Page 11

Hunt

Waking up alone, I thank God I had the sense to leave the sexy border agent at her door. No texts—we agreed. So I don’t. Instead, I press my forehead against the bathroom mirror. What the ever-loving fuck was I thinking?

She got under my skin. I took her to the woods to placate her, not to make out like a randy teenager. I need an ally, not a complication. In addition, I sure as hell can’t risk her daughter becoming collateral damage in this chess game.

This stops now. It’ll sting, but we haven’t crossed the line. Not yet. The memory of her soft mouth lingers, tightening something in my chest. Just because she swore her heart wasn’t involved, it doesn’t mean I believe it. Despite all my screwups, I don’t hurt vulnerable women.

I don’t have time for this shit.

Done examining my feelings, useless as it was, I check the time. Kelly’s at work. Excellent. After layering up, I fire up the rental’s heat and head out.

Her street is quiet. Too quiet. I pull into her drive, scanning for signs of surveillance. If anyone asks, I’m her new boyfriend.

No key under the mat. I tip the flowerpot. Bingo. Inside, I sweep my RF wand through the pine-paneled first floor. Upstairs, I duck beneath a dormer, then freeze. Someone has kept the first room military-neat. I test the twin bed and the antique desk, but everything here is squared away.

The next room has clothes everywhere. USB chargers and extension cords clutter the top of a small bookcase, doubling as a nightstand. No listening devices. Either she’s clean, or someone’s better at this game than I am.

Back at my hotel, I dig into her ex, Peter. I find nothing except parking tickets and a DWI. The real mystery? John Bourdin. No surprise, there. He doesn’t exist.

Once I fire off an email to Wulf’s private account, I drive to the farmhouse nearest where I first spotted the Iranians.

A few knocks later, the door creaks open, revealing a gray-haired man with rheumy eyes under white caterpillar brows.

I extend my hand. “Jack Gurion, Vermont Fish and—”

“I know who you are.” His sharp gaze locks on me, but he doesn’t slam the door.

Encouraged, I talk fast. “I’m researching how Canadian crossings affect the local wildlife. Do I have permission to walk your posted land?”

He scratches his stubbled chin, frowning. “‘Bout time someone checked into this. I’ve complained for years. No one’s done a damn thing. Found a deer carcass a month ago, the meat wasted. That’s mine. I keep some. The rest I use to stock the food center’s freezer. It’s not right.”

A deep arooo echoes inside. Claws skitter on wood, followed by a beagle shoving its nose into the doorway. The frail man finally cracks a smile. “This here’s Brutus. I’m Andre. Neither of us bite…long as you don’t piss us off.”

Chuckling, I offer my hand to the floppy-eared canine. He sniffs, then licks my face.

“Well, I’ll be damned. He don’t like nobody.” Andre’s surprise makes me return his grin.

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Wiping away the slobber, I straighten while he holds the screen door open. “Well, ya might as well stay for coffee.”

Later, my fingers itch to text Kelly, but what would I say? I changed my mind and would love to tear up the sheets?

What I can’t say is the truth. Bourdin threatened her daughter, so she cannot be trusted. That’s not a conversation I’m ready to have.

Instead, I install a few trail cams, making sure the locals see me. Despite finishing later, there’s still no word from Kelly. She has to know where I am—what I’ve been doing. Small towns gossip. Everyone knows everything about everybody.

Frustrated by our rules, I return to my hotel for several hours of shut-eye.

Lit by moonlight, back in Andre’s forest, I trace a narrow path through trees and fields surrounded by barbed wire. Reaching the spot where the Iranians spoke of killing Bourdin, I add more surveillance.

With nothing more to be done, I sleep. In the morning, I send my task lead a short email:

From: Scott Hunter

To: Bartholomew Hornsby

Status: I’ve mounted cameras on the local trails. Should be done by the end of the week. Once completed, I’ll estimate foot traffic at this port and move on to the next.

Wanting an outside opinion, I call Wulf’s friend at Patten Securities. A civilian with military experience, he understands FBI protocols. He’s the best source I’ve got.

The man doesn’t waste time, so I skip the pleasantries. “Hunter here. I’ve been reassigned from Axel’s team. Now, I’m tasked with installing security cams on the Canadian border to get a headcount.”

He grunts. “Waste of resources.”

“Agreed. Putting the stupidity aside, I want advice. While I was in the woods, I distinctly heard Persian. The coyote leading them spoke French. My task force lead says I should not engage, but if I need backup, can I count on you?”

A beat of silence passes, then I add dryly, “No pun intended.”

“Yes. And listen, do the right thing. Political fallout be damned. If the Feds fuck you over, you have a job here. The pay’s better, too.”

Pacing between the dresser and the mattress, I stop to stretch. “Thank you. Can I ask… Have you heard of the Iranians planning anything on U.S. soil?”

“When have they not?” His acerbic tone gives me pause.

As the sun casts long blue shadows across the nearby ski slope, I wonder how the world changed so quickly. “If we’re now cozying up to the Russians and the Chinese, surely their allies won’t attack us.”

“You think?” His pointed question sends an arrow of fear through my heart.

“I honestly don’t know.” All the rules have changed. Countries no longer know who their friends are.

He grunts. “I’ll be in touch.”

I stare at the phone for a moment. If it were anyone else, the abrupt hang-up would be rude. With him, it’s efficiency.

Outside, the wind rattles the windowpane. As I rub my hands together, the weight of uncertainty settles deep in my gut. I’ve been trained for many things, but playing politics with national security isn’t one of them.

I need to figure out what the hell is going on, or end up playing for the wrong team.