy suit—lying on white marble with blood pooled around her torso. EMTs loading a black body bag. Evidence markers scattered across the floor.
Daphne’s chest tightened. “What happened?”
“This morning, our witness was assassinated.”
Daphne zoomed in. “Looks like a professional hit. Clean shot. Chest wound. The woman’s eyes are still open.”
“Martha Lintz,” Caroline said. “Fifty-seven. She was going to testify against the Shadow Syndicate’s financial operations. She was supposed to be in protective custody.”
“So federal protection failed.” She got up, took a sip of her wine. Still needed to open up. “Why is that my problem?”
“Because we think someone inside is feeding the Shadow Syndicate information. It was a coordinated attack—one of our other witnesses was stabbed in prison.”
Daphne stared at the photo. Martha Lintz looked like someone’s grandmother.
“We need someone outside the system.”
“Hire Blake Blackwater.” Blake was an old friend who did security work for hire.
“We need someone who doesn’t trust the system. Someone who’ll do this their way. Someone with a perfect record.”
Ah. There it was.
Daphne opened the next file. Crime scene overview. Courthouse lobby. Marble floors. Grand staircase. Windows facing—
Her breath stopped.
She knew those windows. Knew that staircase. Knew the exact temperature of that marble because she’d sat on it for three hours during a memorial service when she was sixteen years old.
“It’s in Renegade,” she said quietly.
“Yes,” Caroline said.
No wonder she’d pulled in the past. “What do you need?”
“I need you. Here.”
No. The word rushed at her, a hammer.
Not on her life.
“Did you hear me?” Caroline said.
“It’s in Renegade.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“Renegade, Caroline. Sheesh—”
“I get it. But listen, the witnesses are Roger and Destiny Rousseau. Star testimony in our RICO case against the Shadow Syndicate. If they die, Draven Frost walks.”
“I haven’t been back for fifteen years.”
“I know. I remember the story about your dad. Officer Daniel Cross. Renegade PD. Killed in the line of duty when you were sixteen.”
Daphne’s hand tightened on the phone. “Mom and I left three days after the funeral. I’ve never been back.”
“I know.”
“Then you understand why I’m not taking this case.”
“I understand you became a US marshal to honor him,” Caroline said. “And I know you left the Marshals Service, but that core is still inside you.”
“So is the reason I left the Marshals. Corruption.”
“Exactly. Roger and Destiny Rousseau need someone who understands that corruption,” Caroline said. “Someone who doesn’t trust the system. Someone who’ll protect them even when federal agencies can’t.”
“Low blow, Caroline.”
“And yet true.”
Shoot.
Daphne looked at the crime scene photo again. Another man stood not far away, looking shell-shocked, hands bloody.
Probably one of the marshals supposed to protect her.
“They need someone who isn’t emotionally compromised.”
“They need someone who’s never lost a witness,” Caroline said softly. “I’m caught up on your record. Thirty-two protection details. Zero losses. Are you willing to let Roger and Destiny Rousseau become your first failure because you don’t want to face your hometown?”
Daphne’s jaw locked.
She walked to her bedroom and pulled clothes from the dresser. Jeans. Long-sleeve shirt. “If I do this”—her voice came out flat—“I do it my way. Complete operational autonomy.”
“The FBI doesn’t—”
“Martha Lintz had FBI oversight. She’s dead. Roger Rousseau had federal protection. Someone shanked him in prison yesterday. Your oversight doesn’t work when someone inside is selling witness locations.”
Silence on the line. Good.
Daphne pulled on her jeans and started buttoning her shirt. “So either I do this my way,” she continued, “or I hang up and you explain to your superiors why you chose bureaucratic protocols over keeping witnesses alive.”
“What are your terms?”
“I choose the safe locations. I choose the methods. I choose the security protocols. You provide intelligence, but you don’t interfere with my operations.”
“We need oversight—”
“Remind me how Martha Lintz’s oversight worked out again?”
Pause. “Fine. Operational autonomy. What else?”
“Double my normal rate. Ten thousand a day plus expenses.”
“The FBI doesn’t have that budget—”
“You want your witnesses to stay alive?”
A beat. Caroline’s exhale came through the phone with frustration and resignation. “Done. What else?”
“Final say on all decisions. If I say they move, they move. No debate. No second-guessing.”
“Agreed.”
“Right to walk away. If I determine federal involvement is too compromised, I extract my clients and disappear. No questions asked.”
“You’re asking for complete independence.”
“I’m asking for what it takes to keep them alive.”
The pause lasted longer this time.
Daphne pulled on socks and her hiking boots, then started lacing them.
“Fine,” Caroline said. “But we need our man with you. Someone we trust.”
“I’ve been alone since I left the Marshals Service.” Daphne stood, walked to the bathroom, and pulled the drain. Watched her eucalyptus bath swirl down into nothing. “I don’t need anyone screwing up.”
“There’s two of them. You need backup.”
Maybe.
“You’ll work with our local agent. Asher Morrison. He has intelligence on Shadow Syndicate operations.”
Something nudged her. “What kind of intelligence?”
“He’s the agent assigned to the case.”
“How do I know he’s not the mole?”
“He tried to save Martha. But…yeah, there’s some rumor inside the agency about him. Could be dirty.”
“Send me his file.”