She was stuck. Helpless.

  Through the window, the cargo boat blared its horn. Preparing to depart from harbor. The crane arms had retreated. The boat would set out again to France. The shouting from the docks, the cries of loaders, workers, fishermen—all of it—more than disguised the faint outburst from his newest identity.

  And her, this identity, as he thought of them, would have to learn the hard way what it meant to disobey.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cora was trapped in the holding cell in the basement of the FBI headquarters. Home . . . the only place she’d really known as home. The cold concrete and bars around her served only as parameters for her early morning workout. She finished another round of push-ups, rose, and toppled onto the cot behind her, breathing heavily.

  Sweat slicked her brow. The tattoos along her forearms twisted into her sleeves, standing out against taut but lean muscles. Her skin was warm from the two-hour morning ritual. She did it every morning; she found it made her mind less fuzzy.

  And now, breathing heavily, having finished her workout, her mind was still spinning. She growled, pressing her head back against the wall along the cot, her legs extended under her.

  This was her home now. This type of prison, in a way, had always felt like her home.

  Not West Virginia. Not with her parents. That had never been a home.

  But here, at the FBI, where she’d once been a rising star and then had been kicked to the curb.

  Her own damn fault, of course. She knew that. She’d been the one to play fast and loose with sobriety. She’d been the one to go to that street corner that night, followed by a private investigator.

  A man that Deputy Director Ogden had sent to tail her.

  What a bastard.

  He’d followed her to West Virginia. It was personal between them. And now . . .

  She winced, leaned back, and rested her head against the cold, concrete wall, feeling the soft bumps of the rough stone behind her skull. Her legs stretched in front of her on the metal of the cot. No blanket. No pillow.

  She’d been here for three days now. The food was shit, too, but she’d expected as much and was used to it, in a way, from her days in the Navy.

  Now, as she drummed her fingers against the cold metal cot, listening to the faint echoing sound, she winced, paused, and glanced down at her left hand.

  The pinkie was missing. Only a white bandage wrapped tightly around the stump. Another little gift from a life outside the bounds of normal. Tangling with local law enforcement in the small, rural town where her parents lived.

  She’d thought she’d been helping out. Been doing the right thing. But life had a way of kicking her in the teeth. She shifted again, wincing as a jolt of pain went through her arm and her shoulder. She couldn’t even tell, at this point, if it was from an old injury or some new wound that she’d picked up the prior week.

  She sighed and stared, through the bars of her holding cell, down the long corridor of the basement towards the reinforced, concrete wall and the door across from her.

  At least, this time, she wasn’t trapped in a law enforcement basement with a grenade and a bad attitude.

  Some things were destined to end in tears.

  Having been arrested three days ago, following a shootout on an old, country road while engaging in what Ogden had called “Vigilante charlatanism,” Cora knew her future didn’t look particularly bright.

  “Look at me now, mom and dad,” she muttered sardonically under her breath, remembering the tense exchange she’d had with her parents before leaving.

  Another jolt of shame, and she scowled. Part of her itched for a drink. For something. But another part of her knew this was simply because of the stasis. She was trapped, alone with her thoughts.

  Hell, in other words.

  Flashes of forgotten memories crept up in her mind, rising like boogeymen from the shadows. Memories of pain, of shootouts, of death, of friends lost, and of enemies killed. Of capture, of torture, of depredation, and of escape.

  Memories that caused the wound in her shoulder to pulse.

  Three days now she’d been stuck down here with her own damn memories.

  Suddenly, a click.

  She looked sharply up and over. A new sound in this quiet space. She stared towards the camera above the door in the long hall, blinking at her, watching eternally.

  But now, the door beneath the camera was pushed slowly open. A figure moved towards her, a man with a bit of extra weight from all the time he now spent behind a desk. Back in his day, Director Anthony Perez had been something of a field legend.

  He had dark hair and creased lines around his eyes. His features were even more pronounced than she remembered, and the round, average-height man seemed to carry a burden of worry with him as he shut the door behind him.

  The metallic door clicked, and the bulletproof glass reflected the concerned look in the FBI regional director’s eyes.

  But as he turned to scan the prison cells, his gaze landed on her, and he straightened. He went through a transformation like most figures in authority seemed capable of. Moving quickly from concern and doubt into a mask of control and calm.

  Now, Director Perez marched towards her, hands swinging at his side. He wore a neat suit, only wrinkled on the sleeves. His pressed pants looked as if they’d been used two days in a row. Everything about him, as he drew nearer, looked tired and anxious, though he made a good effort of concealing this fact.

  As he approached the door to her cell, he peered within, his hazel eyes reflecting the sunlight just now creeping through the window above her cot.

  “Ms. Shields,” he said politely.

  She winced. So often, she’d been accustomed to hearing him address her as agent. To hear something else cut at her. But she forced a similar mask across her countenance. Care-free, indifferent, and cheerful.

  Her old partner-in-crime, Johnny—who only went by one name, like Adele or Beyonce—had been excellent at what they’d termed “crocodile-eyes.” Cold, dispassionate with a grin that didn’t quite reach the rest of the face.

  She now directed a similar thin-lipped smile towards her old boss.

  “Director Perez,” she said with a tip of her head.

  And that was all they spoke to each other for a full minute. The greeting, then a long stretch of silence. Neither of them broke it, as if each were expecting the other to intrude on the quiet. But they both watched each other through the bars, both silent and hesitant. Both motionless in place.

  Both gauging one another, as if sizing each other up. Cora just remained still, motionless, leaning back against the cold, gray wall. As she studied the man across from her, her mind moved through the possible eventualities.

  Was he here to tell her that she was being shipped off to some maximum-security prison? She’d been operating outside the bounds of law. Vigilante justice was frowned on by the FBI as much as almost anything. She hadn’t heard anything about a trial date yet. Or exactly what charges she’d be facing. Homicide. Multiple homicide, most likely.

  She’d taken down some really bad dudes.

  But Deputy Director Ogden—Perez’s subordinate, and the man who’d had it out for Cora—hadn’t cared that she’d been trying to help. Of course, that had always been the risk doing what she had.

  She’d accepted the risk, and now she would have to face the consequences. With something of gallows humor, she chuckled, “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

  He watched her, then nodded once. “How are you?” he said.

  She shrugged. Not exactly the question she’d been expecting. Though, Perez had always been a good boss. A good man and a good leader. Not ambitious and vain like Ogden.

  “Fine,” she said. “Yourself?”

  He let out a little puff of air. “Fine.”

  She chuckled.

  He frowned. “What?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “No, tell me. What?”

  “You just look like you’ve been twelve rounds with a big heap of anxiety. Sleep last night?” she intonated as jovial and concerned rather than snide.

  He seemed to sense her intent and leaned back a bit, relaxing. Now that he’d been called on it, he seemed to decide that there was no use to keeping up with the pretense. It was like watching a weight slip from his shoulders. His eyes held the same worry, the same concern, but as he leaned back, exhaling at the ceiling, he looked lighter for a brief moment. Simply in allowing his exhaustion to be recognized.

  But then, he said, softly, “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  Cora tensed. She could feel her stomach muscles tightening. Her hands clenched at her sides. “Mhmm,” she said slowly. “Let me guess—y’all are going for the death penalty or something?”

  He blinked, staring at her. It took him a second to respond as if he wasn’t sure what she meant. But then, his eyes widened. “The death—what? No, no, no. That’s—no. That’s not what I’m here about at all.”

  Cora swallowed slowly. She wasn’t sure if this was good news or bad. In a way, she almost wanted him to just get it over with and tell her what her sentence was. What the charges would be. The not knowing was almost worse.

  But Perez was shaking his head, running a hand through his dark bristle. Cora’s own hair was similar. Auburn hair, shaved on the left side, shoulder length on the right. Not exactly the hairdo of a girly girl, but Cora had never been accused of liking scented candles in autumn or being in touch with her emotions.

  Perez lowered his hand finally and leaned forward, one palm resting against the bars of the holding cell. “I’m sorry to tell you,” he said, “that Ohana has been released from custody.”

  Cora blinked. This was not at all what she’d been expecting. And now, she was beginning to understand the actual cause behind her old boss’s worry lines.

  “Josh Ohana?” she said.

  “That’s the one.”

  “The Cop Killer was released? Why?”

  “Technicality,” said Perez quietly. “The trial was in process, but there was some mess-up with chain of custody. Evidence tampering, the judge says.” Perez snorted. “At least, his nephew the defense attorney filed the motion.”

  “Wait . . . the judge was presiding over his nephew’s case?”

  “Technically ex-nephew. Divorced his niece. I don’t know how it works. But the judge didn’t recuse himself. Higher courts didn’t care.” Perez waved a hand. “It’s a big old cluster. Either way, Ohana is back out.”

  Cora was sitting upright now, her legs dangling over the edge of the metal cot. “That’s probably not the best call,” she said conversationally, but inwardly her mind was spinning.

  Josh Ohana, known to the press as the Cop Killer, had targeted family members of law enforcement officers for years before she’d finally caught up with him a few years ago. Cora had nearly died and had only survived thanks to the intervention of her old, dapper partner, Agent Saul Brady.

  The two of them had brought Ohana in. The trial had been faced with many complications, though. And now, years later, the case was being thrown out.

  She cursed. “Is this my fault?” she said simply.

  “What? Oh, the business in Briarwood, West Virginia? No, the judge didn’t know about any of that. The decision was made last month. It finally was confirmed last week.”

  “Shit.”

  Perez nodded.

  Cora frowned. “So, why are you telling me this? Professional courtesy?”

  Perez rubbed at the bridge of his nose, and after a moment, Cora realized that it wasn’t just concern or anxiety in his countenance, but also something else she recognized. Grief.

  But why grief?

  Her brow furrowed and then her eyes widened. She tried to hide the expression by glancing off and clearing her throat. But she remembered the case now. And equally remembered Perez’s personal involvement. His own daughter had been targeted by Josh Ohana.

  “Miley, right?” said Cora quietly.

  Perez looked sharply at her, going still, his eyes fixated on her as if deciding whether she was teasing or not.

  But Cora just watched him, quiet and encouraging, trying to soften her features. She had what some might call a resting bitch face. She thought of it more as “somber and sensible,” but she supposed that the truth probably split the difference.

  Perez relaxed a bit at her expression, but his nod was stiff. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Miley. She would’ve been graduating university this year.” His voice shook briefly, but he smoothed it just as quickly.

  Cora watched through the bars, her mind racing now. She’d been expecting a sentence, a verdict, some bad news. And in a way, the idea that the Cop Killer was being released was horrific news. But also . . . something was off.

  Why was Perez down here? What did he expect from her? Weeping? A shoulder to cry on? An exclamation of frustration?

  Perez had never struck her as the commiserating sort.

  And if he was, he wouldn’t do it with her, surely. Which only left one option.

  “You want something, what?” she said simply, leaning back again, and narrowing her eyes, watching shrewdly through half-closed lids. Her left hand tapped against the table, the missing knuckle of her pinkie finger, now simply a wad of gauze, brushed with a sort of shushing sound against the smooth metal.

  Perez adjusted his suit, studying her. He nodded then, a single time. “To the point. As always. Fair enough. What I want,” he said simply, “is justice.”

  He adjusted the edges of his wrinkled suit sleeves. He didn’t look at her now, and he spoke quietly. “The FBI has a long tradition of hiring CIs and private contractors. We even sometimes work with private security in a pinch.”

  Cora just watched, tense.

  “And so . . .” He trailed off, and finally looked at her. Now, he leaned forward, his tone hardening. “You are in serious trouble, Ms. Shields. I don’t know what you thought you were doing. But I know about West Virginia. I also know about Florida. You’re lucky Ogden doesn’t.”

  “Florida?” she said innocently.

  He just waved his hand again as if it was an inconsequential detail. “No matter,” he said simply. “I’m not here to bring further charges against you.”

  “So, what the hell are you here for?” Cora snapped. She could feel the pressure. Could feel the implied threat. She didn’t like being cornered or caged. Didn’t like feeling as if options were running out.

  Director Perez looked momentarily startled by her tone. But then he nodded and said, “I’m here to offer you a damn job, Cora.”

  Her heart skipped. “I’m not coming back to the FBI.”

  “I’m not asking you too. We have . . . other budgetary measures,” he said simply. “Other things that are important to the bureau. And I believe you can help us.”

  She shook her head. “Nah.”

  He stared. “Excuse me?”

  “No,” she said, pronouncing the word long and slow.

  “I . . . I’m afraid you don’t quite understand your situation, Ms. Shields. If you don’t accept this offer, you’ll be facing life in prison. Potentially more. Especially if Florida gets involved.”

  “Mhmm. That’s what I thought. Threats. You have all the leverage.” Cora shrugged, her shoulders scraping against the wall. “If I’m honest, though,” she said simply, “I don’t really care to be someone’s pawn. Not again. Plus, you’re speaking in riddles. Just tell me what the hell you want. But if we’re doing it this way, with threats and cloak and dagger, then no.”

  Cora wasn’t sure she even meant it. She was tired, frustrated, and quite over it. Sometimes, she knew her hot head got her in hot water. Other times, though, she simply wouldn’t let someone else manipulate her. No matter how big of a carrot, or stick, they were offering. Plus, she had her own plans. If she went to prison, she knew people who might help spring her. There was always the option of getting out.

  Now, though, Perez just watched her again. Another minute passed in silence between them. He made a soft sucking sound as if drawing air sharply through his teeth.

  “The families believe Ohana will kill again,” said Perez at last. “I agree. They want justice.”

  “They?”

  His eyes flashed. “We. We want justice. Ohana will murder others. And we can’t allow that.”

  “So, what are you asking me to do exactly.”

  “It would be a special position. A private contractor. Think of it more as a private investigator with a bit more leeway.”

  “You want me to kill him?”

  The Director shook his head quickly, his eyes only very briefly darting to the camera over the door. “I would never say that,” he replied.

  “But you’re not denying it.”

  “What I’m saying,” he replied, “is that we need you to trail Ohana and stop him before he kills again.” Perez adjusted his suit once more, straightening a bit and watching her. “Is that clear enough for you, Agent Shields?”

  Her eyes were still hooded, but she let out a faint little huff of air. This, she supposed, would be better than trying to beat a rap or months of a painstaking trial. This was all she had, wasn’t it? And so, she said, “Am I getting paid?”

  Perez chuckled. A sudden, undeterred burst. “I suppose so, yes. We can try it this way, and the position could be long term, Cora. With your particular record . . . SEALs and FBI . . . All of it. You might be exactly the asset we need.”

  Cora ran her tongue along her teeth and then she pushed off the cot, hopping to her feet and gesturing at the door. “Alright then. I’ll deal with Ohana. But then that’s it. Everything else is cleared. Charges dropped. All of it.”

  Perez nodded. “I’ve already spoken to Ogden. The charges have already been dropped,” he said simply. “I knew I could count on you.”

  Cora gave a little chuckle of her own now, leaning against the bars as Perez began to wave at one of the cameras. There was a sudden click. The lock to the door unlocked, and the frame silently opened. Cora hesitated before stepping out to join her old boss in the hall.

  Her chuckle faded, but a small, malicious smile remained. “I bet Ogden isn’t happy about this.”