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Abe froze at the sight of the porch door hanging ajar, his pulse spiking.

Shit. “Get back in the car.” He turned on his heel.

Freya’s eyes flashed with defiance. “No?—”

“This isn’t a discussion, Freya.” He clamped his hand around her elbow and propelled her back to the SUV, ignoring her protests.

He yanked the door open, but when she hesitated, he scooped her up, one arm under her knees, the other behind her back. For a split second, he was acutely aware of her warmth against his chest, the delicate scent of her floral shampoo. Focus on the job . He placed her in the seat. “Lock the doors. Stay here until I tell you it’s safe.”

“Abe, I —”

He slammed the door. The thud reverberated through him, matching the pounding of his heart.

Impossible. How was she getting under his skin so easily? He never got involved with clients, but something about Freya Jonsdottir was seriously challenging his commitment to staying professional.

He turned his back on the car and faced the house. His hand moved to his holster, fingers curling around the grip of his weapon. The weight of the gun steadied him, anchoring him to the task at hand. The familiar calm of operational focus settled over him like a second skin and his breathing slowed.

The worn wood of the steps creaked under his boots as he climbed. Reaching the porch, he nudged the door wider with the muzzle of his gun, wincing at the faint squeak of the hinges.

Inside, the front door was unlatched. Carefully, he nudged it open with a soft tap of his boot. It swung inward, revealing an empty hallway painted pale blue. A rail of hooks lined one wall, bare save for a lone jacket. A small unit hugged the opposite wall, on top of which a china dish waited, ready for keys to be deposited.

Abe paused on the threshold, every sense hyper-alert. He waited, listening for any sound that might betray an intruder’s presence. Nothing, except the faint tick of a clock from somewhere deeper in the house and the muffled thrum of his own pulse in his ears.

Satisfied that the immediate area was clear, he moved forward, his grip tightening on his weapon as he approached the first doorway. The living room.

Shit.

Someone had torn the room apart with savage efficiency. The couch and chairs were slashed, stuffing bulging from the torn holes. Artwork was ripped from the walls and stomped on. Broken glass littered the floor in a treacherous carpet of lethal shard.

His jaw hardened as the devastation tripped memories. Clearing houses on mission in Afghanistan, moving from room to room with his team, never knowing what horror lay in wait around the corner.

Finding solace in Mariam’s arms…

He breathed out. Those days were gone. And right now, Freya was his priority. He turned, glass crunching under his feet as he left the room and crossed the hall.

Freya’s bedroom .

Simple, almost impersonal. A fringed blanket, deep gray with faded blue stripes, lay crumpled on the floor. The mattress was half off the bed, pillows scattered across the room. The wardrobe hung open, clothes thrown in a heap with metal hangers tangled on the floor.

Fuckers.

There was a small ensuite bathroom. A single toothbrush in a glass on the sink. They missed that.

Back in the bedroom, he took it all in again. The house was just a rental, but still—there was so little here that marked it as Freya’s space. No pictures, no clutter. No perfume bottles on the dresser or makeup scattered around. None of the usual chaos—toiletries, underwear tossed on the floor, the nonsense most women never hid.

There was nothing here that matched the fiery woman he was struggling to control.

There was a paperback on the bedside table. He spun it with one finger. Romance. A shirtless man smirked from the cover. He cocked an eyebrow. Maybe she’s not buttoned up all the time.

Dripping.

He froze, head cocked, listening. The sound was faint, but steady. He followed it down the hall.

The kitchen’s yellow walls were a jarring backdrop to the destruction. Oak cabinets stood with doors flung wide. Smashed jars and burst packets of rice and beans littered the floor.

But none of that stopped him cold.

On the circular kitchen table, an overturned vase lay in a pool of water, flowers splayed across the surface.

A drop hit the floor with a soft plink.

Still dripping.

Intruders are close.

His lungs burned as he held his breath, straining to hear past the thunder of his heartbeat.

A soft scuffle behind him fired a jolt of electricity down his spine. He spun, weapon raised.

Freya squawked as he leveled his gun at her head.

Sweet Jesus.

He dropped the gun and dragged her against his body.

“Freya, what the fuck?” The words came out in a hoarse whisper. “I told you to stay in the fucking car.”

“I was scared. Out there…” She trembled in his grip, eyes wide as she took in the devastated kitchen. “What did they do to my house? Why are they doing this? They have the laptop already.”

“ Freya .”

She wasn’t listening, her attention darting from one mess to another. “I mean, look at this?—”

“I told you to stay in the car.” Frustration surged in him, threatening to boil over. “Which part of that didn’t you get?”

“You were taking forever.” Her gaze snapped back to him. “I was worried.”

Her words derailed his anger. “You were worried about me?”

Her gaze skittered away, shifting to a point somewhere over his shoulder. “I didn’t know what was happening.”

He reined in his anger. It would only complicate things and slow her down. He sucked in a slow breath, choosing his words. “We need to get out of here,” he said, his voice low. “Whoever did this wasn’t long here. They could come back, and I’m not risking your safety any more than I already have.”

“But my things?—”

Fuck. “Okay.” He took hold of her arm and hustled her into the bedroom. “We don’t have a lot of time. Suitcase?”

She pointed to the wardrobe. “I have a backpack.”

He found the backpack and tossed it on the bed. “Essentials only. Quickly.”

Crossing to the window, he positioned himself just behind the edge of the half-open drapes.

Outside, the land rolled away in dips and swells. Nothing moved but the wind through the trees, yet the cratered landscape offered plenty of places for someone to hide.

Too many.

He turned to check on Freya.

She was zipping up the backpack. A flicker of satisfaction ran through him. Finally, she was listening to him and doing what she was told.

Their eyes met across the room. Her gaze betrayed her doubt. “Abe, where are we going? What’s going to happen now?”

In three swift strides, he crossed the room, stopping beside her. Without hesitation, he placed a hand on her shoulder. The contact blazed through him, and she stiffened under his grip.

“Somewhere safe, but right now, we need to get out of here.”

She nodded, a hint of her earlier strength in the line of her shoulders. “Okay. I’m ready.”

A car engine revved outside.

Shit. That was a short-lived reprieve.

He lifted a corner of one drape.

A black car was parked next to his SUV, a removable strobe on the roof casting a silent wash of blue light.

Plainclothes police?

Two men stepped out, both wearing dark blue caps. Abe’s eyes caught the gold insignia on their upper arms, the text on their breast pockets. Logreglan. Icelandic police.

But their posture was off—ramrod straight, rigid. Not the relaxed stance of beat cops. They approached Freya’s house with the hyper-vigilant assessment of men expecting trouble.

Shit. Mercs. This had Raptor written all over it.

Their hands hovered too close to their holsters for comfort.

Freya appeared at his shoulder. “It’s the police?” she whispered.

“Don’t believe everything you see.” He yanked her away from the window, gripping her arm and frog-marching her toward the hallway.

A sharp rap echoed through the front door.

Abe halted, his breath puffing in the frigid air of the unheated house.

“Freya Jonsdottir. Open up. This is the police. We need to speak to you about the break in at the power station.”

Freya squeezed his hand. “It is the police.”

Abe shook his head, every single SEAL instinct firing on high alert. He had expected Raptor would focus their efforts on the data left at Hellisheidi. Had they already discovered that the laptop required facial recognition?

I should have seen this coming.

He pushed down the frustration. No time . Right now, he needed to focus on keeping Freya safe.

“Keep moving.” He pressed his hands into the small of her back, guiding her down the hall toward the rear of the house.

The knocking on the front door intensified, then fell silent. Low voices murmured just outside.

We’re running out of time.

“We need to get out of here.” Abe opened the back door and swore a silent curse of relief when the door opened soundlessly. Frigid air rushed them, carrying the raw scent of untamed wilderness. There was no manicured backyard to speak of—just a small clearing housing a weathered tool shed before the land gave way to nature’s domain.

Beyond, the landscape was barren, volcanic rocks jutting out of the earth like jagged teeth while moss-covered lava fields extended to the horizon, their undulating surface broken only by the occasional boulder or ridge.

He scanned the desolate expanse, his tactical mind working overtime.

We need cover. Now.

There. A cluster of car-sized sharp rocks cast deep shadows in the evening light. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.

He grasped Freya’s hand. “Come on. This way,” He hurried her across the uneven ground, snatching quick checks over his shoulder for a sign of their pursuers.

Still clear.

As they reached the outcropping, he pulled her into the shadowy shelter, instinctively positioning his body between her and any potential threat.

He breathed a momentary sigh of relief, but a traitorous voice in the back of his mind whispered an uncomfortable truth.

This woman.

She was becoming more than just a client to protect.