Chapter 2
Griff had learned to trust his gut the hard way.
But something had been niggling at him all night. That same instinct that had warned him about ambushes and hidden threats screamed at him until he’d given up and fired up his motorcycle.
He set his coffee on the curb, instantly alert. Through the lit window, he could see her moving around, already dressed. Not in her usual Bureau-appropriate blazer and slacks, but in jeans and a sweater. On a Monday.
Not good.
A black SUV turned onto her quiet street, headlights cutting through the morning mist. Government plates. It pulled up directly in front of her building and idled, exhaust visible in the cold March air.
Griff's blood chilled. In a week of watching, no one had picked Winters up. She took the Metro. Rain or shine, she walked the three blocks to the station. Every. Day.
Her apartment door opened, and she emerged dragging a rolling suitcase.
Even in the dim morning light, he could see what surveillance had burned into his memory—delicate features framed by thick shoulder-length curls that she usually kept pulled back for work but now hung loose around her face.
Her glasses caught the streetlight as she looked up and down the street.
The oversized cardigan she'd thrown over her sweatshirt made her slight frame look even smaller, more vulnerable.
The driver—broad shoulders, military bearing—got out to help load her luggage into the trunk.
Winters stood barely to his shoulder, having to tilt her head back to speak to him.
Even from across the street, Griff could see her body language.
Stiff. Uncomfortable. The way she kept adjusting her glasses, pushing those curls behind her ear—all her tells screaming that wherever she was headed, she wasn't thrilled about it.
The SUV pulled away from the curb. Another stiff shot of adrenaline spiked through his chest. Tank's last message echoed in his mind: They're cleaning house, brother. Watch your six.
He started his bike and fell in behind the SUV, keeping two cars between them. Not toward the Hoover Building. Or Quantico. East. Toward Joint Base Andrews.
Thankful for his military-grade headset, he voice-dialed a familiar number.
His phone buzzed in his helmet. “Seriously? It’s barely even light out, Hawkins.”
"Need a favor. No questions."
Needles' gravelly voice carried equal parts annoyance and concern. "You know I'm retired, right?"
"Your Gulfstream isn't. I need a ride. ASAP."
A heavy sigh. "Where’s the target headed?”
“Andrews.”
“I’ve still got friends working the tower. Meet me there at 0700. This better be worth it."
He wanted it to be sooner, but Needles would have to get to his plane and then arrange to land at the military base. Griff would have to trust that his buddy could get a line on her flight’s destination.
By the time Griff reached the base, the sky had lightened to a dim gray. Winters was already being escorted from the SUV toward a C-130 hulking on the tarmac. Military transport. Someone had pulled serious strings to get a desk jockey on that huge bird.
Through his binoculars, he watched her climb the stairs slowly, one hand gripping the rail, the other clutching her laptop bag.
The wind from the props whipped her curls across her face, and she paused to push them back with that same nervous gesture he'd catalogued over three weeks—middle finger sliding her glasses up, palm smoothing the unruly hair behind her ear.
That oversized sweater she wore flapped in the prop wash, making her look like a kid playing dress-up in adult clothes.
Even from here, he could see her looking back toward the terminal.
Second thoughts written all over her face.
Too late for those, lady.
A call came through over his earbuds. “I touched down on the east runway. Taxiing to your position now.”
“Roger that, bro.”
"Needles" Patel was already talking to flight control when Griff jogged up the stairs, the whine of engines filling the early morning air. Former Air Force, best pilot Griff had ever known besides Ronan Quinn, and the only person who'd never asked why he'd gone ghost three months ago.
"Chasing C-130s now?" Needles called from the cockpit. "That's a new low, even for you."
Griff dropped into the cabin, securing his gear.
His friend grimace. "You look like something the cat dragged in, buried, and dug up again. When's the last time you slept? Or ate something that wasn't from a vending machine?"
The Gulfstream's engines spooled up, drowning out Griff's non-answer. Ten minutes later they were airborne, chasing a military transport across American airspace as the sun broke the horizon.
"So," Needles said over the intercom, "who are we following?”
“A hunch.”
“At least tell me she’s a pretty one.”
“How do you know it’s a woman?”
“Dude.” Needles snorted. “I know that look.”
“What look? I don’t have a look.”
“Please. You’ve got Big Bad Protector written all over that ugly mug. So stop arguing and tell me, who’s the special lady?”
"She's a person of interest."
"Right. That's why you've been living on coffee and surveillance for... how long now?"
"Can you track the flight or not?"
"Already done. Flight plan shows Bozeman Regional. Middle of nowhere, Montana." A pause. "You know, most guys would slide into her DMs like normal human beings."
Griff ignored him, staring at his phone. His thumb hovered over a contact labeled "Hammer." Axel would answer. No questions, no judgment. Just Where do you need me?
His thumb moved to another name. Ronan. The team leader who'd brought them back together after Tank’s murder.
"You gonna call your team?" Needles asked, because of course he was watching through the cabin camera.
"No."
"They're worried."
"They're safe. That's what matters."
"From what? What's so bad you can't—"
"Just fly."
The screen stayed dark. He locked the phone without calling.
Six months of solitary hunting had carved hollows in places he hadn't known existed.
No one to watch his six. No one to share the dark humor that made the job bearable.
Restaurant meals for one, apartment silence that pressed against his eardrums, waking up alone with no one to confirm the nightmares weren't real.
But alone meant no one else in danger. Alone meant Tank's killers couldn't use his team against him.
Griff pulled up Winters' file again, studying the Bureau photo.
Coffee-colored skin and deep, dark eyes.
Pretty in an understated way, the kind of face that probably lit up when she cracked a particularly complex financial puzzle.
According to her personnel records, she'd solved three major fraud cases by finding patterns everyone else missed. Brilliant at untangling numbers.
Needles paced through the cabin, stretching. "Perfect time to let Auto fly for a minute.” He leaned over Griff’s shoulder. “She's cute. In a librarian-who-could-ruin-your-life-with-spreadsheets kind of way."
"She's a forensic accountant who found something she shouldn't have."
"And you're following her because...?"
Because she might be the key to solving Tank's murder. And if that was true, Sarah Winters was probably as good as dead, too.
"Because it's my job," Griff said finally.
"Your job. Right." Needles' voice carried years of shared history. "Like it was your job to vanish without explanation. Your job to cut off your team. Your job to play lone wolf while the rest of us—"
"Drop it."
Silence filled the cabin. Griff went back to studying Winters' file. Her social media—minimal and mostly professional—painted a clear picture. No photos with friends. No weekend adventures. A woman who lived in data because data was safer than people. Or so he imagined.
He understood that. Maybe too well.
He grabbed his phone and arranged for a car. "We'll have that 4x4 ready and waiting for you, sir," the rental agent assured him before they hung up.
Two hours later, the Gulfstream touched down smooth as silk, Needles showing off as usual. As they taxied to the private terminal, Griff could see his rental waiting on the tarmac.
"Ghost, listen—" Needles started as Griff gathered his gear.
"No." Griff didn't look back. "Whatever you're about to say, no."
"You can't keep doing this alone. Your team—"
"My team doesn't know I'm here." Griff turned, meeting his friend's eyes. "And they're not going to. Clear?"
Needles' jaw tightened. "How long you planning to keep this up?"
"As long as it takes."
"And if you get yourself killed?"
"Then they stay safe." Griff shouldered his pack. "Thanks for the ride. I'll call when I need extraction."
"If you need extraction."
Griff didn't answer. He headed for the 4x4. Behind him, he heard Needles mutter something in Hindi that definitely wasn't complimentary.
Three hours later, Griff followed the SUV carrying Winters up a winding mountain road, keeping far enough back to avoid detection.
The vehicle finally turned onto a dirt track marked by a weathered sign: Whispering Pines Lodge.
He continued past, found a Forest Service road a half mile up, and worked his way back on foot.
By the time he'd positioned himself on a ridge overlooking the property, the Montana cold was already seeping through his tactical gear. Through his scope, he watched the SUV stop beside an empty-looking cabin at what had once been a resort.
Whispering Pines had given up somewhere around 1983. Three vehicles were nosed up to the uninspired main lodge, but other than that, the place seemed deserted.
She stood there in a red wool peacoat—at least she'd tried to dress warmer—and designer boots that would last about five minutes in actual wilderness. Her ginormous backpack and rolling suitcase sat beside her.
The driver pointed toward a leaning cabin slightly down the road and climbed back into the vehicle. The sun started its descent behind the mountains. Was he going to leave her there, alone?
Through his scope, Griff watched her face cycle through emotions. Confusion. Irritation. A flash of something that might have been fear as she took in the isolation. She grabbed both bags and started toward the farthest cabin, stopping every few yards to switch hands, then once to check her phone.
Yeah. Good luck with that out here.
She looked back at the main lodge like she was calculating the distance to help if she needed it.
Smart. But not smart enough to question why someone had gone to all the trouble to fly her out to Montana.
He should have approached her in DC. Found a way to warn her without sending her running. Now she was out here, isolated, vulnerable, and he still didn't know why. Someone wanted her away from her desk, away from whatever financial threads she'd been pulling.
Away from witnesses.
Movement caught his eye. Southwest ridge, barely visible through the trees. A flash of light where there shouldn't be one.
He shifted his scope, searching the tree line.
Someone else was watching Sarah Winters.