Chapter 2 #2
“I know your job is demanding. But please—I need my son. You need your mom.” Her voice broke. “Call me when you can, okay? I love you so much, Asher. I’m so proud of you. Your sister would be proud of you too. You know that, right?”
The message ended.
The apartment fell silent again.
Asher stared at the phone.
Oh, Mom. He hadn’t a hope of letting Gemma go. Not even close.
Not yet, at least.
He deleted the message.
Walked to the bathroom. Flipped on the light.
The mirror reflected everything back.
Dark hair. Gray-green eyes. Strong jaw hidden under too many weeks of beard growth—the kind that made him look harder, meaner, more like the corrupt agent he was pretending to be.
He didn’t recognize that face.
Asher opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed his razor.
He started with clippers, trimming the beard down to stubble. Dark hair fell into the sink.
Then shaving cream. The mentholated smell cut sharp and clean. Razor scraping against skin. Hot water rinsing away foam and hair.
Five minutes later, he stared at a clean-shaven face.
Still didn’t recognize it.
Maybe he never would.
Daphne Cross wanted coffee—double shot, black—two eggs over easy, a side of bacon, and a shower. Maybe not in that order.
What she had was thirty-six hours of highway grime coating her skin, a neck that felt like someone had replaced her vertebrae with rusted bolts, and exactly two hours and thirty-seven minutes before her nine a.m. meeting with the FBI.
And more importantly, her so-called partner, Agent Asher Morrison.
She’d stopped in Idaho for a night’s sleep. Slowed her down, but at least she’d arrived alive. Still, her entire body buzzed, and it made walking into Millie’s Diner at 6:23 a.m. feel less like she might be in an episode of The Walking Dead.
The diner sat on the east edge of Renegade, the kind of place that had served the same menu since 1987 and made no apologies.
Red vinyl booths lined the windows, their seats patched with duct tape.
A black-and-white checkered floor was worn thin in the traffic patterns between counter and kitchen.
Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in that shade of institutional yellow that made everyone look slightly ill.
And yet, the warmth hit her the second she stepped inside—humid with cooking grease and steam from the dishwasher running in back. Bacon sizzling on the flattop. Fresh coffee. Toast. Maple syrup.
Daphne’s stomach growled.
She slid onto a counter stool third from the end, positioning herself with her back to the wall and a clear view of the entrance. Through the order window, she could see the cook working the flattop, his spatula scraping against metal in rhythm.
“Morning, honey.” The waitress appeared before Daphne had even settled, coffeepot already tilting toward an empty mug. Sixty-something with gray hair pulled back in a loose bun. Her name tag said, appropriately, Millie. “What can I get you?”
“Coffee. Black. Double shot if you have espresso.”
“We have coffee that’ll wake the dead. That work?”
“Perfect.”
“Food?”
“Two eggs, over easy. Bacon. Toast.”
“You got it.” Millie set the thick ceramic mug—white, chipped rim—in front of Daphne. Steam rose in lazy curls. “You’re not from around here.”
Not a question.
“Just passing through.”
“Uh-huh.” Millie’s blue eyes said she didn’t believe that for a second. “Well, welcome to Renegade. Holler if you need anything.”
She disappeared into the kitchen, the order clipped to the wheel with a bell’s cheerful ding.
Daphne wrapped both hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into her palms. Took a sip. Strong. Bitter. The kind that, yes, woke the dead.
Exactly what she needed.
She pulled out her phone and opened Morrison’s personnel file for what had to be the twentieth time since Caroline had sent it.
FBI Agent Asher Morrison. Thirty-two. Transferred to Renegade eighteen months ago from Denver. Clean record. Multiple commendations.
Was at the courthouse when Martha Lintz died.
Had apparently tried to stop the murder.
So, reckless. Or maybe heroic.
Or maybe…the mole who had tipped off the transfer.
Daphne studied the photo, memorizing every detail. The slight scar through his left eyebrow. The set of his jaw. Beard. The way his eyes looked straight at the camera.
She zoomed in, looking for tells. Microexpressions.
Nothing obvious.
Which proved exactly nothing.
Three stools down, closer to the door, a man hunched over his own coffee.
He wore jeans and a dark Henley, broad shoulders, built.
A man who looked like he could handle himself by the way his hand gripped the coffee cup.
He wore work boots, his leather jacket hanging off the back of his chair.
He hadn’t shaved this morning, the slightest raze of dark whiskers on his jaw. He was reading his phone, scrolling.
Local, probably. Ranch hand or construction worker. Up early for a shift.
Not her concern.
She closed the file and took another sip of coffee, letting it burn all the way down. Fifteen years since she’d been inside a Renegade establishment. Fifteen years since she’d sat at a counter like this one, waiting for breakfast.
Officer Daniel Cross used to bring her here on Saturday mornings after he got off his shift. Pancakes with chocolate chips, and hot chocolate with extra marshmallows. Her father drinking coffee—black, three sugars—telling her about his week. Making her laugh.
Before everything.
Focus.
Daphne pulled up a map on her phone and started marking potential safe house locations. Rural properties off the main roads. Places without nosy neighbors. With Renegade growing as it had, it shouldn’t be hard to find a place to lay low.
“More coffee?” Millie materialized with the pot in front of the man down the row.
He nodded without looking up.
Millie refilled his cup. “How you doing this morning, Asher?”
He set down his phone. “Good.”
“You shaved the beard.”
He ran a hand across his face. “Scratchy.”
“Makes you look ten years younger.”
He laughed, and it was wry, a low chuckle that was almost a growl. “I wish my bones would agree.”
She patted his arms and moved on to Daphne. Refilled her cup. “Your food’ll be right up, honey.”
Daphne had frozen.
Asher.
The freshly shaved man three stools down was Morrison.
FBI Agent Asher Morrison.
No wonder she didn’t recognize him.
Wow, coincidence much?
Her brain recalculated fast. She could leave now. Regroup. Meet him at nine as planned. But that meant abandoning breakfast and looking suspicious.
Stay. Don’t react. Observe.
She sipped her coffee and watched him in her peripheral vision. He didn’t move except to breathe. Didn’t look around or acknowledge anyone else. Just stared into his mug.
She recognized the look of bone-deep weariness.
Daphne knew that exhaustion. Had worn it herself after leaving the Marshals Service, after the betrayal, after losing a witness because she’d trusted the wrong person.
But exhaustion didn’t make someone innocent.
Millie emerged from the kitchen with a plate in each hand. She set one in front of Morrison. “Eat. You need food.”
“Thanks, Millie.”
She brought Daphne’s plate next—two eggs with yolks perfect and golden, bacon crispy, toast buttered. “There you go, honey.”
“Thank you.”
Millie disappeared back into the kitchen.
Daphne picked up her fork. The eggs smelled perfect, and her stomach roared with a sort of vengeance that reminded her she hadn’t eaten since a very early morning protein bar somewhere in eastern Wyoming. She took a bite. Salt. Pepper. Butter. The yolk breaking rich and perfect.
Heaven.
Three stools down, Morrison piled his eggs on his toast and made it into a sandwich. Just like her father used to do.
Interesting.
And in less than two hours, she had to sit across a table from him and decide whether he was someone she could work with or someone who’d gotten Martha Lintz killed.
The diner door swung open, bringing a rush of cold air that carried the sharp smell of frost and dry leaves. Two people stumbled in—late teens or early twenties, moving with jerky coordination.
Oh no. Daphne’s instincts activated.
The male was skinny to the point of gaunt, pale skin slick with sweat despite the cold. His eyes too wide, pupils dilated so much they nearly swallowed the iris. Hands shaking.
The female was worse—wild-eyed and twitchy, her movements erratic. She kept touching her face, scratching at her arms hard enough to leave red welts.
They were high.
And she’d lay bets it was on Neurosync. She’d had her voice assistant read her all the files Caroline had sent on the syndicate and their activities.
Apparently, this was their signature drug.
A highly addictive stimulant that caused paranoia, aggression, bursts of superhuman strength, and psychotic episodes.
It had been infiltrating the city of Renegade for over a year now, becoming an epidemic.
These kids were flying high and coming down hard.
The male shoved his hand into his jacket pocket, fingers wrapping around something that made the fabric bulge.
Daphne’s hand drifted toward her weapon—concealed carry at the small of her back—but she didn’t draw. Not yet.
The male pulled out a gun.
Nine millimeter. Safety off. Grip unsteady. Finger already on the trigger.
The female pulled a knife from her pocket, the blade catching fluorescent light.
Hunting knife. Six-inch blade.
“Register! Now!” The male’s voice cracked high and desperate. “Everyone—phones and wallets on the counter! Now! Do it!”
“Hey now—” said an elderly man, who started to rise from his booth.
Sit down, buddy.
The female screamed incoherent sounds. She lunged toward him, and his wife screamed. “Sit down, Frank!”
He sat.
Millie stood behind the counter with her hands up, face gone pale. The truck driver at a back table was reaching for something. Please let it not be a weapon. The last thing they needed was Mr. Skinny losing it and firing off shots.
The cook ducked down behind the order window.