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“I think you want in on this one.”
Wyatt pushed away from the table, catching Whitley’s eye in apology before he followed Carson to the war room.
When they walked in, a video call was already connected on the big screen.
Carson waved to Wyatt by way of introduction. “Wyatt Rhodes. He’s working with us on the case. Former park ranger and search and rescue. We’re using his tracking and wilderness experience anywhere Talon takes this off-grid.” He nodded toward the screen that showed a table with two men dressed in black. “Rhodes, this is Monk. He’s a graduate of the BHTTF.”
He gave Monk a nod of respect.
He pointed to the other man. “Cannon.”
Cannon spoke first, cutting straight to the reason for this meeting. “We’ve got a problem. The wife of the missing ATF agent is making some noise. She’s convinced there’s a cover-up—she’s not wrong—and she’s telling anyone who will listen.”
Carson faced the screen. “She requires protection.”
“That sums it up.”
Wyatt’s gut tightened at the parallel situation forming. Another woman. Another target of Talon Group.
“We need to move her,” Carson was already forming a plan. “Somewhere secret before the mercs get to her.”
“I can send a team to extract her,” Cannon said. “We’ll drop her at a safehouse in Wyoming.”
Carson nodded. “We’ll take it from there.”
Monk tapped the desk. “Sooner the better.”
Wyatt barely registered the rest of the call. The second he heard Talon Group was hunting another woman, every instinct in him screamed to get back to Whitley.
* * * * *
Whitley sat alone at the table in the dining hall, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee she wasn’t actually drinking, working hard not to let the panic snaking up her spine show on her face.
Foster had joined her right after Wyatt left, and while she knew he was harmless and friendly enough, trusting people still didn’t come easily. She’d managed some small talk anyway, falling back on the soft skills she’d honed through years of nursing, and he hadn’t seemed to notice her unease.
He’d finished his meal a few minutes ago and left to tackle some ranch chores, leaving her with nothing but her coffee and the noise of the room for company.
Even though she’d studied the faces of every veteran around her twice, none belonged to the men in Lance’s group. The men who’d been there that night she ran.
The night she became prey.
The room buzzed with the ordinary sounds of people sharing a meal, but Whitley barely heard any of it. In her mind, a gunshot cracked through the noise.
The execution she never should have witnessed.
A couple guys near the coffee station shared a laugh that made her flinch, but it actually helped because it dragged her back to the present.
Their smiling faces reminded her that not all vets were bad. No one was going to attack her in the dining hall full of witnesses and security cameras and people who’d already proven, over and over, that they meant her no harm.
But logic didn’t quiet the fear slithering beneath her skin. Lance had been a Marine. So had the men who’d chased her to a hotel, a motel, an Airbnb and finally located her at a friend’s house.
Every set of strong shoulders in the dining hall and every clipped, efficient movement dragged her back to that night—to headlights, a truck door and blood she could still see far too vividly whenever she closed her eyes.
Her body wanted to get up, find a quiet corner somewhere, or better yet, retreat to her room and lock the door. But if she ran from every room full of strangers for the rest of her life, Lance would win even if he never found her again.
She forced herself to remain seated and breathe through her anxiety. She was supposed to be at the clinic in twenty minutes. She could make it twenty minutes.
“Mind if I join you?”
