Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Garrett had imagined this moment a thousand times in fifteen years. None of his scenarios involved Claire failing to recognize him.
He stood outside her door, hand raised to knock, heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with tactical operations and everything to do with the fourteen-year-old girl who’d cried at his sister’s grave.
She’s not fourteen anymore. She’s an FBI agent. A woman who hunts the same monsters that killed Lily.
And she had no idea Bobby Anderson was about to walk back into her life.
He’d spent the night going over his conditions with the doctor and strategizing his team. The list was short but non-negotiable: Montgomery wasn’t to share that he was Bobby, Lily’s brother.
He was a completely different person now than the kid Claire had met only three, maybe four times growing up.
His and Lily’s mom had remarried and moved to D.C.
, leaving him and his dad behind. Garrett had lived with their father, mostly because he’d always been a handful, and Stephanie, their mom, hadn’t been able to keep him in check.
He looked and talked differently now. Hell, he even thought differently.
The Navy had cleaned him up after he’d spiraled because of Lily’s death and given him purpose.
It was crucial to him that the past stayed buried where it belonged.
Vivi had agreed. For now.
She’d also given him free rein in picking his team for this assignment. Operation Paperclip was no different from the missions he’d led in the field. He'd picked his team based on their strengths—surveillance, perimeter defense, overwatch—and built a layered security bubble to keep Claire safe.
She’d spent the morning with the doctor, learning the Trident system and how Vivi was adapting it to hunt predators. Now, he couldn’t put it off any longer—he had to face the music. He had to face her.
Garrett knocked, letting his professional operator face slide into place. “Agent Dawson? Your briefing is ready.”
The door opened.
Time stopped.
Fifteen years collapsed into nothing. Those blue eyes—Lily’s best friend’s eyes, the ones that had looked at him with such guilt at the funeral—met his. But they were different now. Harder. Older. Scarred by what she’d survived and the things she’d witnessed since.
She was beautiful. Not the skinny fourteen-year-old with a broken arm, but a woman who’d turned her trauma into purpose.
Lily would have been proud.
“Agent Dawson.” He kept his voice carefully neutral. “I’m Wolf. We need to discuss your security protocols.”
She blinked. Studied his face with an intensity that made his pulse spike. FBI training, he told himself. She assessed everyone like this.
But her eyes lingered. On his jaw. His eyes. The set of his shoulders.
“Wolf, right.” She smirked. “Did you pick that yourself or just draw the short straw?”
Was she teasing? “Operational callsign. Everyone here uses them for their safety and yours.” He gestured down the hallway. “Dr. Montgomery is waiting in the conference room.”
“And believe it or not, I can find it on my own. I spent the morning there.”
“Please refrain from going anywhere unattended, Agent Dawson.”
“It’s Claire, and does that include the bathroom, Wolf?”
The sarcasm could peel paint. He started walking, hiding his grin. “The building is a security facility, but I want eyes on you at all times.” He held up a hand when she started to protest. “Bathroom trips excluded.”
She made a sound of frustration as she followed him down the hallway, and Garrett was hyperaware of every move, every sound she made. The cadence and quiet efficiency of her footsteps. The jut of her chin. The fall of her hair over her shoulder when she turned to look at him.
“How long have you worked here?” she asked.
Damn, that voice. So smooth and sexy. Stay professional. She’s a protectee. Nothing more.
But his hands were shaking.
“How long have you been with Shadow Point?” she asked again. The question was more pointed this time, analytical. She was gathering intelligence.
“I’m the first tactical commander.”
“You’re avoiding my question.” She stopped abruptly. “This is a new operation, isn’t it? Am I your first guinea pig?”
Damn, she was good. “We’re a new unit that’s part of an established organization offering personal security for years. Shadow Point specifically handles stalkers and serial killers.” He glanced at her, gestured for her to start walking again. “I assure you, you’re in good hands.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Have we met before? You seem...”
Garrett’s heart stopped.
He turned to face her, forcing himself to meet those blue eyes. “I’ve been deployed for most of the past fifteen years.”
“Maybe at a joint task force briefing? I’ve worked with SEALs before.”
“We all blend together, don’t we? At least, that’s our goal.” He winked, making a joke. Once again, he motioned her forward. “Shall we?”
She frowned, but she let it drop.
Garrett released a mental sigh of relief, trying not to think about how close she was. How, after fifteen years of wondering if CJ was okay, she was here. Alive. Strong. Everything he’d hoped she’d become.
And so far, she hadn’t recognized him.
The conference room was all business. Vivi sat at the head of the table with files, a tablet, and three cups of coffee. She’d set up tactical displays on the wall screens—maps, timelines, victim photos.
“Agent Dawson.” Vivi’s voice was warm. “Wolf will brief you on security protocols, and then we can begin our profiling work.”
Claire sat, pulled out her laptop. “He already did—don’t go anywhere without a bodyguard.” She fixed him with a glare. “Look, I appreciate the protection, but I’m here to work. Dr. Montgomery and I will be re-profiling my stalker using her Trident methodology.”
“Understood.” Garrett leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “My job is to keep you alive while you do that.”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
He held her glare. “I’m a tactical operator with fifteen years of experience hunting predators in hostile environments. You’re a high-value target with a serial killer fixated on you. That makes this a protection operation, not babysitting.”
Her eyes narrowed. Alpha recognizing alpha. “I’m not some civilian.”
“No. You’re an FBI agent with five years of field experience.” He kept his voice even. “Which means you know how dangerous your stalker is. You’ve seen what he did to three women who looked exactly like you.”
That hit home. Her jaw tightened.
Vivi intervened smoothly. “Perhaps we should move on to the threat assessment?”
She pulled up the case file on the main screen. Three victim photos: Sarah Mitchell. Rebecca Torres. Amanda Greenwood. Her notes listed the obvious—they were all dark-haired, blue-eyed, with similar cheekbones, noses, and lips. Just like Claire.
But they were all dead.
“The timeline from first direct message to death ranges from five to seven days,” Vivi said. “Agent Dawson received her first direct message four days ago.”
Garrett’s stomach went cold. He already knew it, but hearing it again set that countdown clock in his head all over again. Four days. She had one, maybe three, left.
Except now, she had him.
No one was coming through his protection. No one.
“How did he breach FBI security?” he asked.
“Unknown.” Vivi pulled up technical reports. “He’s accessed their internal network three times. Either he’s inside the Bureau or has compromised someone who is.”
Claire looked sick at the thought. “Everyone on my team has been thoroughly vetted.”
“It could be anyone,” Garrett said, “from the mailroom attendant to the janitor. And vetted doesn’t mean they’re above being bribed or blackmailed.” He eyed the photos of the dead women staring back at him. “The previous victims—where was he when he struck?”
“Two were at home. One in a parking garage at her workplace.” Vivi shifted the screen to crime scene photos. The graphic nature was tough to look at. “It appears that he learns their patterns and strikes when they’re most vulnerable. Not unusual for this type of serial killer.”
Garrett studied the photos with the cold assessment of someone who’d hunted men like this. “He’s patient. Organized. This isn’t about rage. It’s about control.”
“Yes.” Claire’s voice was quiet. “He targets survivors. Women who fought abusers and stalkers and lived.”
“Agent Dawson survived an attack fifteen years ago,” Vivi said gently, giving him a pointed look.
The words hung in the air.
Garrett’s hand tightened on his arm. Don’t react. Don’t let her see you know.
But Vivi continued to stare, saying nothing else. Giving him an opening. The psychologist in her hadn’t been happy about him wanting to keep it a secret. She’d told him that disassociating from his younger self wasn’t healthy.
To him, it seemed like the healthiest decision he’d ever made.
Claire focused on her screen, sharing the profile she’d been building on the main one. “He’s not just killing to satisfy some primal urge. He’s proving a point.”
“Which is?” Garrett asked, even though he already knew.
“These women survived once. He’s showing them—showing everyone—that they’re not as strong as they think they are.” Her voice was clinical, detached. “It’s about correcting what he sees as failures. Women who should have died but didn’t.”
He held in the anger rushing through his veins. “He’s punishing them for surviving?”
Claire looked at him. Really looked. Something shifted in her expression. Recognition, but not the kind he feared. Understanding. “Yes. Exactly.”
For a moment, they just stared at each other. Two people who understood what it meant to hunt monsters. Who knew the weight of survivor’s guilt.
Then Garrett looked away.
“Or,” Vivi said. “The three women are proof that he can control things. He could be trying to prove to Claire specifically that he has the cunning and smarts to deliver justice. That he can outsmart her and the FBI. It’s personal to him, and he wants Claire to be scared. To fear him.”