Page 4

Thatcher

I squint at the glowing screen, my eyes tracing over Allie Larsen’s social media profiles for what must be the hundredth time since sunrise.

It’s two twenty-four p.

m.

, and I’ve been knee-deep in internet breadcrumbs for hours.

I’m not even sure what I’m looking for at this point…

other than a reason not to take on Allie Larsen, the preppy food critic looking for Mr.

Right.

The office is quiet, save for the rhythmic tap-tap of my fingers on the keyboard, rifling through the digital chapters of Allie’s life.

“Man, you’re digging like there’s gold in those files.” Griffin’s voice cuts through my concentration as he leans against the doorframe, mug in hand.

I don’t need to look up to know he’s got that easygoing grin plastered across his face and that he’s dressed impeccably in a suit that probably costs more than most people’s rent.

Not sure why the guy doesn’t just wear jeans and a henley in the office like the rest of us.

“She’s hiding something. I know it,” I reply, not taking my eyes off the screen.

“People don’t just waltz into our lives, following me down an abandoned alley without a few skeletons tucked away in their closet.”

“You think this girl has skeletons? There’s a fucking pumpkin embroidered onto her damn sweater.” He gestures at the Instagram post from last October where she’s wearing a hideous knit sweater with a smiling pumpkin on it as she holds up what I can only assume is a pumpkin spice latte.

“Call it a hunch,” I say, scrolling back to the top of the page.

When he doesn’t say anything, I lean back in my chair and face him.

Griffin chuckles, leaning down to examine her most recent Instagram posts.

There’s a boomerang video of her clinking a champagne glass with someone at brunch.

“Oh, you know what,” he says, his voice suddenly serious.

His eyes lower in a scrutinizing way that I’ve seen a million times from him when he’s investigating.

“What?” I ask, scouring the image he’s got his eyes on.

“I think you’re right,” he whispers and points at her sternum in the image.

“Those pearls she’s wearing are downright sinister.”

I grind my teeth, the muscles at my jaw popping with restrained frustration.

Griffin, Hunter, and I are equal partners in the business.

I may have been his boss when we were in uniform, overseas on mission.

But here?

We’re equals.

And I can’t just bark orders at them, expecting them to follow blindly anymore.

“You weren’t there yesterday. Something about Allie feels...off. Like she’s a puzzle missing a few too many pieces.”

He takes a slow sip of his coffee.

“She’s merely another paycheck, Thatch. Not everyone’s out to play cloak and dagger. ”

That’s easy for Griffin to say.

Our adversaries didn’t come for his family.

My eyes flick to the framed photo on my desk.

My late wife is standing lakeside, cradling her baby bump as her yellow sundress blows in the breeze.

Black coiled hair is swept across her face, streaked with red as the setting sun hits it.

She’s captured mid-laugh, face lit up in pure joy.

If I close my eyes, I can almost hear her as though she’s still right here beside me.

“Or maybe you need a break, pal,” Griffin says, no doubt seeing where my gaze has locked onto.

“You’ve been at this since the crack of dawn.” He sets his mug down, eyebrows raised in concern.

“You might actually find yourself enjoying the daylight if you stepped outside.”

“Enjoyment is a luxury,” I quip, turning back to face the extensive background check I’d pulled on Allie this morning.

“And right now, I can’t afford it. I’m meeting Allie in less than an hour and I need to know whether or not to sign her.”

Allison Larsen.

Born in Asheville, North Carolina.

The second daughter of Larry and Bonnie Larsen.

Younger sister to Abigail Larsen—also unattached.

Studied at the University of South Carolina, receiving a degree in English Literature and a minor in journalism.

Two boyfriends in her history…

one for three years in college.

And one for less than a year that ended last Halloween after he got drunk at her sister’s Halloween party.

Griffin is right.

There are no glaring red flags in this background check.

Yet, I can’t help the niggling feeling in my gut.

“Look, I get it, you’ve got instincts sharper than a machete,” Griffin says with that lopsided grin that could disarm even the most hardened of souls.

“But we’re running on fumes here, man. Allie’s money is as good as anybody else’s, and last time I checked, our secret side mission doesn’t pay the bills.”

I scowl at the papers strewn across my desk, the glow from the computer screen painting ghostly shadows on the wall.

The truth in Griffin’s statement pierces worse than a hornet’s sting, but swallowing pride has never been my strong suit.

“Fine, I’ll ease up on the background check,” I concede, though the words taste like vinegar on my tongue.

I click the X on top of her file and sigh.

“But if she turns out to be some double agent here to take us down, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Fair enough.” He raises his hands in surrender, his grin lightening the mood like a crack of sunshine through storm clouds.

The sound of the door swinging open halts any further banter, and in strides Hunter, looking like he’s recently stepped off the set of a spy thriller.

Black gear hugs his massive frame and a dangerous gleam sparks in his eyes.

Despite being summer in Charleston, SC, the man is wearing a black ribbed sweater and black cargo pants tucked into steel-toed boots.

The room seems to shrink in his presence, as if absorbing his silent intensity.

“Got something,” Hunter growls, his voice low and gravelly, like an avalanche warning.

His gaze locks onto mine, and suddenly every cell in my body is standing to attention.

“Talk to me,” I demand, jumping to my feet.

The previous conversation with Griffin vanishes like smoke in the wind.

“Surveillance paid off. The house we’ve been watching? I think it’s more than a drug den. I jammed their cellular tower from reaching inside the house and finally one of the guys took the bait, stepping outside to take a call. I overheard him use a name.”

I swallow and even Griffin doesn’t have a quip to lighten the mood right now.

“What name?”

“дракон. Drakon.” The Russian word for Dragon.

“They’ve been careful, but months of watching this fucking house and I think we’ve got our first break,” Hunter says.

Ice fills my veins as Hunter slams a folder onto my desk, photos and documents spilling out like secrets.

“Are you sure?” Griffin asks, his usual levity replaced by a steeliness that only surfaces when things get real.

“Nothing’s ever sure in this game,” Hunter replies, “but it’s the first solid lead we’ve had in months.”

Unofficially, we’ve been searching for Drake “Drakon” Mikhailo secretly for years since retiring from our military careers.

It’s why we specifically stationed ourselves here in Charleston based on some intelligence that suggested Drakon might have a network based in the area, but we hadn’t found concrete evidence of that being true.

Until now.

“Then let’s not waste any more time,” I say, feeling the weight of both dread and determination settle over me.

The hunt for answers, for justice, is back on, and this time, we might actually be closing in.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Griffin asks, clearing his throat and tapping the analog clock ticking on my desk.

“Little miss cardigan is going to be waiting for you at the coffee shop soon.”

I groan, my eyes darting to note the time.

Dammit.

Allie Larsen is already a pain in my ass and she’s not even officially our client yet.

I shove the folder Hunter dropped into my desk drawer, its contents screaming for my attention.

I can’t shake the feeling that I’m stepping out in the middle of a storm about to break, but Allie Larsen isn’t going to wait around for me.

And neither will the bills piling up on the corner of my desk.

“Thatch, we’re all good here.” Griffin’s voice pulls me back from the edge of obsession.

“Those files will still be there tomorrow. Go meet the client. We’ll hold down the fort.”

“Right,” I mutter, more to myself than to him.

I snap my laptop shut and slide it into my bag, then snatch my jacket from the back of my chair, feeling the weight of responsibility like a second skin.

“Remember, charm and disarming smiles, that’s your mission now,” Griffin calls after me, a smirk in his voice.

“You know I leave all that Prince Charming bullshit to you,” I throw back, not bothering to turn around.

Sarcasm is my weapon of choice; smiles however, are uncharted territory.

Stepping out into the bustling historic downtown, I inhale deeply, trying to switch gears.

The warm summer air prickles at my skin, a welcome distraction from the chill of the office’s recent revelations.

The café where I’m supposed to meet Allie is only a couple blocks away, tucked between a bookstore and a florist, its quaintness a stark contrast to the gritty work we do behind the scenes.

As I approach, I spot her through the window—a burst of sunlight in human form.

Dammit.

With a glance at my watch, I confirm she’s almost twenty minutes early.

It’s rare that I’m ever second to arrive at a meeting.

I like getting there first.

Choosing the perfect table.

Sitting with my back to a wall so I can see the entrances and exits .

But nope.

There she sits, her wavy brown hair catching the light every time she tilts her head, lost in the pages of a book.

“Focus, Thatcher,” I remind myself.

“She’s a paycheck. A means to an end.” But as I push the door open, the small bell announcing my arrival, the scent of roasted coffee beans wraps around me like a warm invitation, and I can’t help but think— what if this is where my life takes a sharp left turn?

And not for the better.

She glances up, a smile spreading across her face as her eyes catch mine, and she stands to greet me, offering her hand.

“Thatcher No-Last-Name,” she says.

Her voice dances across the space between us, playful and bright.

It pulls a reluctant twitch of a grin onto my face.

I glance around at her table of choice.

Dead center in the middle of the café, leaving us wide open.

“Do you have the signed NDA?” I ask, taking her hand first, then lowering to the seat across from her.

Her hazel eyes widen.

“Right down to business, I see.”

She pulls the papers from her purse and slides them across the table to me.

I blink at them.

“All I needed was an electronic signature.”

“I did that, too, and emailed it over to you about fifteen minutes ago. I like to cover all bases.”

“I see.” It might be the first thing she’s ever said that I agree with.

I flip through the pages, making sure she initialed and signed everything necessary.

Then with a nod, I look up at her.

“Thatcher Bryant ,” I say, finally giving her my full name and extending my hand.

Even though we’ve already met, she still takes my hand.

It suddenly feels way too rough in her soft grip.

At her feet, there’s a small yip that startles me.

Her grin widens.

“And this is Biscuit!” She lifts a salmon pink bag onto her lap with a small fluffy dog poking its head out the top.

Of course, I already knew all about Biscuit from my research.

How she rescued him as a puppy from an overfilled puppy mill.

How she still arranges monthly playdates with his siblings and mother so they can “keep in touch”…

whatever the hell that means.

But I play dumb and simply nod at the dog.

“I didn’t realize they allowed dogs in establishments that serve food.”

They don’t.

I know this for a fact.

“As long as his paws don’t touch the floor, he’s allowed in here,” she says and gives the dog a kiss between his ears.

“Are you sure about this?” I ask her.

“Of course. I wouldn’t put my favorite café at risk?—”

“Not about that. About this . Hiring my…services.”

“Oh. That . Of course,” she says, blinking those wide eyes at me.

“You have everything you need from me, right?”

“Everything but the payment.”

She swallows hard.

“None of the paperwork explained the fee.”

“We like to ensure our anonymity first.” I bend down and pull out our contract along with fees and payment plans and hand it to her.

“But if you decide to proceed, we need a down payment of three thousand dollars today. The remaining balance can be paid by the end of the week.”

She gulps, looking over the contract.

“Wow…true love is expensive, huh?”

“You have no idea, Allie.” No fucking idea.

“But we’re very good at what we do. Everything comes guaranteed. Meet cute or your money back.”