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“Dean, you need to calm down. Talk to me. What’s going through your head?” Charlie asks.

I want to rip the goddamn steering wheel off, that’s what. My therapist would not be impressed. But the person I’m angriest at isn’t Pierce, or the cartel, or the US government, for once.

No. It’s myself.

“You like June. Like, really like her, huh?”

“Shut up, Charlie.”

“No, you need to listen. Your ex was horrible. We all knew it. Bad news. June’s different.”

“Of course she’s different,” I snap, glaring at her.

Charlie rolls her eyes. “You made a mistake, don’t yell at me.”

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

She sighs. “Will you listen to yourself? You’re a mess.”

“You’re the last person to be giving advice on relationships.”

She shifts in the seat, and I regret the barb. She’s my best undercover operative.

It was a coup to even get her to work for me. Unfortunately, she’s great at forging relationships with the turncoats, the get-rich-quick sell-outs, and the dirty cops.

And in this case, June.

June, who’s worth more to me than anything we found under the green waves of the gulf.

“That’s not fair,” she finally says, breaking the quiet, watching me. “I do my job. Wealldo our jobs. But Dean,sometimes I think there should be more than the mission. Maybe it’s time to put you first. What you want. And if that’s June? If that’s this town and a life with her? The mission will still be there even if you take a backseat for a while.” Charlie turns away, sinking into silence. “We’ll all still be here too. Me and Thompson and Thorne. Not like we have anything special waiting for us.”

My teeth clench.

The hotel looms against the dusky horizon, lit up like Christmas with parking lot lights and garden lighting designed to make it look like a serene retreat. Cascading sirens and emergency lights ruin the effect. They spin relentlessly, all blue and red, converging on the hotel where I left June, left her after—I can’t even think it.

Charlie draws a long breath.

Several paramedics are walking out of the hotel, a stretcher carried between them. Grief tears through me like a hurricane. The force of it skidding across my awareness, and yet, through some superhuman ability combined with years of training, I push it aside.

The Jeep screeches to a stop, and I don’t know if I turn it off, sprinting towards the body in the bag, towards the paramedics.

“How did it happen?”

“You can’t be here, this is an active crime scene.” A uniformed policewoman bars my entry, the yellow tape proclaiming as much pressing against my legs.

“No, you don’t understand, that’s my, my…” I trail off, fishing out my credentials.

“He’s not anybody’s anything anymore,” one of the paramedics says.

“Nasty business,” a second adds.

My head spins so hard it takes a minute to latch onto what they said. He.He. Not her. I don’t dare hope.

“Was there a woman, a woman, is she okay? Where’s the woman?” I grip the officer’s arm, and a look of pity crosses her face.

“Dean, Dean! You’re okay!” June’s voice cuts through the chaos, and relief nearly brings me to my knees.

She tumbles into my arms, smelling like burnt hair, but I don’t care.