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The air hung thick with humidity as Noah Temple stepped off the plane at Louis Armstrong International Airport. New Orleans in August—a special kind of hell he hadn’t subjected himself to in years. He hadn’t expected to see the city again, even though he had family living within its boundaries. The weight of the city pressed against him intimately, like a lover’s embrace: the moisture, the noise, the memories coalescing into a grimace-inducing shrug. The best he could hope for from this visit was a quick thanks-but-no-thanks to his uncle and a return trip to the airport.

He adjusted his duffel bag on his shoulder and made his way through the terminal, his military training evident in his purposeful stride. At thirty-five, Noah still moved with the precision and awareness of a Special Forces operative, even though he’d left that life behind. His dark hair was longer now than regulations had ever permitted, and the beard he’d grown in Tennessee added to the aura of isolation he’d cultivated since his discharge.

His phone buzzed in his pocket—another text from Gator. That made three in the past hour.

Where are you, boy? Car’s waiting outside.

Noah didn’t bother responding. The old man knew exactly when his flight landed. Patience had never been Gator Boudreau’s strong suit, especially when he wanted something. Quite a change, Noah having the upper hand on his uncle. A rare occurrence indeed.

Outside, the wall of heat hit him like a physical punch. A sleek black Cadillac idled at the curb, and the driver—one of Gator’s many “associates”—nodded in recognition. Noah slid onto the back seat without a word, his jaw tight.

“Mr. Boudreau says to take you straight to the house,” the driver said, pulling into traffic. “He’s waiting.”

Of course he was. The notorious Mr. Fix-It of New Orleans never waited for anyone yet had no problem expecting everyone to wait for him. Noah closed his eyes, already regretting his decision to come. His cabin in the Tennessee hills seemed impossibly far away now that he was here—the quiet broken only by birdsong and the occasional cry of a coyote, the solitude that had become his sanctuary after everything went to hell in Kabul.

They left New Orleans in the rearview mirror, the landscape gradually transforming as they headed toward the bayou. Spanish moss dripped from cypress trees like fluttering gray ghosts, and the road narrowed until it was barely more than a path cut through the wilderness, Gator’s house bordered on the very edge of civilization. Noah remembered playing there with his cousins, swimming and fishing through the sunny afternoons. It seemed like forever ago, yet the memories made it seem like yesterday.

Finally, a gravel-paved drive appeared, lush green grass on either side, with the waters of Lake Pontchartrain lapping up against the shoreline.

The driver continued down the drive until Gator’s house came into view—a sprawling single-story structure that blended surprisingly well with its surroundings, raised on stilts as protection against the unpredictable waters of the bayou.

“He’s waiting on the back porch,” the driver said, coming to a stop in front of the house.

Noah grabbed his bag and stepped out, the sounds of the bayou immediately enveloping him—crickets, frogs, the gentle waves with their hypnotic cadence. He hadn’t set foot on this property since his brother’s funeral years ago.

He made his way around the side of the house, following the wraparound porch until he spotted his uncle. Gator Boudreau sat in a rocking chair overlooking the water, a glass of bourbon in one hand, his ever-present notebook in the other. At seventy-two, he remained an imposing figure—broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with steel-gray hair and piercing blue eyes that missed nothing. Those eyes locked onto Noah now, a barely-there-or-you’d-miss-it smile spreading across his weathered face before disappearing. Probably gloating inside, because Noah had sworn never to step foot on Gator’s property again, yet here he was.

“About time,” Gator said, closing his notebook and setting it aside. He rose with the fluid movement of a man half his age—a testament to decades spent operating in shadows where hesitation meant death. Before Noah could respond, he found himself pulled into a fierce embrace, the scent of cigars and bourbon engulfing him. He stiffened, then reluctantly returned the hug with one arm.

“Look at you,” Gator said, stepping back to appraise him. “Living like a mountain man hasn’t done you any harm. Still fit as a Marine.”

“Army,” Noah corrected automatically. “And I didn’t come for a family reunion.”

Gator’s gaze never faltered. “Straight to business. You always were like your daddy that way.” He gestured to the empty rocking chair beside his own. “Sit. Miss Willie’s bringing us some food.”

“I don’t need—”

“Sit,” Gator repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Noah dropped his duffel and sank into the chair, suddenly aware of how long he’d been traveling. “You said it was urgent, so I dropped everything and headed for the airport. Something about protection for a woman in trouble.”

Gator reclaimed his own seat, taking a sip of bourbon before answering. “Jennifer Baptiste. Thirty-two. French citizen. Her extended family is causing her some difficulties.”

“Difficulties?”

Gator nodded. “Ever heard of Muhammed Amir?”

Noah felt a wave of shock roll through him. Muhammed Amir had been a thorn in the side of more people than he could count. The man was rumored to have alleged ties to terrorist activities throughout the Middle East. He also remembered the man was dead. Idly scratching his chin, he seemed to recall something about his son inheriting, and there being a scandal recently when he was killed in Texas.

“I have. The family’s worth billions.”

“Yep. Jennifer Baptiste is his illegitimate daughter.” Gator slid a folder across the small table between them. “She’s being targeted by the Amir family. Oil money, old wealth, and dirty as they come.”

Noah left the folder untouched. “And this concerns me…why?”

“For you to understand why Jennifer needs a bodyguard I’m going to have to give you a little background. My little Gabi’s best friend, Salem, got involved with Tarik Amir—that’s Muhammed’s son—who was an abusive son of a…well, you know what I mean.”

Noah quirked a brow at Gator’s mild language. He’d never known his uncle to curb his colorful language. In fact, he’d learned most of his better cuss words from listening to his uncle.

“I know, I know. Ranger and Sarah have been after me to watch what I say around their kid. I swear she picks up every bad word I say and repeats it like a parrot.”

Noah chuckled, thinking about his cousin Ranger having a daughter. He hadn’t yet met the little one, but he imagined with her uncles and Aunt Gabi, she was spoiled rotten. “Probably a good idea. Growing up, I remember you had a distinctly colorful turn of phrase.”

“Anyway, once Salem escaped from the Amirs, she showed up on Gabi’s doorstep pregnant and terrified. Gabi took her to Texas to hide out on my brother Douglas and his wife’s ranch while they waited for the baby’s birth. Tarik paid Jennifer to head to Texas to see if she could find any evidence that Gabi was there. She reported back to him that, yes, Gabi was in Texas, and he showed up there. Tried to kidnap Salem and take her back to Dubai—at gunpoint. Short story, he was killed, and Salem and the baby are fine. Jennifer was given the bum’s rush out of Shiloh Springs, and pretty much told she wasn’t welcome in their town.”

“She was working for Tarik Amir? If that’s the case, why are you offering her protection now? And why does she need it? Her brother, or half-brother, can’t hurt her if he’s dead.”

Before Gator could answer, Noah heard the door behind them open, and he swiftly stood, his breath caught in his throat, before he realized the sound wasn’t somebody sneaking up behind him. Even though he’d been out of the Army for a long while, he was still jumpy as a cat at the slightly unexpected sound.

The screen door opened as if on cue, and a petite woman in her sixties appeared with a tray bearing mounds of something that smelled delicious even from across the deck. The aroma hit Noah, making his remember summers he’d spent at his uncle’s house—childhood visits to Uncle Gator’s, the safety he’d felt in this refuge when the world outside seemed too much. He remembered his Aunt Elizabeth’s smiling face when all the boys were racing around, yelling at the top of their lungs, making total fools of themselves. Life had been so much simpler then.

He remained standing as the woman Gator referred to as Willie headed toward them, a tray loaded with a platter filled with meat, a stack of what looked like homemade rolls and other bowls. With a smile, she handed Noah the tray.

“You must be Noah. It’s lovely to finally meet you. Gator’s told me some interesting stories about you.”

The first thing he noticed was her British accent. It was lovely and melodic, with an underlying trace of London with the way she enunciated her words. Definitely upper class. But there was something about the way she held her body that made him realize there was more to the woman than met the eye. She had a bearing of alertness, a watchfulness he often associated with somebody in the military or maybe—

“Let me guess…MI5 or MI6?”

She glanced at Gator before reaching into her pocket and pulling out a twenty-dollar bill and slapping it into his outstretched hand. “You’re right, he’s good.” Eyes meeting his, she shrugged. “MI6, though I’ve been retired for a long time.”

Gator chortled. “People like us never retire.”

She leaned over and pressed a light kiss against his cheek. “My records show me as officially retired, dear.” Straightening, she gestured toward the tray she’d handed to Noah. “I hope you like pulled pork. It’s been in the slow cooker all day. I figured sandwiches were quick and easy. Something to munch on while you talk. Cole slaw, corn on the cob. Oh, and leave room for dessert. I made brownies with homemade ice cream.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled. “Has Gator explained Jennifer’s predicament?”

“I started to. Haven’t got to what happened in New Orleans yet.”

Miss Willie rolled her eyes. “For somebody trained in intelligence, you do like to take the long way around a story. Noah, put that tray on the table and dig in. I’m sure you’re starving.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Noah’s southern manners kicked in. It was something his mama had drilled into him from childhood, not something easily forgotten or ignored, despite most people today having lost the tradition.

“Let’s jump ahead. Jennifer got tossed out of Texas.”

Noah took a bite of his sandwich, thinking about that statement. “Why not just hire regular security? Why drag me into this?”

Gator’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Because she needs someone who can’t be bought, intimidated, or traced back to the Texas branch of the Boudreaus, or to Carpenter and his company. The Amirs have people everywhere. And because,” he added, his voice softening imperceptibly, “you’re the best there is at this sort of thing.”

Noah laughed, a harsh sound devoid of humor. “Was. Past tense. Or did you forget the part where I was dishonorably discharged and nearly court-martialed? I’m not exactly a poster boy for keeping people safe.”

“That was a setup and we both know it,” Gator countered, anger flashing in his eyes. “Wish you’d have let me deal with Donovan’s backstabbing of you before now. I’ve sat on my hands, biding my time, because you asked me to, even though I think letting Donovan walk around free was a mistake. You’ve been holed up in that cabin in the mountains, letting him get away with betraying you and your team. Donovan threw you to the wolves to save his own backside.” Gator glared at Noah, and Noah found he couldn’t break his intense stare. Damn, Gator was pissed, and he wasn’t bothering to hide his anger. After several heartbeats, he continued, “When this case is over, don’t think I’m not going after him and proving your innocence.”

The mention of his former commanding officer sent a surge of anger through Noah. He kept his face expressionless through practiced discipline. “Ancient history.”

“Not to me. Not to my family.” Gator leaned forward. “Look, I’m not asking you to adopt Ms. Baptiste. Just keep her safe until Samuel can assign one of his permanent people to take over. Two weeks, max.”