CHAPTER ONE
The hallway outside Rob Thorne’s study was too quiet.
Mack Callan stood with his back against the mahogany-paneled wall, phone in hand, eyes tracking the corridor’s sight lines. To anyone passing by, he looked like another security contractor checking messages. Unremarkable—exactly what he needed to be.
The earpiece tucked against his ear told a different story.
“—Montana routes are lucrative, but we need assurances.” Mateo Vega’s voice came through clear, courtesy of the FBI’s undercover agent wired for sound inside the study. “My organization has invested considerable resources in establishing distribution networks.”
“Your networks.” Rafael Guerrero’s tone carried an edge. “The Gulf operates independently. We’re proposing a partnership, not a merger.”
Mack’s jaw tightened. Two cartels were negotiating territory in Rob Thorne’s private study while two hundred guests sipped champagne twenty yards away. The old Marine had no idea his annual charity gala was providing cover for a drug trafficking summit.
“Gentlemen.” A third voice cut through the tension. “Security is airtight. We can speak freely.”
Mack’s blood went cold. Blake Bennett.
Mack’s hand moved instinctively toward the Sig Sauer concealed beneath his suit jacket before training reasserted itself. He kept his breathing steady and his body still. It had been two years and three months since he’d been forced out of his unit. Since Blake had blamed him for a disaster of Blake’s own making.
And now his former spotter was in that room, not as a prisoner or informant, but as part of one of the cartels.
“Hawk.” The FBI handler’s voice crackled in his other ear. Claire Dawson was hidden in the house’s east wing. Mack had worked an op protecting Claire nearly a year ago when a serial killer had come after her. “Did you copy that? Blake Bennett, Thorne’s distribution manager, is inside.”
Mack subvocalized, barely moving his lips. “Copy.”
“Did you know he was involved?”
Of course not. Up until a few days ago, when Claire gave him a list of party guests, he hadn’t even realized Bennett was one of Thorne’s employees. “Negative.”
“All right, stay in position. Our UC is getting good intel. Do not engage.”
Mack’s fingers drummed once against his thigh—the only outward sign of the fury coiling in his chest. Blake hadn’t just fallen far—if he was working with one of the cartels under the guise of one of Thorne’s security folks, he’d crashed through the bottom and kept digging.
Through the ornate window at the corridor’s end, snow fell in thick curtains, already accumulating on the mansion’s grounds. Montana in November. He’d been here just over a year, working for Shadow Point Security. This job was an expansion of their usual missions, taking on FBI contract work due to Claire.
He’d never expected his past to catch up with him, especially not like this.
“The product moves through established channels,” Vega continued. “What we need from you is?—”
Movement at the far end of the hallway yanked Mack’s attention from the audio feed.
A blonde in a burgundy dress, carrying a matching purse, opened doors one by one, leaned in, then moved to the next with an exasperated expression.
Another lost guest looking for the bathroom. Standard wandering civilian at a party this size.
Mack kept an eye on her. She definitely didn’t want to be near the negotiations going on inside that room. She moved to the next door, opened it, and peered in. She swore softly under her breath and moved on.
Getting closer.
Closer to the study door.
Mack pushed off the wall, starting toward her.
She shifted, and the breath stopped in Mack’s lungs. The floor fell out from beneath him. He froze, his mind going back…
Two years of silence, of distance, of trying to forget the woman who’d chosen her lying brother over him. She’d called off their wedding with tears streaming down her face and walked away.
Alyssa. Here at this party. Walking straight toward danger.