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DORIAN

I wrap up my calls and exit Ryan Wolfgang’s office. There’s no doubt his team listened to my business calls. I hope they were suitably bored.

The conference room is ajar, and I rap my knuckles against the frame, pushing it slightly, scanning the room for Caroline.

A couple of men sit around a laptop.

I nod my apology for interrupting, but their attention quickly returns to the screen.

Sophia Sullivan Fisher, Caroline’s friend and a woman I’ve loosely monitored ever since I received a photograph of the two of them at a DC restaurant, spots me across the office.

As Sophia approaches, I recall the file I have on her.

After we split, Caroline lived with her parents for several months.

When she moved out, I waited for the press to do their job.

The absence of news troubled me. I envisioned her having a torrid affair with one of my more reclusive friends and hired a PI.

The PI sent a slew of photographs but pulled herself from the assignment about a week into it. Said she’d been spotted. But in that one week, I learned enough.

Sophia might be the daughter of a billionaire and a member of a highly respected Texas family, but from what I can tell, she’s a dedicated public servant. Given our current situation in a privately held office partially owned by her father, it seems the CIA officer takes on side projects, too.

Regardless, it’s easy to see how Caroline and Sophia became close.

Like Sophia, Caroline chose to work. Our prenuptial agreement entitled her to enough that she wouldn’t have to work another day in her life.

But she never pursued a dollar of those funds.

She never hired legal counsel. Of course, Caroline’s background with two school teachers as parents is far more provincial than Sophia’s.

“Dorian, before you head out of here, do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

Sophia’s direct, I’ll give her that.

“Shoot.” I scan the cubicles. “Where’s Caroline?”

One guy at the conference room table hears my question and answers. “She and Luke went on a coffee run.”

Luke. That’s the guy who couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“There’s nothing going on there,” Sophia says.

Mind-reading must be one of the skills they teach at the Central Intelligence Agency.

“What do you need to ask me?” If she’s direct, I can be, too.

“There’s an APB out on Geoffrey Cromwell. We suspect he’s left the country. Do you have any idea where he might go?”

I suppose she means other than Russia. I scrub my fingers through my hair, exhaustion infiltrating after the long day.

“I’ve known Geoffrey Cromwell most of my life.

But we’ve never been close. I’ve never been to his home.

In Colorado or New York. I couldn’t even tell you if he’s married or single, straight or gay.

Our relationship has been strictly professional.

I suppose Caroline told you that, until yesterday, I had no idea that he’s my brother. Well, half-brother.”

A dull pain surfaces along my brow. Dammit . The last thing I need is for a migraine to surface.

“But he’s been to your home?”

Geoffrey spends most of his time at my father’s home. I thought of him as one of the cronies who orbit my dad, kissing his ass.

“Many times. He lives somewhere nearby.” I lived with Dad when I was building the house.

Geoffrey asked lots of questions during the process.

“Geoffrey built his home in Colorado around the same time I built my house. We used the same builder. I actually hired my builder, per his recommendation.” In retrospect, that was a fuckup.

I’ll need a team to sweep the house. “But you say he’s not in Colorado? ”

She shakes her head. “Do you know any of his friends? Assistants?”

I lean against the wall, racking my brain. My friends aren’t friends with Geoffrey. Our professional circles overlapped, but those are all acquaintances.

“When Geoffrey moved to Colorado, he retired. Semi-retired. He kept my father’s account. To my knowledge, he let his employees go. You could ask my assistant, Jay Colston, if he knew any of Geoffrey’s employees. He always dealt with Geoffrey for me.”

I hear my uselessness and hate it. How could I have been so inattentive? But in all fairness, suits circled my dad. At a young age, I began weeding through those I needed to pay attention to and those I could completely disregard.

“How can I reach Jay Colston?”

I pull out my phone and send her a text with Jay’s contact info.

“How do you have my number?” Sophia asks.

I release a sigh that holds a mix of exhaustion and dismay. “I’ve had it for a long time, Sophia.” She tilts her head, silently questioning. I shouldn’t have to explain to her that phone numbers aren’t exactly hard to come by. “You were my wife’s close friend. Of course, I had it.”

“Ex-wife.”

“Separated,” I counter.

“You didn’t sign the papers?”

And I’m not going to. “We’re taking things slow, but I’m hopeful.”

I stare straight into her eyes and notice they’re blue, like Caroline’s. A deeper blue, whereas Caroline’s are ethereal.

“Where is Caroline?” I’m ready to call this day. “Where’s this coffee shop?”

“Come on. I’ll come with you. I’ll ask questions while we walk.”

“I’m not holding anything back.”

“Didn’t say you were. It’s the little things that can be useful. Like your builder. Can you share his contact info?”

I fumble with my phone, sending her the requested contact card. I could argue, but hell, maybe he has something useful on Geoffrey. Especially if Geoffrey bribed him to do anything funky to my house. Although my security team would’ve caught anything out of the ordinary.

After I share the builder’s contact, I shoot off a message to Jay, giving him a heads-up that he’ll be hearing from Sophia.

I did a background check on my builder. Standard protocol for anyone touching my infrastructure. It’s four years old but archived on our network. I jot a note to myself to check it when I’m logged in on the portal.

Sophia’s already down the stairs at the exit door, and I hustle to catch up with her.

One flight, I don’t know why they bother with an elevator.

Sophia’s right hand rises. “Shh.”

I slow, attempting to peer over her head through the exit door.

“Stay here,” she says, stepping through.

I snatch the knob just before the door closes.

A quick scan reveals nothing out of place. But I’ve seen this foyer exactly once.

She turns the corner.

Her voice projects loudly. “Cam? Why isn’t anyone at reception? Who’s on-site surveillance?”

I round the corner.

She’s got a phone pressed to her ear. It’s a landline that’s connected to reception.

“What do you mean Luke said it’s covered?”

My heart stutters.

“Where’s the coffee shop?”

She ignores me, flustered, her focus on the phone.

“Sophia!”

That gets her attention.

“Coffee shop.”

She points. “Across the street.”

I’ve got to find Caroline.

I charge across the street, scanning the coffee shop with open windows and doors.

Fuck. Where is Caroline?

I pull out my phone and press the tracking app.

Two quantum-encrypted tracking signals, military-grade precision. One signal originates within fifteen feet of my position.

I spin on the sidewalk, holding the phone out.

I am on the dot.

A trash can inside the door of the coffee shop snags my attention.

Fucking hell.

I shove the swinging trash can top aside.

Caroline’s purse.

I dig it out of the trash and flip it open.

Her phone.

Dammit. Fucking hell!

Someone has her.

Luke. Does that bastard work for Geoffrey?

Please let her still have the other tracker on her body. I press to locate it and sprint across the street with her handbag.

I sling the door open to Arrow’s offices. Ryan, Sophia, and two others are standing in the reception area.

“He’s got Caroline. Found her handbag in the trash. But she’s got another tracker on her he doesn’t seem to know about.”

I pull up our satellite command interface on my phone. Within seconds, I have eyes on the area from three different orbital positions. He—or they—might be able to dodge street cameras, but they can’t hide from my network.

I thrust my phone screen in Ryan’s face.

“They’re on the move.”