Island Countdown (WhiteRock Security #2)

Chapter 1

Allie wished her scar sat a few inches higher on her leg.

Or that it wasn't obviously evidence of a bullet wound.

Or that her current assignment required pants.

She didn't want to take the beauty of her tropical assignment for granted, but she hadn't quite figured out how to blend in on the resort island of Isadora without wearing clothing that revealed the area just above her knee.

She noted the relaxed-island-vibes attire of every other passenger seated around her on the hotel shuttle. Yep. Every single one of them wore shorts.

She smoothed her knee-length sundress on her lap. It was working well for now, but she'd only brought three dresses that covered her scar—none of which would allow her to carry a concealed weapon.

And that would be a problem. Because she was required to be armed while on duty for WhiteRock Security.

She'd probably end up wearing pants every day—her new ones advertised as 'wrinkle-resistant, breathable, and perfect for summer travel.' She glanced at her stuffed suitcase sitting behind the driver, knowing it was testing the 'wrinkle-resistant' claim.

After waiting three long months for her body to heal, the fact that she still had a job with WhiteRock Security baffled her. Her epic failure had inflicted more pain than the bullet. She'd take another bullet in a heartbeat if it would relieve the guilt tormenting her.

When the new WhiteRock director asked her to join Jason Bridger's team on a long-term assignment on a remote Caribbean island, she knew it was a second chance she didn't deserve. And she wasn't about to take it for granted.

The FBI probably asked WhiteRock to keep an eye on her. And she couldn't blame them. This job offer might just be a way to keep closer tabs on her. If that was true, so be it—she could still make the most of it. She desperately wanted to get back to work.

Her plane had landed two hours ago in Morghana City, on the main island of Morghana, but a thunderstorm hid the Caribbean beauty around her for the duration of the blustery ferry ride to Isadora Island. And the short shuttle ride to The Mandeville Hotel.

Fortunately, the rain stopped the moment the shuttle driver pulled up to the front doors of The Mandeville—as if the timing was orchestrated.

She stepped off the shuttle and watched with admiration how easily the slight driver hefted everyone's luggage onto the sidewalk—most of the suitcases looked heavier than he was.

She retrieved her rolling bag from the lanky driver and tipped him.

Convinced the thunderstorm had moved on, she shrugged off her rain jacket and inhaled the warm, salty ocean air.

With the ocean breeze keeping the humidity in check, watching the island come alive with the sweet scent of recent rains was intoxicating. Lush, cleansing, and breathtaking.

A discreet three-hundred-sixty-degree glance revealed nothing of concern—only damp Caribbean beauty. She noted the guests entering and exiting the hotel. Their posture. Their clothes. Their eyes.

Force of habit.

Everyone looked genuinely relaxed—happy even. Well, that's encouraging.

Emerging sunshine and the possibility of resurrecting her career invigorated her. Besides feeling self-conscious about her scar, she was looking forward to enjoying this island resort.

An attentive valet offered to take her luggage to her room, but she opted to keep her one suitcase and tote with her.

Dripping jacket in one hand, she gripped the handle of her rolling luggage with the other, and marched into The Mandeville Hotel with a prayer on her lips. Oh, dear Lord, please help me. Help me redeem my career.

Other matters weighed heavier on her than needing to prove herself professionally. But she didn't have a clue how to word any of those concerns. Even in a prayer.

The Mandeville Hotel did not disappoint. It was as beautiful as the island it inhabited. And that was saying something.

The lobby greeted her with elegant sophistication—its grand arches of all-white Victorian architecture soared over polished marble floors, two-story windows, and potted palms. Her short briefing for this mission described The Mandeville as 'a secluded resort for wealthy patrons seeking tropical beauty and privacy.

' Oh yes, the description made more sense now.

"Allie?"

She turned, relieved to see Jason Bridger striding across the lobby. She'd be reporting to Jason for the next few . . . days? Weeks? Months? Jason was smart, kind, and easy to work for. She was glad to see him first . . . before seeing Knox.

She'd worked with Jason and Knox on at least a dozen assignments for WhiteRock. But this assignment would be different. Her first assignment after her brother was arrested. Her first assignment after being shot, during said arrest. And her first time returning to duty after fatally shooting a man.

The physical and emotional scars still ached, but she'd be lying to herself if she didn't admit the knot in her stomach this afternoon had more to do with Knox Coulter than anything else.

"Hello, Jason. You weren't exaggerating. This place is beautiful."

"The entire island is incredible." Jason's genuine smile reduced her anxiety a notch.

"Don't worry, you'll get a chance to see some sights.

We'll keep our headquarters here on Isadora Island, but I have a feeling we're going to have reason to check out some of the other islands in Morghana.

I'll fill you in on specifics later. How was your travel today? Sorry you can't fly direct here."

"Two flights and a ferry ride is exhausting, but I see why people do it. Isadora Island definitely meets the description of island paradise. At least as far as I've seen."

Jason's smile widened. "Without question.

And please, take the opportunity to enjoy it during your off hours.

If we're going to be on a long-term assignment away from home, might as well enjoy the beach.

" He checked his watch. "I need to go. Here's your room key.

" He handed her a keycard. "You have time to get settled.

We're meeting in room 336 in two hours. Your room is 335. We're all on the same hallway."

She nodded. 'We' probably includes Knox. Thanks for the heads-up.

He looked at his watch again.

Allie noticed his stance, and which direction his feet pointed. Jason really wanted to leave. "Don't let me keep you." She held up her keycard. "I'm fine. I'll see you in two hours. Room 336."

"Great. Glad you're here. I'll see you in two hours."

She watched him walk out the front door of the hotel.

There was something different about his gait from the last time she worked with him.

A new lightness. She'd heard the woman he was dating was also working on Isadora Island temporarily.

He was obviously on his way to see her. Obvious to Allie at least. Observations like that came second nature. Usually.

That was why she was here. Not to analyze Jason Bridger. She was here to analyze bad guys. Or suspected bad guys.

Her duties for WhiteRock varied, but reading people was her specialty. At least it had been until her last mission. She'd missed the red flags.

Again, the relentless questions gnawed at her confidence—as they had for the past three months.

The severity of the fallout made her mistake unforgivable. Which is why she shouldn't still be employed. And yet—by some miracle—here she was.

She tried to shove the haunting thoughts from her mind as she walked to the elevators.

But she'd have to face Knox soon. She hadn't seen him in person since that tragic night.

Since he'd put pressure on her wound and ridden to the hospital with her.

The last time she saw him was in the emergency room.

He'd texted several times during her recovery. But they both knew her phone was being monitored by the FBI, so there was only so much she could glean from those texts. She wouldn't know where she stood with him until she looked him in the eyes today.

And she was afraid of what she'd see. Or not see.

Knox didn't know why people liked to jog on the beach. It looked cool in the movies—someone taking a morning run with waves lapping near their feet.

He'd decided to try it this morning. Not. A. Fan.

Running on sand was slow and tiring. The ground was so uneven. He'd stick to the jogging path around the resort from now on. The view was still amazing. And he'd be less likely to sprain an ankle.

He'd returned from his less-than-satisfying run along the seashore hours ago and headed straight for The Mandeville's fitness center—because he had more nervous energy than he knew what to do with.

Allie Harkwood would walk back into his life today. At least into his professional life.

And she made him feel more unbalanced than the sand on the beach.

A long shower, a brief call to his mom in Austin, and a club sandwich later, he still had an hour to kill before the meeting in 336. How was he supposed to—

His phone vibrated. A text from Allie popped up.

I'm at The Mandeville. Jason said we meet in an hour. Do you have time to talk first? I'll keep it short.

That didn't sound promising. But what did he expect? At least she wanted to talk. And he'd rather not have Jason and Rowan staring at them when he saw her for the first time in three months. Because he wasn't sure what she'd say. Or what he'd say.

He texted back.

Sure. Now is fine. I'm in Room 333. Or I can come to you?

He watched the three dots dance on the screen, wondering if he sounded too eager.

On my way.

A minute later, a soft knock on the door announced her arrival. He rubbed the back of his neck, checked himself in the mirror, prayed for wisdom, and opened the door.

Rowan's fist, poised to knock a second time, greeted him. No sign of Allie.

"What do you need, Rowan?"

"You alright?"

Apparently, he wasn't hiding his disappointment from the young—almost pre-pubescent—IT genius.

"Yeah, I'm fine. What do you need? We're not meeting for another hour."