35. Mandy
MANDY
Ipull on a black sports bra and a fitted tactical shirt, then lace up my boots. The routine is familiar—comforting, even. Gear up. Move out. Concentrate on the goal.
Except this evening, the mission includes Hendricks.
I can't stop thinking about the way he looked at me in the kitchen. The way he told me he wouldn't touch me unless I asked.
My plan to taunt him was stupid. I’ve barely implemented it and it’s already backfired.
I shake my head, forcing all that away. Focus. The girl in the notebook. Turner's house. Finding answers.
When I go back downstairs, Hendricks is waiting by the door, keys in hand. His eyes flick over me, quick and assessing. I see it—the flicker of approval—before he masks it.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Ready."
We walk to the truck in silence. I'm hyperaware of him beside me—the way he moves, the controlled precision of every step. He opens the passenger door for me and waits.
I’m not used to gallantry from men. I hesitate before I get in. Then I brace the door open with my palm, looking up at him. "Hendricks."
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
He doesn't ask what for. He just nods, waits for me to get in before closing the door, and walks around to the driver's side.
As we pull out of the driveway, I stare out the window at the passing landscape. Trees. Open fields. The kind of Montana scenery that's supposed to be peaceful but just makes me feel exposed. I wonder how Lily’s managed to live here.
I can feel him glancing at me periodically, like he's checking something.
"You're staring," I say without looking at him.
"I'm assessing."
"Bullshit." I turn now, meeting his gaze. "You've been assessing me since we left the house. What's the verdict?"
"You move well."
That isn’t what I expected him to say. I arch a brow. "That's it? I move well?"
He shrugs. "It's a compliment."
"It's an observation." I shift again, deliberately this time, and watch his jaw tighten. "But I'll take it."
He refocuses on the road, his hands gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary.
"Like a weapon," he says after a long pause.
Frowning, I look at him again. "What?"
"You move like a weapon."
It sounds like another compliment. I don't know why that makes my chest tighten. Maybe because it's true. Maybe because he sees it—sees me—in a way most people don't.
Not that I let other people see me, but apparently Hendricks didn’t get the memo.
The rest of the drive passes in silence.
The Turner Ranch was an extensive cattle operation that served as a cover for drugs, guns, and human trafficking, but as far as I know, it’s been defunct since Gabriel took custody of Cole Turner.
Hendricks parks a quarter mile out and kills the engine. "We go in quiet," he says, checking his sidearm. "No lights. No noise. If someone's here, we abort."
I nod, pulling my Glock from the holster at my hip. I check the magazine with practiced efficiency, then slide it back into place.
We move through the trees parallel to the gravel drive in silence. I stay close but not too close, matching his pace without needing instruction. It’s not like this is my first rodeo.
When we reach the edge of the property, he signals for me to stop. We crouch behind a fallen log, and he scans the house through the scope on his weapon.
No lights. No movement. No vehicles. I would have been surprised if there were.
"Clear," he murmurs.
We approach from the east side, using the shadows for cover. We wait a second and then skulk to the back door.
It’s unlocked—the first red flag. After the raid, Gabriel would have made sure the house was secured.
Hendricks pushes it open slowly, weapon raised, and steps inside.
The house has been torn apart. Furniture overturned. Drawers pulled out and emptied. Papers scattered across the floor like confetti.
"Fuck," I whisper, pushing a chair out of the way with my foot.
In tandem, we move through the kitchen into the living room, clearing each space methodically. I follow, my weapon trained on the blind spots he can't cover. We work in sync without speaking—a rhythm that shouldn't exist between two people who barely know each other.
The office is the worst. Filing cabinets are emptied, papers all over the floor, and desk drawers hang open. The safe in the wall has been drilled through, the door hanging at an angle.
Hendricks lowers his weapon and holsters it. Crouching in front of the safe, he touches the metal filings. “Cold. Whoever did this is long gone. Might even be weeks, since there aren’t any tracks or footprints outside. The last rain was three weeks ago.”
"They were obviously looking for something," I say, holstering my weapon too. I kneel near the desk, running my fingers over the scattered papers. "Three guesses what it was."
"The notebook." Hendricks scans the room. "They didn't find it."
"Because I already took it." I stand, moving to the bookshelf. My hands trail over the spines, pausing occasionally. "But they don't know that."
“Or they do, since I’ve been hired to take you to Ashford.” He prowls around the room, looking at everything without touching.
Not me. I move on instinct, not pattern—touching things, feeling for inconsistencies. I turn around to suggest we move to another room. “I—”
He's right there, and I almost collide into his chest. He reaches out to steady me, his hands gripping my arms firmly.
We both freeze.
He’s close—so close that I can see the flecks of silver in his gray eyes, the faint scar above his left eyebrow. Close enough that if I leaned forward six inches, I could finally find out if he tastes like what I’ve imagined.
Delicious.
Fiery.
Dangerous.
His chest rises and falls evenly with each breath. I feel the heat radiating off his body and catch the faint scent of soap and something darker that smells like sex.
Neither of us moves.
The air between us is electric, charged with everything we're not saying—with everything we’re withholding from each other. His lips part slightly, and I watch the movement like it's the only thing in the world that matters.
I should step back and put distance between us. In a matter of days, I’m going to take care of Ashford and then move on. Getting involved would be stupid.
But I don't move—and neither does he.