Chapter 8
A week had passed since the coffee incident. Hoot had seen Lark five times. That was five times too many, considering he’d made a conscious decision to keep his distance.
The problem was, Bell Creek wasn’t exactly a big town. Eventually, people crossed paths. Unfortunately, when Hoot and Lark crossed paths, something invariably went wrong.
The first time, he’d been walking out of the hardware store carrying a box of replacement parts for his truck when Lark came around the corner of the building. She’d been carrying three bags, a coffee, and what looked like a bundle of copper wire. They’d both stopped.
She’d offered him a smile, and he’d braced himself. “Hi.”
“Hello.”
Then one of the bags tore. Metal washers, screws, and bolts scattered across the sidewalk. Two of the washers rolled into the road before coming to a stop against the tire of his truck… under the truck. Lark had stared down at the mess. “Of course.”
Hoot had crouched to help pick up the items. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” She’d picked up a handful of washers. “Although I’m beginning to think the universe has something against me.”
He’d almost smiled. “Maybe it’s trying to tell you something.”
With a broad sweep of her hand over the dispersed belongings, she asked, “What is this mess trying to tell me?”
“Stop carrying too much.”
She’d looked at him. Then looked at the bags he’d placed at his feet before helping her pick up the mess. “That’s rich coming from a man who carries… how many bags are there? Five?”
“Fair point.”
She’d laughed, then stood, and promptly stepped backward into a decorative planter. Hoot had caught her by the elbow before she could tumble backward over it. She’d stared at him. He’d stared at her.
Neither had said anything. Then Lark had whispered, “Murphy’s a douchebag and so is his law.”
He’d laughed. Actually laughed. She’d looked genuinely startled. So had he. “Didn’t know a law could be a douchebag.”
“This one can.”
They’d finished cleaning up the mess without any more incidents. Hoot had fished the escaped washers out from beneath his truck then they’d parted ways.
The second incident had been worse. Much worse.
He’d been about to enter the bakery for his morning espresso fix when the door unexpectedly flew open.
The wind had picked up overnight and there were forecasted storms for later.
Unfortunately for him, as he neared the entrance, the individual who had just opened the door was unable to keep it steady against a sudden blast of wind.
She went flying, and the door struck his forehead.
Wincing as he touched his head, already feeling the tenderness that would soon bloom into a bruise, his gaze fell upon the woman below.
She was groaning, clutching her elbow, an unknown liquid coated her and the ground around her.
The bag she’d been carrying, buffeted by the wind, tumbled down the street.
Sensing his nearness, she tilted her head, her eyes, a swirl of emerald and smoke, slowly lifted to find his.
A soft groan escaped her lips once more. “I’m going to move.”
His lips twitched as he crossed his arms. “Probably a good idea."
“Maybe to another state. Or a padded room.”
“Seems extreme.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand.”
She’d narrowed her eyes, unsure what he was saying. “You do?”
“You keep causing trouble whenever I’m around.”
Her eyes had widened. “I cause trouble?”
“Statistically...”
“You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
She’d smiled despite herself. And Hoot had realized, with some irritation, that he liked making her smile. That was dangerous. Because somewhere between the river, the coffee, the hardware store, and their current situation, he’d started noticing her.
Too much.
Which was why sitting in an office now, digging through her life, felt wrong. Even if it was necessary.
Hoot stared at the screen in front of him.
Lark Meadows’ social media pictures front and center.
Her relationship with Bradley Whitmore had lasted nearly two years.
Their families had considered the match advantageous.
Political connections. Money and influence.
A future alliance between two powerful families.
Then Lark had ended it. There’d been no scandal. No public blowup. No obvious betrayal. She’d simply walked away.
The families had turned to Lark’s younger sister, Wren. Only eighteen years old. Apparently a twenty-year age gap meant nothing in their social circles.
Hoot’s jaw tightened. “What kind of family does that?”
Haley glanced over. “One with a lot of money and very few boundaries.”
She clicked to another file. “Lark’s mother appears to have pushed the relationship with Bradley from the beginning.”
“Appears?”
“There’s no smoking gun. But there’s plenty of evidence.”
Hoot leaned back. “So Lark walks away and they give him her sister.”
“That’s the simplified version.”
“What’s the complicated version?”
Haley sighed. “Family politics. Social standing. Expectations. Wren’s been groomed for this world her entire life.”
Hoot didn’t like the word. Groomed. It sounded too much like something not so nice done to a child. “How does Lark feel about it?”
Haley looked at him. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
Hoot looked back at the screen. He felt dirty. Not because he’d done anything wrong. They needed to know.
Condor’s Overwatch didn’t walk into a high-profile event with three hundred influential people and assume everyone was harmless. They knew the guests. The staff. The contractors. The families. The connections.
Everybody had a story. Everybody had something to hide. Their job was to find out what.
Still... This was Lark. The woman he’d rescued from an island. The woman who’d dumped espresso down his shirt. The woman who’d somehow made him laugh several times now.
Digging through her personal life felt like crossing a line. “We need to know everything,” Flint had told them. Hoot knew he was right. That didn’t make him feel better.
The others were scattered around the office working through the guest list. Eggs and Spark were cross-referencing security details. Jeeves was checking travel manifests. Voodoo was going through the names of individual personnel attached to various attendees. Flint was in his office.
Then Voodoo suddenly sat upright. “Well, that’s interesting.”
Hoot looked over. “What?”
Voodoo turned his laptop around. “Remember him?”
Haley rolled her chair closer. “Who?” Voodoo pointed.
“Shit,” Hoot muttered. “Grant Calloway.” Hoot felt things shift. The name landed like a stone dropped into still water.
Flint stepped out of his office. “What did you say?”
Voodoo looked up. “Grant Calloway.”
Flint’s face hardened. “Where?”
“Guest list.”
While the others watched in confusion, Hoot stood. He knew the name. He wished he could forget it.
“What’s going on?” Spark asked. Hoot could understand the confusion in his tone. He hadn’t been there. Neither had Eggs nor Jeeves.
“We’ve worked with this guy before,” Voodoo said. “Lost a teammate on that mission.”
The others lowered their heads. All of them had lost teammates.
Unfortunately, it happened in their line of work.
The grief had affected each of them. They all had to find ways to cope.
Jeeves had placed blame on the wrong people before atoning.
Eggs used humor. Hoot suffered from nightmares and tried to muddle through.
“He’s from Praetorian Strategic Group,” Flint supplied.
“I’ve heard of them. Aren’t they supposed to be one of the best?”
“Yes,” Flint answered. “They are. The mission was textbook.”
The mission had gone almost perfectly. Too perfectly.
Until Bullet died. For eight years, Hoot had tried not to think about the strange gaps in that operation.
The resistance had been heavy in his sector, while Flint’s route to the vault had been strangely clean.
The intelligence had been accurate. The extraction had gone according to plan.
Everything had worked. Textbook. Except for Bullet. And that last shot.
Hoot’s stomach tightened. They’d never figured out what Bullet had been trying to tell them. Pray. That word still haunted his dreams.
Flint walked to the table. “Pull everything on Calloway.”
Haley was already typing. “I’ve got PSG’s corporate records.”
“Not enough.” Flint looked at Voodoo. “What was your take on him?”
“PSG liaison. Senior operations executive.”
“That’s what the file said. Give me more.”
Closing his eyes, Voodoo took a moment to consider. “He’d been steady. Commanding his men with ease. Well organized. Indomitable.”
“Calculated,” Hoot murmured softly.
Flint looked at Hoot. “I remember your instincts were trying to tell you something on that mission. Did you ever figure it out?”
“No, sir. But something hadn’t felt right. I just don’t know what. Or why.”
“You think there was something shady going on?” Spark asked.
“I think nothing.” Flint’s gaze hardened. “But I don’t like coincidences.”
Neither did Hoot.
Flint picked up his phone. “I’m calling Baker.”
Haley groaned. “Of course you are.”
Hoot almost smiled. Baker was one of the few people in the world capable of making Haley sound like an annoyed teenager. Former SEAL. Hacker. Information broker when necessary. And the man who’d helped Cammie establish her new identity and sent her to Bell Creek when she needed somewhere safe.
Baker had fingers in places nobody else knew existed. If information existed somewhere, Baker could usually find it.
If it didn’t exist… He had a disturbing habit of making it appear.
His skills made Haley’s exceptional abilities look almost ordinary.
Even SIBYL had limitations. The program Haley had helped develop—Sentient Intelligence for Behavioral Yield and Logic—could process staggering amounts of information, identify patterns, predict behavioral probabilities, and connect dots faster than any human team.
But SIBYL didn’t have instincts. Baker did. And Hoot had learned a long time ago that instincts mattered.
The video connection came alive on one of the big screens on the wall. A Hawaiian beach appeared behind Baker. He looked relaxed yet alert, and Hoot wondered how he could appear as both at the same time.
“Condor.”
“Got a name for you,” Flint said.
Baker’s expression changed. “That’s never good.”
“Grant Calloway.”
Baker leaned back. “Interesting.”
“You know him?”
“Not personally. PSG, right?”
“Yes.”
Haley crossed her arms. “I already pulled the corporate filings.”
Baker smiled. “I’d expect nothing less from you.”
She glared. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.” Baker chuckled.
“Those two bicker like father and daughter,” Eggs mumbled.
Baker ignored the dig as his fingers began moving across his keyboard.
Hoot watched the information populate. No surprise that Grant Calloway was former military turned security consultant and executive at Praetorian Strategic Group.
What was surprising were the charitable foundations he was involved in.
Aside from that, the government contracts he took on, and the international security operations he’d run, there was nothing.
Absolutely nothing. It was almost too clean.
Baker frowned. “That’s odd.”
“What?” Flint asked.
“He’s boring.”
Voodoo raised an eyebrow. “That’s bad?”
“For someone with this much access? Yeah.” Baker clicked through another screen. “His public record is immaculate.”
“Financials?”
“Clean.”
“Travel?”
“Mostly documented.”
“Mostly?”
Baker’s fingers stopped. “There’s a six-month gap.”
“When?”
“Eight years ago.”
Hoot leaned forward. Right around the same time as the mission where they’d lost Bullet.
“Where?”
“Overseas. Three countries, technically. Afghanistan. Pakistan. Jordan.”
The room went quiet. Hoot felt the familiar prickling along his spine. The same sensation he’d had before missions. The feeling that something was wrong. Something he couldn’t yet see.
Baker continued. “Here’s another interesting piece.” A document appeared. “Calloway was a last-minute addition to the PSG team before your Afghanistan operation.”
Hoot’s chest tightened. Flint didn’t move. “Why?”
“That’s the problem.” Baker tapped the screen. “Officially? He was added in a consulting role.”
“And unofficially?”
“Hard to say. I’ll need to dig deeper.”
Hoot stared at Calloway's photograph. The man looked ordinary. That bothered him. Men who operated in shadows were rarely supposed to look dangerous.
Baker leaned toward his camera. “There’s something else.”
“What?”
“One branch of PSG has been moving money through several shell foundations.”
Haley leaned forward. “How much?”
“Enough.”
“Can you trace it?”
“I’m working on it. It’ll take some time.”
Flint nodded. “Keep digging.”
“Will do.” The screen went dark just as a ping sounded from Haley’s computer.
“Son of a bitch,” she spat.
“What?”
“Jester sent a message.” Jester was a mystery and Haley’s nemesis. Jester’s true identity remained unknown, yet he always seemed privy to their operation activities.
“What is it?” Flint asked.
“A new update to the gala guest list. One name.”
“Who?”
She stared at the screen. “Shit,” she cursed then looked directly at Hoot. He felt a sinking sensation in his stomach, certain the name she was about to utter would be bad news.
“Lark Meadows.”
Hoot went completely still. Voodoo slowly turned toward him. Eggs raised his eyebrows. Spark muttered, “Well, that’s unexpected yet convenient.”
Hoot stared at the screen. Lark Meadows. A new name… added to the guest list they were picking apart. The same woman who’d been standing beside Bradley Whitmore in photographs. The same woman Hoot had been trying very hard not to think about.
His instincts screamed. This couldn’t be good. Something was wrong. He just didn’t know what… yet.