Chapter 1 #4
“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.”
“Already done. Check your email.” Caroline’s voice shifted. “Like I said, Morrison was at the courthouse this morning when Martha was killed. Attempted to intervene. Witness statements say he knocked into the shooter. May have saved the marshals’ lives.”
Daphne walked to her laptop and opened the new email.
Agent Asher Morrison’s personnel file.
The photo loaded first. Dark hair. Serious expression. Gray-green eyes. Early thirties, maybe. Strong jaw hidden under a full beard—dark and well trimmed, the kind that made him look harder, more dangerous.
Wait.
She opened the other file. Ah, no wonder blood covered his hands.
Okay then.
Still. “I need to talk to him first.”
“Understood. Roger Rousseau is being released from prison medical Friday afternoon. You need secure locations established before then.”
Friday. Three days away, a twenty-hour drive between here and Renegade. Maybe two days, with stops.
Which meant she needed to leave now.
She let out a breath. “You kept my name out of a report that could’ve ended me. I haven’t forgotten.” A beat. “So yeah. I’ll do this one favor. Then you delete my number.”
“Thank you.”
“And Caroline?”
“Yeah?”
A beat, then a softer voice. “Copy.”
Daphne hung up and looked at her apartment. Her couch with the remote sitting on the arm. Her TV with Friends still paused. Her wine glass on the counter. Her now-empty bathtub in the bathroom.
So much for her forty-eight hours.
Daphne went back for her Glock from the bedside table, then grabbed her go bag from by the door, always packed, always ready. She walked to the kitchen. Dumped the wine down the sink. Rinsed the glass and put it in the dishwasher.
She locked her apartment door, set the security system, and walked down the stairs to the parking lot.
And of course, as she got in her car, her mother’s voice echoed with those last words five years ago, cancer stealing her breath but leaving enough for one final command.
Promise me, Daphne. Don’t go back there.
That town takes everything. It took your father. Don’t let it take you too.
Sorry, Mom.