Page 54 of Undertow

“Parts.”

“A couple. Local. Rough night. Rougher marriage. Three bars deep and headed for a fourth fight about the same thing they fought about last Tuesday.” She was already moving toward the hallway. “The kind of people nobody looks at twice, because everybody’s seen them before.”

“Cara—”

“While they’re dealing with us, Wade punctures their tires from the brush. Reagan takes everyone out the south end of the street. Simple.”

“Simple,” Gabe repeated, meaning the opposite.

“The best cons are.” She disappeared into the hallway and started opening closets.

Previous tenants had left behind the usual archaeology of poor planning and optimistic packing—a man’s flannel shirt that smelled like a campfire, a denim jacket with a Coos Bay bait shop patch on the shoulder, a baseball cap so sun-bleached it might have once been red. In the bathroom, she found a half-used tube of styling gel and a rubber band.

She brought it all to the kitchen and dumped it on the counter.

“Arms out,” she ordered.

“Excuse me?”

“Arms. Out.”

He held out his arms, looking like a man submitting to something he didn’t fully understand and wasn’t sure he’d survive. Cara pulled his jacket off and replaced it with the flannel—unbuttoned, sleeves shoved to the elbows. Then she untucked his shirt and yanked the hem sideways, so it hung crookedFinally she mussed his hair with both hands, working it forward and sideways until the clean-cut cop was gone and something wilder had taken his place.

She stepped back to study him. “Almost there.” She reached forward and undid one more button.

“Was that necessary?”

“Completely.”

The baseball cap went on backward. She tugged it low. The transformation was startling—not because the individual pieces were dramatic, but because the sum of them erased everything that made Gabe Sawyer look like a man who enforced the law. This new guy looked like someone the law had opinions about.

He wrinkled his nose. “I smell like old fish and bad cologne.”

“I’m aware. It’s perfect. Trust me.”

Cara worked on herself next, pulling the denim jacket on over her dark shirt. She released her hair from its tie, roughing it with her fingers until it hung messy and half in her face. Swiping a finger over the dust from the closet shelf, she smudged it under her eyes—the faintest shadow, just enough to mimic mascara that had been cried through.

Gabe watched all of this with an expression she couldn’t quite read.“You’ve done this before.”

“Once or twice.”

“You’re terrifyingly good at it.”

“I know.” She picked up the bourbon, splashing it on her jacket, and behind her ears like perfume. Then she held the bottle out to Gabe. “Last touch. Professionals trust their noses.”

Lips pursed in a grimace, he doused his collar and sleeves. Cara backed away. The smell was immediate and overwhelming—the olfactory signature of a bad decision.

And then he did something with his posture.

The cop vanished.

Not just the look—she’d already handled the look. The man underneath. His shoulders loosened. His center of gravity shifted. His eyes went from sharp to soft.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Her voice came out differently than she’d intended.

“Undercover.” The smile sharpened—just a flash of the real Gabe underneath.

Cara snatched the half-empty bottle from the counter and tossed Gabe the keys. “No way a guy like you would let a woman drive.”