I nod. “Your wife has everything under control. While we were in Miami, my dad bought way too many toys for Thea, so she’s happily playing. Last I saw, Joslyn was pouring coffee and uncovering cookies.”

  “She’s a gem,” he says, voice soft and tender, cutting into the normal briskness of his British accent. “Are you going to stay in one of the apartments?”

  I shrug, because I’ve been waffling on this. “I’m not sure it’s necessary. I know Jess can’t be any safer than here.”

  “And the new guy just moved into one of them,” Cage says and looks over to Jackson. “What’s his name?”

  “Kellen McCord,” Jackson replies.

  I’d forgotten all about the dude who is starting this week. He’s a former K9 cop with the military, moving here from the West Coast.

  “Yeah,” Cage says, looking across the table at me. “Kellen’s here, so you won’t have to worry about evenings.”

  “Then it looks like I’m good to stay at my place,” I say, now having no legitimate reason to use one of the empty HQ apartments. I’ve decided I need some space from Jess as insecurities leak back in.

  Bebe coughs into her hand. “Bullshit.”

  I turn my attention to her, calling her out. “Why’s that bullshit?”

  “Well, first,” she says, looking me dead in the eye, “Jess, Claire, and Thea are completely out of their element, and it’s only polite that you stay here in the building with them so they don’t feel out of place.”

  It’s a good point. Her best one, really, because my consideration in staying at my place rather than here has everything to do with the fact I’m not sure how to be around Jess.

  Last night on the patio, I said we needed to talk, and her reaction to that—the shimmer in her eyes—told me it would be a talk that would drastically change our lives.

  And I fucking got scared.

  By the time I read Thea a story and Jess tucked her in, I was freaking myself out that there could actually be potential to be with the woman I’ve loved for what seems like forever.

  So I slipped away, mumbling some excuse about wanting to hang with my dad and catch up.

  Which was not a complete untruth. Yesterday I saw a different side to my dad, and it’s frankly made me curious about him.

  But that’s neither here nor there.

  “And your other point?” I prompt her.

  She glances at Kynan, Jackson, and Cage for a moment before bringing her eyes back to me. “I just think you have personal things you need to work through and proximity is your best friend.”

  There have been many times since meeting Bebe that I’ve had great respect and admiration for her, but now it’s at an all-time high. I knew she was going to throw in my face my nonexistent relationship on the romantic side with Jess, but I’m glad she did it in such a way and with such vagueness that the other three men staring at us in puzzlement don’t really know what’s going on.

  I lock eyes with Bebe, my expression warning her not to go any further. “Perhaps you and I can find a minute to discuss that later.”

  “Of course,” she says, tipping her head in understanding.

  “All right,” Kynan drawls sarcastically, “if you two are done talking in code, let’s address the issue at hand—how we solve the problem of Ivan Borovsky.”

  “We need to find him,” Jackson says.

  The most obvious.

  But definitely not the easiest thing to do.

  Kynan proceeds to give us a new update based on conversations he had with law enforcement agencies this morning while we were in the air from Miami to Pittsburgh. No further tips have panned out, and there’s not been a legitimate sighting in over twelve hours.

  “It could mean he’s reached Miami and is in hiding,” Cage suggests.

  “If there’s a God, maybe Borovsky got attacked by a pack of coyotes and is rotting in a forest somewhere,” Jackson says.

  We all chuckle at the thought, but we know he probably has had some help from his Russian connections for his journey south.

  Bebe taps her pen on the table. “I’ve got my facial recognition software running full tilt. It’s going to be unlikely, though, that we catch a glimpse of him because he’ll be staying far away from public places. If he’s traveling via rural roads to Miami, Podunk towns won’t have traffic cameras I can tap into.”

  “But if he’s in Miami,” I point out, “he might start feeling a bit safer and pop his head out.”

  “So we have to depend on Borovsky doing something stupid in order to pick him up through the software,” Bebe concludes.

  “Unfortunately, he’s not a stupid man,” I rumble.

  He’s a skillful adversary.

  “It’s not just Borovsky we have to worry about,” Kynan interjects. “He has any number of men willing to go out and find Jess and bring her in at any cost. Granted, I’m sure their instructions are to bring her in alive, but until he’s back in custody, she must remain in hiding.”

  “Who exactly is heading up the manhunt?” I ask Kynan. Despite there being a lot of agencies involved, one will take the lead.

  “FBI,” he replies.

  “Griff is going to liaise,” Bebe says proudly. Her fiancé is a member of the FBI and works out of the Pittsburgh office.

  “And do they have a game plan?” I’m anxious to get something going, even if I’m not directly involved.

  “We do,” Griff says as he walks through the conference room door, a stack of folders in his hand.

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he timed that entrance. Griff used to be deep undercover inside the Russian Mafia out of New York and his expertise regarding their inner workings will be invaluable.

  Passing out the folders, Griff moves to sit beside Bebe. She tips her head back, and he gives her a kiss before taking his seat. Watching that brief exchange of sweet intimacy makes me think of Jess. It’s something I would do with her every single day of my life if I were so blessed.

  I shake my head, push those thoughts far, far away, and open the folder. We all take a second to peruse the contents, which include Borovsky’s prison records with a list of known contacts to have visited or called him. Those people will be interviewed, but they’re most assuredly mafia and won’t talk.

  “We have a team going through all the recorded phone calls with Borovsky for the last six months,” Griff explains. “You’ll see a list with photographs of known members of the syndicate in Miami, including informants we’re utilizing.”

  “Are the informants providing any reliable information?”

  Griff shakes his head, his eyes meeting mine. “Not yet, but it’s early. The key to finding Borovsky will most likely be through them.”

  Griff takes us through the entire file. To my relief, Miami’s FBI office has allocated agents to watch over some of Jess’s closest friends in case the Russians think she’s hiding with them. That’s probably not going to happen, though, because what they do know is that Jess had a man with her who shot one of their guys.

  “They went to Claire’s house,” Griff says, and my eyebrows shoot up. “We have agents staked out there and at Jess’s house, just in case. Three men—later matching up to the Russian family—watched the house all day and then broke in around two a.m., most likely to look for clues as to where Jess could be. They were arrested, but they’re refusing to talk and lawyered up right away.”

  “But the DA’s office could loosen their lips with a plea deal, right?” I ask.

  Griff shakes his head. “Probably not. They’re only charged with breaking and entering. None of the men have prior records, so if they ever get convicted down the road, they’re not looking at lengthy sentences.”

  “In other words,” Kynan finishes for him, “their loyalties are to the Russian family they work for, and they’ll take the conviction and prison sentence before they’ll talk.”

  “Christ,” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my head, then to my aching jaw. It’s only then I realize I’ve been gritting my teeth.

  Pushing up from my chair, I start to pace. “So, let me get this straight. We have no clue where Borovsky is, but he’s not really the one to worry about right now, anyway, as there are other Russians looking for Jess. Which means she can’t return home anytime soon. There’s no good way to find him other than hope an informant will get some information for us, which may never happen. In other words, we have no end in sight.”

  “But at least Jess, Claire, and Thea are safe,” Bebe points out. “You got there in the nick of time.”

  I nod in consideration of this. “And they’re here, safe in Pittsburgh, and the Russians don’t know that.”

  Griff’s expression darkens. “Not necessarily. The Russians aren’t stupid, and they immediately moved to check outgoing flights.”

  “With bribes,” Cage says distastefully. “Throw a few dollars around, and some low-level piece of shit will squawk.”

  Griff nods. “Men went to the private hangar, asking questions and flashing pictures of Jess. Asked about her, Thea, and Claire, and about a ‘Black bodyguard’ is how they described you. They know you flew them to Pittsburgh.”

  “Fuck,” I growl, moving back to my chair. I sit and look around the table. “Let’s assume they’re here. How are they going to find her?”

  “By identifying you,” Kynan says. “But that’s not going to be easily done.”

  “It is going to be easily done.” All eyes come to me. “I met him once… in passing. I was in Miami visiting, and I’d stopped by to see Jess and Thea on my way to the airport for my return flight. I was doing my PhD in California at the time. It was a quick introduction as I was walking out to the car and he was walking up. He knew about me, of course, as Jess had told him about other friends and family members. If he remembers that meeting in any way, all he has to do is google me for confirmation.”

  “And from there,” Kynan concludes, “it will take little to no effort with their resources to find out you work for Jameson.”

  It’s no secret I work here. We’re an open security company with a professional website, and my picture is on there as the head of Research and Development. None of the field agents are listed, obviously, but I would be easy to identify.

  Leaning back in the chair, I tip my head and look at the ceiling. Jess, Claire, and Thea will be safe here at Jameson. This place is locked down like a fortress, unless—

  My head snaps up. “They could target this building. If they think she’s here, they could shoot an RPG into the building and take a stab at killing her.”

  “Highly unlikely,” Kynan scoffs.

  “Incredibly unlikely,” Jackson affirms. “They don’t want to kill her quickly. They want to bring her back to Borovsky.”

  “Yes, I’m well aware of what they want to do to her,” I snap at Jackson.

  “Sorry, brother. Just keeping it real.”

  “This only ends if Borovsky is caught,” I muse as I try to figure out the fastest way to end this. “And if we want to speed that up, maybe we need to dangle bait in front of him.”

  “You want to expose Jess?” Bebe exclaims, aghast.

  “Of course not. But they’re looking for me too. I let them take me, and you can follow.”

  “You’re out of your fucking mind,” Bebe snarls like an enraged tiger. “You’re not a field agent. You’re not trained for that. You’re a goddamn nerd who sits at a computer all day, Dozer.”

  I don’t say anything, staring at my friend with determination.

  Bebe’s head whips Kynan’s way. “Tell him no, Kynan. Tell him that’s ridiculous and is off the table.”

  Kynan’s gaze flicks my way, his expression inscrutable. “It’s an idea.”

  “A horrible idea!” Bebe explodes, standing from her chair and slapping her hands on the table. She glares at Kynan as if she could kill him.

  “Babe,” Griff says quietly, putting his hand on her lower back.

  “Don’t babe me.” She bats his hand away and points a finger at Kynan. “You have a duty to protect your people. If you let Dozer do this, you’re feeding him to the wolves.”

  “It’s not his decision,” I say with determination, letting Kynan off the hook. “It’s mine.”

  To my astonishment, Bebe’s eyes glimmer with tears. She swipes at them with the back of her hand and storms out of the conference room, mumbling that we’re all a bunch of crazy assholes.

  Griff rises, intent on following her out.

  “Don’t,” I say, standing from my chair. “Let me handle this.”

  I’m not sure Griff would give this up to any other man, but he knows Bebe and I are tight. He also knows it’s me she’s pissed at, and I’ll need to get her to come around to this idea.

  His butt lowers to the chair.

  I look at Kynan. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to explore this more. A solid game plan we can put in play sooner rather than later.”

  “You got it,” he says quietly. I know he doesn’t like the idea of me—with only a year’s worth of training—getting intentionally captured by the enemy, but my brain moves much faster than theirs do. It will take them a few minutes to talk about it and realize this is absolutely the best and fastest way to take Borovsky down.

  When I step out of the conference room, Bebe’s not in sight. I know where she went.

  Down to the sub-basement Research and Development lab she and I share. No one can get in there except me and her, not even Kynan. The locks are coded to our retinas and our voices, and one of us has to be in there to let someone in. She’s hiding, embarrassed over her obvious emotions, assuming Griff will come looking for her.

  She won’t be happy to see me, though.

  But I have to make her understand—this is the best play.

  CHAPTER 8

  Dozer

  I head toward the singular elevator that only goes one way from this level, and that’s down into the sub-basement Kynan constructed under headquarters. It’s different from the old freight elevator with its open-face style and iron gate that draws across, which is more for decoration than safety. Most people take the gorgeous floating staircase between floors. In contrast, the basement elevator is small, sleek, and can only hold three people.

  At the R&D lab, I see Bebe through the glass doors sitting at her workstation, typing furiously. I lean over to the retinal scanner and wait for the thin green beam to pass over my eyes. Then I state my name for the voice recognition, which isn’t really needed as a security precaution as this place is about as safe as Fort Knox. Bebe and I like dabbling with new security measures, which we can in turn sell to clients, so we’re really just testing out the beta down here.

  I expect to hear the lock click open on the glass door—also bulletproof, as is every piece of glass in this building—but nothing happens.

  Frowning, I lean to the right, scan my eyes again, and speak my name.

  Nothing.

  “Goddamn it,” I grouse as I bang on the glass door. That woman went inside and disabled the security measures, essentially shutting me out.

  “Bebe… open the fucking door,” I yell, loud enough I know she hears me.

  She ignores me, shoulders hunched and fingers moving across the keyboard.

  I pound on the door again, continually and not letting up. I yell her name and continue pounding so she knows I will not stop this racket until she pauses her stubborn pity party and lets me in.

  The door lock clicks and I glance down, stunned for a moment that she relented so quickly. I pull on the handle and enter. When the door shuts behind me, it relocks.

  Rubbing at my sore hand, I move behind her chair, peering over her shoulder to see that she’s working within BOB. A mission simulator, a predictor of outcomes and a sometimes eerie interface that the more it gets to know the people at Jameson, the more accurate its predictions. We use it often as a strategic guide to help us make planning and tactical decisions, and we only make BOB smarter and stronger by continuing to give it information. After every mission, key data points are determined and entered, feeding BOB so it can continue to learn from what we do.

  “Are you going to talk to me?” I ask, nudging her shoulder.

  Bebe remains silent, inputting data. My eyes move to the screen, and I watch as words appear within the entry fields.

  Russian Mafia—Miami.

  Murder.

  Ivan Borovsky.

  Low training threshold.

  Unrequited love.

  Nerd.

  “Unrequited love? Nerd?” I exclaim, pushing her chair a little to get her attention. “What the fuck?”

  Bebe whirls on her swivel chair and glares at me. “You’re going to put yourself in harm’s way because you love her and she doesn’t love you and you’re trying to prove something,” she snarls in accusation.

  I tone down my temper so as not to inflame hers. “I do love her, yes. But she cares deeply for me too. I don’t know if our love is the same, but it is most certainly not unrequited. Jess would do the same thing for me in a heartbeat, although I’d blister her hind end if I ever caught her doing something so dangerous.”

  The wind deflates from Bebe’s sails, and she seems to shrink into the chair as she exhales. “You’re not ready for this type of work, Dozer. For the last year, you and I have worked side by side. At a desk. You’re not a field agent.”

  “I may have worked at a desk beside you, but I’ve gotten off my ass and learned a thing or two. Firearms, high-speed driving, martial arts, even torture resistance.”

  “Training,” she says softly. “Not real-world experience.”

  Trying to lighten the mood, I chuckle as I point out, “There’s one Russian in Miami with a bullet in his leg who would tell you otherwise.”

  To my satisfaction, Bebe’s lips curl ever so slightly. “You know what I mean. And I’m allowed to be worried.”

  I move over to my station beside hers, pulling my own swivel chair out and settling down into it. I lean back, stretch my legs, and prop one ankle over the other. “You are indeed allowed to be worried. But it’s not going to change my determination to do whatever it takes to get Ivan Borovsky off the streets so Jess can live her life without fear.”