Chapter 4
Four
She probably didn’t need another cup of coffee, but the Beanery just pulled her in, and frankly, she probably needed something to keep her vertical after twenty-four hours of highway driving, an armed robbery, and her briefing with Asher.
She still owed the officer the full statement—that had been pushed to the afternoon.
Just to get her equilibrium back.
The Beanery sat on Main Street, its dark-blue awning and picture windows catching late-morning light. She pushed through the door, the chime announcing her arrival.
Roasted coffee beans. Cinnamon. Something baking in back. Warm air after cold November wind. Yeah, she could live here.
Rich wood floors worn smooth stretched between small café tables and mismatched chairs. Local art hung on exposed brick walls. The espresso machine hissed behind the counter. Half a dozen customers were scattered around with laptops open and quiet conversations murmuring.
Daphne headed for the counter.
The barista looked up. Early twenties with pink hair and a nose ring. “Hey! What can I get you?”
“Large black coffee. Double shot.”
“You got it.” She grabbed a cup and moved to the espresso machine. Started pulling shots. “Rough morning?”
“Long morning.”
“I hear that.” She poured and set the cup on the counter. “Four-fifty.”
Daphne handed over a five. “Keep it.”
“Thanks!” The brightness cranked up another notch. “Holler if you need anything.”
Daphne grabbed her coffee and scanned the room.
Back corner near the exit with clear sight lines to both doors.
She was halfway there when the door chime rang again.
Cold air rushed in with laughter.
“—and then he wanted to ride bareback. I swear, that kid.”
Daphne glanced over.
Long, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Jeans and flannel shirt over a pregnant belly. Light jacket. Her hand rested on a boy’s shoulder. Maybe ten years old, with a baseball cap on backward and sneakers worn through at the toes.
The woman looked up. She frowned, and Daphne offered a tentative smile.
Recognition flashed across her face, surprise melting into joy. “Daphne? After all these years? Seriously.”
“Sierra.” Daphne got up. Former best friend, and the one person she still kept in touch with—low-key, burner profile, nothing tied to her real name.
“Wow. I can’t believe it’s you!” Sierra closed the distance fast and pulled her into a hug before Daphne could brace herself.
Tight and genuine, the fifteen years between them vanishing. Sorta.
But still, a little.
Sierra pulled back. “What are you doing in Renegade?”
The boy tugged Sierra’s jacket. “Mom. Can I get hot chocolate?”
“Sure, Huck.” Sierra dug into her pocket and handed him cash. “Get me a vanilla latte too.”
“Okay.” He headed to the counter.
“Huck, huh?”
“Yeah. He’s ten and growing like a weed.”
Daphne wanted to ask about his dad—if he might be the guy Sierra had always harbored a crush on. And she could hardly not comment on the obvious. “When are you due?”
Sierra put a hand on her belly. “About six weeks. Not soon enough.” She laughed. “Last time I heard, you were in Seattle. What brings you back?” She pulled out a chair and sat across from Daphne, who also sat down.
“Work.” Daphne sipped her coffee.
“What kind of work?”
“Security consulting.”
She arched an eyebrow.
Daphne smiled.
Sierra’s mouth quirked. “Right. Classified. I get it. How long are you here for?”
Huck appeared with drinks balanced carefully and set them on the table. “Here, Mom.”
“Thanks, baby.” Sierra took her latte and sipped. “Perfect. Go grab one of those chocolate chip cookies.”
“Can I get two?”
“One. We’re eating dinner in an hour.”
He ran back to the counter.
Sierra watched him with love clear in every line of her face. Then she turned back to Daphne. “Security consulting in Renegade. Must be something big if you came all the way from Seattle.”
“Yep.”
Sierra smiled. “How long are you in town?”
“A month.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Hotel probably.”
“Stay at the ranch.”
“What?”
“Yeah. We have a guest room, and you can come and go whenever you want—”
“Sierra—”
“I’m serious. It’s no trouble.” She pulled out her phone and started typing. “Let me text you the address—”
“I can’t.”
Sierra looked up. “Why not?”
“I’m working.”
“And?”
“I’ll be…staying on site.”
A frown. “Okay. Then, dinner. Tonight.”
“I don’t…”
“C’mon. You have to eat.”
“I need to work.”
“Daphne.” Sierra reached across the table and covered Daphne’s hand with hers. Warm and solid. “Let’s catch up. Rowan is back—you remember him.”
“Rowan Wallace. So you did end up with him.”
“Yeah.” She smiled, glanced back at Huck. “Some things are meant to be.”
“I’m happy for you.” Daphne pulled her hand back and picked up her coffee. “I appreciate the offer. I do. But I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.”
Sierra’s expression softened. “You’re still running.”
The bluntness sideswiped her. “I’m…no, I’m not.”
Sierra’s mouth tightened.
Silence fell between them.
Huck came back with a cookie in hand and crumbs on his face. “Ready, Mom?”
“Yeah.” Sierra stood. “We’re moving Rowan’s stepmom into Aspen Ridges Estates today. It’s a fifty-five-and-up community. I’d stick around, but Rowan already brought a load of furniture over and he’s waiting.”
“I get it.”
She started to leave, then stopped and turned back. “I’ll probably start stalking you until you give in. Fair warning.”
Daphne smiled. “Consider me warned.”
And then Sierra stepped up and gave her another hug. “It’s really good to see you, Daph.”
She left with Huck. Daphne sat there with her coffee going cold.
Good for Sierra.
Family. Home. Belonging.
The life Daphne hadn’t chosen.
Or rather, the life her mother had run from. She’d just…well, what Sierra said. Kept running.
Daphne stood and grabbed her coffee. Headed for the door.
Outside, cold November air hit her face.
She got in her car and started the engine. Heat blasted from the vents. Sierra’s words echoed in her mind. Aspen Ridge Estates.
A fifty-five-and-up community. Probably gated, with security.
She found the website. Aspen Ridge Estates. Highway 40. Ten miles outside Renegade proper.
Gated entrance with security booth. Winding roads inside the complex. Multiple buildings. Community center. Pool. Activities schedule.
Perfect.
Destiny could pose as an elderly woman retiring to Colorado.
Moving into an active adult community. Security provided by the complex itself.
No federal oversight. No compromised safe houses.
Roger was her son, needing a place to stay during convalescence.
Asher and Daphne, her married son and his wife.
Hide in plain sight.
She pulled up GPS.
The route took her past the cemetery. She drew in a breath. No problem.
She wasn’t planning to stop. Except her car turned into the entrance.
Renegade Cemetery, with its wrought iron gates and stone markers visible in the midmorning light.
She drove slowly, gravel crunching under her tires.
Her father’s grave was there. Section C. Third row. Under the oak tree.
She could see it from here.
Simple headstone. Gray granite. Officer Daniel Cross, 1968–2009, Beloved husband and father.
Fifteen years.
Her hands gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles went white.
Just get out. Walk over there. Say something.
She couldn’t move.
Just sat there with the engine running and watched the sun climb higher over the mountains.
She wasn’t afraid of armed robberies or corrupt agents or criminal syndicates.
But she couldn’t walk two hundred yards to her father’s grave.
Whatever.
Her phone buzzed.
Caroline
Any updates?
Daphne
Potential safe house location identified. Aspen Ridge Estates. 55+ community. Gated. Security. On my way now.
Caroline
Good work. Get some rest.
Rest. Right.
She put the car in Reverse and backed out.
An hour and twenty minutes later, Daphne sat in a hotel room at the Renegade Inn.
Cheap. Clean. Anonymous.
Queen bed with generic floral bedspread. Laminate desk. TV bolted to the wall. Bathroom with industrial soap and thin towels.
She’d stopped at a gas station and grabbed a frozen meal. Something claiming to be healthy chicken and vegetables.
Now, she nuked it in the room’s microwave for two minutes, and the smell of processed food filled the small space.
She sat at the desk and opened her laptop.
Asher’s files spread across the screen. Organizational charts. Financial records. Surveillance photos.
She ate mechanically. Fork to mouth. Chewed without tasting.
Draven Frost. Roger Rousseau. The Shadow Syndicate. Continental Transport. Neurosync distribution.
Everything checked out so far.
Either he was telling the truth.
Or he was the best liar she’d ever met.
And if she was wrong and he was the mole—
Roger and Destiny would die just like Martha Lintz.
And Daphne’s perfect record would be broken. Everything she’d sacrificed would be for nothing.
She turned away from the window and crawled into bed, fully clothed.
Stared at the ceiling.
Tomorrow.
She closed her eyes but didn’t sleep.
Just replayed Asher’s voice in her head.
I’m tired of failing people.
Yeah.
Her too.
Asher Morrison knew exactly what Draven Frost saw when he looked at him: exhausted FBI agent on the take, smart enough to be useful, isolated enough to be desperate, sitting outside a warehouse at nine p.m. on a Thursday night—Draven had called this one in, not asked—like a bought-and-paid-for lackey.
Four weeks. Twenty-eight days.
Cold November wind cut through his jacket. Sharp. His breath fogged.
The warehouse loomed against dark sky. Former manufacturing plant. Windows broken high up. Metal siding rusted through.
He checked his weapon holstered under his jacket. Loaded.
He crossed the empty lot, gravel crunching under his boots. The wind carried industrial smells. Oil. Rust. Something chemical leaking from abandoned machinery.
The side door stood open, yellow light spilling out.
Asher walked in.
The warehouse stretched huge and empty, concrete floor cracked and stained dark. Metal beams overhead bled rust. A few sidelights created pools of yellow, surrounded by shadow.
His breath caught in the air.