So maybe that’s why I felt the need to let her know how I felt. “Will you marry me?”

  Just like that. Four simple words, no ring, my hands smelling like kalamata olives.

  We’d known each other three months, but they’d been the happiest of my life. They had clearly been hers, too, because she threw herself in my arms and kissed me hard before accepting my proposal.

  “Dad,” Ethan says, and by the tone of his voice, he’s likely said my name more than once.

  I blink several times and turn to see Ethan staring at me on the other side of the kitchen island.

  “What was that?” I ask, somewhat embarrassed I tuned out the entire world as I thought about Greer.

  “I asked if you want some help with the pizza,” he replies, looking down at the empty pan on the stove.

  “Yeah, buddy. Sure.” Then I glance at my watch, relieved only a few minutes have passed. “I thought you wanted to play Fortnite?”

  Ethan shrugs, coming around the island and grabbing the block of mozzarella to shred. “I thought maybe if I came and helped with dinner, you’d be so impressed, you’d let me play for at least an hour after I finish my homework.”

  I snort as I turn on the heat and then cut open the package of sausage. “That’s a pretty risky bet you’re taking that I’ll agree to such a thing. You could technically be losing Fortnite the entire night if I don’t agree to that one-hour request.”

  Ethan shrugs again, as if it’s no big deal. He stares at me with what I believe is an exaggerated look of adoration. “That’s okay. I love you so much, it’s more fun to hang out with you than play Fortnite.”

  Laughing, I shake my head and affectionately say, “You’re a monster. A very good, manipulative monster. Yes, you can have an hour after dinner, after you help me clean up the kitchen and after homework.”

  Ethan grins mischievously, and within those twinkling eyes I know my son takes after me. He sees what he wants and doesn’t worry about the risk.

  He just goes for it.

  I want to commend him for being such a daredevil, but I also want to warn him… it can lead to heartbreak.

  CHAPTER 10

  Greer

  It feels weird to be in my childhood home. It hasn’t been mine for a long time—not since leaving for college at eighteen. It remained my parents’ home, though, and it’s always been the place I could come back to.

  While I was in college pursuing a bachelor’s and then my master’s in international studies, this house was a refuge for me. When I went into the CIA straight after graduation, if I wasn’t working an active intel assignment, I’d always make it home for the big holidays. And because my time off after missions could come in two- to three-week periods, I would often come home to hang out with my folks.

  I love this old house—twenty-one hundred square feet in the foothills of the Laguna Mountains. Over the years, my mother built the most beautiful, luxurious garden to meander through via walking paths replete with benches, a two-person swing, and a little wrought iron table where you can sit to sip a glass of wine while watching the koi pond.

  I spent a lot of time out there today staring at the fish. It’s been four years since my parents died, and I can’t sell the house. I can’t think of it as mine either, but at this moment with no job and no home, I’m glad I have it. I’ve had it meticulously maintained over the years. While I didn’t come home for the holidays or extended work breaks as much, I have visited a handful of times each year.

  But as I said… it feels weird, and it’s because I don’t hear my dad’s boisterous jokes or my mother’s sweet lilting voice singing a love song.

  Pieces of furniture throughout the house bear photos of our family. They’re everywhere, placed in groupings on tables, bookshelves and sideboards. Some of just Mom, some of just Dad, some of the both of them, some of the three of us. My mother has dozens, framed and perched and hung on walls.

  While Dad was a security guard when he met my mother, he later became a real estate agent and was quite successful at it. My mother did not win the Miss World pageant as Miss Argentina, but she did win my dad’s heart. She settled into American life and became a private voice coach.

  While they both loved their careers, they loved boating and fishing even more. They scrimped and saved to buy a twenty-eight-foot twin engine boat that was sufficient for them to fish offshore. They moored it in a rented slip in San Diego and were on that boat every chance they got.

  And they eventually died with it. No one is really sure what happened. There was storm activity with heavy rain and winds. The boat was found floating in the Pacific Ocean seven miles off the coast of Mexico. The prevailing theory is they hit bad weather and a rogue wave swept them overboard. The currents took the boat south where it was found, and their bodies were never recovered.

  While I know the most probable answer is that they were lost to the sea, sometimes I like to imagine they wanted to relocate to a new country and give themselves secret identities, and they’re happily strolling the Paris streets together, eating baguettes and drinking strong coffee.

  I stroll through the house, perusing photos and picking up knickknacks that were important to my mom. It makes me feel close to her.

  When I reach the spare bedroom where I’ve been staying the last two days since leaving Langley, I change into workout shorts and a T-shirt. I walk across the hallway and brush my teeth. There’s no makeup to take off because there’s been no need to wear it, but I do brush my hair and tie it on top of my head.

  Back in the bedroom, I hook up my phone to the charger, pull the covers back, and slide between the cool sheets. I turn off the lamp and roll onto my side, one arm curled under my pillow.

  I wish I could fall immediately to sleep, but no such luck. I’ve barely slept since Ladd rescued me in El Salvador. I’ve not only been plagued by his presence back in my life but by my career ending with the CIA.

  What stretches my brain the most is trying to figure out where I go from here. I was paid well for my work with the CIA, which included hefty bonuses for hazardous duties. I saved and invested most of it and never spent money on frivolities. I could live comfortably for several years without working.

  That’s not my style, though. I have to be busy.

  I could absolutely go private sector—security or consulting. I could go to Argentina, as it feels almost as much like home to me as this place does because of my mother’s roots. I could teach English to kids or become a bartender on one of the beaches. There are any number of things I could do, and I most certainly don’t need the CIA. While I might feel a little sad for leaving a job that gave me such satisfaction, I remind myself I was ready to give it up ten years ago when I sought out Ladd. Our breakup made me realize that my career wasn’t as important as personal happiness.

  Back then… my happiness was Ladd.

  Today, it can be whatever.

  It could be a whoever if I open myself up to it.

  Maybe I’ll go to Argentina for a while and try to figure things out.

  ♦

  I’m not sure what wakes me up, but my instincts tell me something isn’t right. I hold my breath and strain my ears listening intently. There it is… voices. Outside. Low and unintelligible.

  Rolling to my side, I open the top drawer to the nightstand and pull out my Glock 17. There’s already a round in the chamber, and because it does not have a manual safety, it’s ready to fire the second I have it in hand.

  Even though I’ve had the house maintained and have the lights on a rotational schedule, if someone was casing the neighborhood for a few days, they’d never see occupants coming and going. They might see this as an easy target for burglary.

  Still, this is a safe, middle-class neighborhood. All the houses have alarms. Anyone who might try to break in would be stupid and—

  Glass breaks at the front of the house, and the alarm starts shrieking. Three long, shrill bursts, followed by four seconds of silence, then another three bursts. That alarm is shocking enough to scare away even the bravest of vandals or burglars.

  But in the four-second quiet that comes after the siren screams, I hear feet running through the house, and men shouting in Spanish.

  Find her.

  I don’t hesitate, rolling over my bed and away from the bedroom door. I hit the floor and scramble into the closet, thankful I left it open. I don’t even have time to close it behind me, merely throwing myself to the side as my bedroom door bursts open. In the shadows created by the moonlight filtering through the blinds, I see two large men in the doorway, and they unleash several rounds of bullets into the bed where I was just lying.

  From the darkness of the closet, I take careful aim at the intruders, and the minute their guns go silent, I squeeze off four rounds, two into each man.

  They fall wordlessly to the floor, and I don’t need the light on to know I got each one close enough to the heart to kill them nearly instantly.

  More shouts in Spanish are drowned out by the alarm, but in the quiet among the bursts, I hear footsteps receding… leaving the house. I’m assuming they understood what they just heard: a heavy barrage of bullets from their cohorts, followed by a short silence, then four shots squeezed off in two short bursts each. No more spraying bullets. Their compadres are dead, and if they come back here, they’re next.

  I keep my gun trained on the door as I carefully make my way out of the closet and across the room. The alarm would have notified the police as well as the security company. Grabbing my phone, I flip it on and take a quick glance down to see a missed call from the security company. They’ll alert the police to that fact, and I imagine they’ll pick up the pace to get here.

  With utter stillness, I listen hard for any sounds between alarm bursts until I’m satisfied no one’s coming down the hall. I’d prefer to close the door, but two bodies are in the way, so I quickly pull up the security app and disable the alarm with my thumb while holding the gun securely pointed at the doorway, all the while listening intently for evidence of more intruders.

  When the alarm silences, the quiet is almost overwhelming. My nerves ratchet up, only to calm down when I hear police sirens. When the blue-flashing lights slip through my blinds and bounce off the walls, I feel confident in leaning over and flipping on my bedside light, my eyes going to the dead men on the floor.

  There’s a shout from the doorway. “Ramona Police.”

  “Back here!” I yell, setting my gun down on the bed where they can see it. “I’m the owner of the house… Greer Hathaway.”

  I take a few steps away from the bed, holding my arms out. Even though I’ve identified myself as the homeowner, they’ll come into my room with guns drawn and pointed at me. It will ease tensions for me to appear nonthreatening. I can’t show them my CIA credentials as I don’t have them anymore, but I know they won’t doubt my story that I shot in self-defense once they take in the scene.

  If the bullet holes in my bed aren’t enough evidence for them, the fact that the two men dead on my floor have Vecindario 18 tattoos on them will be.

  CHAPTER 11

  Ladd

  “Ethan, let’s go,” I yell up the stairs, checking my watch.

  “Coming,” he yells back, and yet it still takes him two more minutes to come stomping down. His hair is wet and he’s shoving the rest of a banana into his mouth.

  Backpack over one shoulder, he veers into the kitchen and grabs another. I hold out his lunch as he meets me in the foyer and he takes it with a cute grin, still chewing the banana.

  “Your mom called,” I advise him, but he cuts me off.

  “Is she in labor?” he exclaims, the banana muffling his words. He’s practically quivering with excitement.

  “No,” I reply dryly. “Pretty sure if she’s in labor, she wouldn’t be calling us. That would be Ben.”

  “Oh,” he says after swallowing. “Then why did she call?”

  “She’s feeling uncomfortable, so she’s worried she could go into labor,” I say, and Ethan whoops. I laugh and open the door. “You’ll be staying with me from here on out until after the birth.”

  Britney and I agreed I should take Ethan when it got close to delivery time, and she’s pretty confident she’s close.

  “Think she’ll have the baby today?” he asks as I motion him through the door.

  “Don’t know, bud. We can only hope.”

  We load into the Jeep Wrangler, which is nice and toasty since I’d started it about five minutes ago. The temperature is in the mid-thirties today, and they’re calling for heavy snow tonight. I’m heading into Jameson headquarters, about a twenty-five-minute drive from my home in Upper St. Clair, southwest of Pittsburgh. My few days of “rest” are over—deemed by me, not Kynan—and I’m anxious to get back to work. I’ll do a few hours of paperwork, then cut out early to pick up Ethan from school. We’ll hit the grocery store from there and stock up because if we get the amount of snow they’re predicting, he’s probably not going to have school tomorrow.

  Ethan’s school is only about five minutes from our house, but it’s a good twenty minutes in the carpool line. Just before jumping out, he gives me a fist bump and says, “Love you, Dad.”

  “Love you, kid,” I reply, and he’s gone. I watch him meet up with two friends, and they walk into the school laughing.

  There’s always an enduring love for my son embedded into my very essence, but seeing him happy and carefree like this sends a wave of almost euphoric joy through me. I knew being a father would be the pinnacle of any success I might have in this life, and this roller coaster of parenthood hasn’t disappointed.

  The car behind me honks, and I jolt. Glancing in the rearview mirror briefly, I put the Jeep in gear and pull forward.

  On the drive into work, I crank up some Korn and think about logistics as far as Britney and the new baby are concerned. Ethan’s going to want to stay with her soon after she comes home, but I’ll need to be at the ready in case he needs to stay with me a few more days per week as his mom adjusts to the new schedule of midnight feedings and extreme exhaustion. I’ll tell Kynan I can’t go on any away missions, which means I’ll be doing analysis as well as operating as a handler for other missions from the comfort of the Pittsburgh office.

  As I enter the downtown core, I pat myself on the back that since Ethan came down the stairs this morning, I haven’t once thought about Greer. Quite a record—almost a full forty-five minutes.

  Except now, I’m thinking of her.

  ♦

  Jameson headquarters is a sight to behold, if you’re lucky enough to actually ever behold it. Located in a run-down section of Pittsburgh, to the casual observer, it looks like an abandoned building with weathered brick, grimy windows, and graffiti liberally painted on the lower part of the exterior. Inside, it’s a heavily fortified fortress boasting a security system to rival Fort Knox. The first floor was left as is when Kynan purchased the building. Should anyone wipe some of the dirt off the windows to look inside, wondering if the place is worth stealing from, they’d see nothing but concrete floors covered in layers of dust with garbage littered about.

  Of course, should one still want to attempt to break in to take a closer look, there’s no coming in through said windows because while they look like they’ve been unwashed for years, they’re merely created to look that way. Truth is, those windows can withstand machine gun fire without the slightest crack.

  The second floor holds the main offices, third floor a weapons cache and indoor shooting range, and the fourth floor is a communal area replete with the comforts of home, including a kitchen, living area, game room, and outdoor patio. It also houses personal apartments that Jameson provides agents on a first-come, first-served basis. They weren’t of interest to me when I joined the team since I had Ethan and needed a house close to a good school with plenty of room for him to play outdoors. Living in an old, abandoned warehouse in the rough part of the ’Burgh wasn’t going to cut it.

  I bypass the second floor and take the elevator straight to the fourth where Anna will often bring in doughnuts, bagels, or if we’re lucky, a homemade breakfast casserole. How she manages that with raising a baby and working as Kynan’s assistant is beyond me, but I didn’t get a chance to eat this morning in my rushing Ethan out the door.

  Also, the espresso machine in the kitchen beats the Keurig coffee station set up on the second floor.

  As soon as I step off the elevator, I see Malik sitting on a stool at the island, eating what looks to be a bagel. It’s no breakfast casserole, but it will do.

  His head swivels my way, and when he sees me, he says, “Hey, Kynan’s looking for you. Said he needs to see you right away.”

  “Sure,” I reply genially. “Let me grab coffee and a bagel.”

  Malik shrugs with a sly grin. “It sounded urgent, but if you want to risk the boss’s wrath, be my guest.”

  “You wouldn’t be trying to hog all the bagels would you?” I ask suspiciously.

  “Maybe,” he drawls, and I can’t tell if he’s serious.

  I love that I can’t tell with him, because Malik has literally been through hell. He was a prisoner in Syria for almost five months and was only rescued in November. He came out pretty broken, but over time—and with Anna’s help—he’s left his demons behind.

  It’s the twinkle in Malik’s eye that finally alerts me to the fact he’s joking, but I don’t waste time brewing a cup of coffee. Instead, I nab a bagel before heading to Kynan’s office.

  Rather than take the elevator, I use the floating staircase that seems magically suspended between the floors by thin cables and support rods. While the exterior and first floor make this building look like it should be condemned, the inside is swanky and tastefully decorated. While we don’t get many visitors, we do get some by way of the secret underground entrance, and Kynan likes to project the level of success he’s achieved over his years of phenomenal work. It helps justify his high prices.