ONE
EMMA
I really should not be here.
Like, there’s a list somewhere—titled “Things Emma Lincoln Should Definitely Not Do”—andthisis written in bold red Sharpie at the very top.
Follow suspicious vans into the Colorado backwoods? Check.
Sneak onto private federal land with nothing but a granola bar and a can of pepper spray? Check.
Get caught doing said sneaking by a six-foot-five wall of tactical muscle with eyes like sniper scopes and the personality of a parking ticket?
…Triple check.
I press myself flat against the icy ground, heart jackhammering as I watch a convoy of black SUVs disappear up a mountain road dusted in snow. The lead vehicle has tinted windows. The kind that says “don’t ask questions” and “we know where you sleep.” And my idiot instincts? They’re whispering:Follow them.
“You are not Lara Croft,” I mutter to myself, clutching my phone like it’s going to suddenly turn into a weapon. “You teach yoga. You drink oat milk. You have a cat named Beyoncé.”
But I also have a sister who vanished from this county two years ago without a trace.
And Iknowshe was involved with these people.
Which is why I’m currently freezing my ass off on the edge of what looks like a top-secret compound tucked into Wedding Cake Mountain—a place that sounds like it should sell pastries but probably sells… I don’t know. Ammo and secrets?
Movement. A shadow detaches from the trees behind me.
I spin around with a shriek and swing my backpack like a flail, but it barely bumps the wall of a man now looming over me. Tactical black. Scar on his cheek. Arms like he bench presses actual logs for fun. And a voice like midnight gravel.
“Are youinsane?”
“I mean, probably?” I squeak. “Depending on who’s asking.”
He stares at me. No blink. No expression. Just the full force of hiswho the hell is this chickglare drilling into my soul.
“Name,” he demands.
“Emma.” I swallow hard. “Emma Lincoln. Don’t shoot me.”
He doesn’t laugh. Of course he doesn’t. Men like him don’t laugh. They brood. They interrogate. They file paperwork with bloodstains on it.
“I’m not gonna shoot you,” he mutters. “Yet.”
“Comforting.”
He moves fast—too fast—and the next thing I know, I’m on my feet, backpack gone, and he’s patting me down like I’m smuggling nuclear codes in my yoga pants.
“Hey! Boundaries, Rambo!”
“I’m checking for weapons.”
“I have pepper spray. And sarcasm. Both fully loaded.”
Nothing. Not even a twitch of his mouth.
“You’re lucky I saw you first,” he says darkly, glancing toward the trees. “If it had been one of the others...”
“What, I’d be body armor on a snowbank?”