Chapter 1 #2
“I’m offering you a new one. One where doing the right thing doesn’t get you court-martialed.
” She pulled a white business card from her pocket and set it on top of Claire’s photo.
“I need a tactical commander for Shadow Point. Someone who understands how predators think. Someone who won’t hesitate to cross lines when necessary. ”
“Someone expendable if it all goes sideways.”
“Someone capable.” She stood, smoothing her coat. “Claire doesn’t have much time. Days, maybe. The stalker sent his first direct message three days ago. His previous victims were dead within a week of first contact.”
Garrett’s stomach went cold. Three days.
“The FBI knows she’s next,” she continued. “They’ve assigned a protective detail. They’re doing everything by the book. But this predator has already circumvented their security twice. Left messages for Claire where no one should have been able to reach her.”
She picked up her bag, left cash on the bar for the water she hadn’t touched.
“When you change your mind—and you will—call that number.” She nodded to the business card. “I have an official office front in town, a compound outside the city limits. I’ll be at the office tomorrow morning. Eight a.m.”
“I’m not coming.”
“Yes, you are.” She smiled, but there was something sad in it. “Because you can’t live with another failure. And if Claire Dawson ends up dead while you’re hiding in this bar, you’ll never forgive yourself.”
She stopped for a moment and patted his shoulder. “I did my research on you, Garrett. I know about Lily. I know Claire was her best friend. And I know that’s why you’ll show up tomorrow.”
She strode to the door. Another gust of cool September air rushed in, then disappeared.
Garrett sat frozen, staring at the photographs. The three dead women. The Colombia mission. Claire’s FBI badge.
I know about Lily.
His hands shook.
He grabbed the folder, shoved everything back inside. The white business card fell out, landing face-up next to his empty glass. No name or company logo. Just a phone number and address.
He should burn it. Should walk out of this bar, drive to his cabin, and forget Dr. Genevieve Montgomery and her Shadow Point Security team existed.
But Claire’s photo was staring up at him from inside the folder.
Those blue eyes that had been full of guilt at Lily’s funeral. That had silently asked Bobby for forgiveness. Bobby—the name she’d known him by—hadn’t been able to give it. That had haunted him every day for fifteen years.
“Hell,” Garrett muttered.
Jake materialized. “Another?”
Garrett looked at his empty glass. Looked at the folder. Looked at the door.
I can’t. I failed Lily. I can’t face CJ.
Bobby couldn’t save his sister. Garrett couldn’t save Claire.
But the memory came anyway. Always did, especially when the whiskey wasn’t working.
Lily at ten years old, making him promise. “If anything ever happens to me, Bobby, you’ll take care of CJ, right?”
“Nothing’s going to happen to you, Lil.”
“But if it does. Promise.”
“I promise.”
Eight years later, he’d broken that promise. Stood at his sister’s grave while CJ cried, apologized, and blamed herself for surviving.
He'd enlisted the next day. Became Garrett Cross—his father's surname, his first name. No more Bobby. He became someone strong enough, lethal enough, skilled enough that he'd never fail to protect someone who needed it again.
And now CJ needed protection.
“No thanks,” he told Jake. He threw money on the bar, grabbed his jacket and the folder, and headed for the door.
Outside, the evening had cooled further. The parking lot gravel crunched under his boots as he walked to his beat-up Ford. Above, stars were beginning to appear in the darkening sky. Montana stars, brilliant and endless without light pollution to dim them.
He got in the truck. Didn’t start it. Just sat there with the folder on the passenger seat and his hands on the steering wheel.
Through the bar window, he could see Jake collecting glasses. A couple at one of the back tables laughing at something. Normal people living normal lives.
Garrett hadn’t been normal since Lily died.
Dr. Montgomery’s words echoed in his head. You’re thirty-three years old and drinking yourself to death in Montana. That’s not retirement. That’s surrender.
She was right. He’d been surrendering for eighteen months. Hiding. Running from the ghosts that followed him from Colombia, from the Teams, from the life he’d built after Lily.
But he couldn’t run from this.
He opened the folder again. Claire’s photo was on top. Professional. Competent. Alive.
For now.
She had days, maybe.
His jaw clenched. His hands tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles cracked.
Three women were dead. Claire was next. And somewhere out there under the same stars was a stalker who’d been watching her for months. FBI protection that wasn’t good enough.
And Lily’s plea echoing across fifteen years. Take care of CJ.
He’d failed once. Lily was dead because he hadn’t been there, hadn’t protected her, hadn’t been strong enough or fast enough or good enough.
But Claire was still alive.
And Dr. Montgomery was right—he couldn’t live with himself if he let her die too.
“Goddammit,” Garrett said to the empty truck.
He pulled out his phone. Looked at the business card Dr. Montgomery had left. Looked at Claire’s photo.
Lily’s voice in his head: Promise.
“I promise, Lil,” he whispered.
Pocketing his phone, he started the truck. He didn’t drive toward his cabin in the woods. Instead, he headed toward the address on the card.
The office on Main Street was small, discreet. Most people probably thought it was just another boring security company.
The lights were still on in the second-floor windows. Garrett parked across the street and stared up at them. Dr. Montgomery was up there, waiting. Knowing he’d come.
I did my research on you, Garrett.
She’d played him perfectly. Showed him the Colombia photo to prove she had leverage. Showed him Claire to prove she had bait. Told him about Lily to prove she knew exactly which buttons to push.
And it had worked.
Because at the end of the day, he wasn’t Bobby anymore—the kid who’d failed his sister. He was Garrett Cross. Former SEAL. Predator hunter. The man who’d crossed every line in Colombia to stop a monster.
And he’d cross them again to keep Claire Dawson alive.
Even if she never knew Bobby was the one protecting her.
He grabbed the folder, got out of the truck, and crossed the street. The door to the building was unlocked. Stairs led up to the second floor. At the top, a frosted glass door was devoid of any title or name.
Covert as hell. Fine, then.
He didn’t knock. Just opened the door and walked in.
A reception desk sat empty. Down a short hall, he saw the lights on. He moved quietly and found Dr. Montgomery behind a desk, reading something on her computer. She looked up when he entered, and her expression didn’t change. “Commander Cross,” she said. “Sooner than I expected. Come in. Sit.”
Garrett dropped the folder on her desk. “I have conditions,” he said.
She leaned back in her chair and removed her reading glasses. Two tiny parakeets fluttered in a large cage behind her. A small smile played over her lips. “I’m listening.”