He lifted their joined hands to his lips, and his smile returned. “All fury, no sense.”
“You know it.”
They crossed the yard together, Owen positioning himself slightly ahead of her like a shield. She understood the instinct—he was protecting what was his—but she deliberately stepped up beside him, refusing to be sheltered.
The main house door opened before they reached it, and a man stepped onto the porch—tall and lean in a crisp white shirt, dark tie, and pressed slacks. No jacket, leaving his shoulder holster visible. His dark hair was neatly trimmed, his face all clean angles, and he had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. He carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone accustomed to authority, who rarely needed to raise his voice to be heard.
He held out a hand when they reached him. “Marshal Corbin Brandt. It’s nice to meet you, Agent Lefthand.“
“Please, just Naomi,” she said and accepted the handshake. His hand was warm and calloused, with long, elegant fingers that seemed better suited for a pianist or artist.
His smile was genuine. “Naomi, then.” His attention shifted to Owen, and something unspoken passed between the two men—a mutual recognition of predators sharing the same space, assessing threat levels, establishing boundaries.
“Ghost,” Brandt said with a slight nod.
“Brandt.” Owen’s voice gave nothing away, but his body had coiled tight, ready for anything. “What brings WITSEC to our doorstep?”
“Let’s talk inside,” Walker suggested from the doorway, his weathered face giving nothing away. “Coffee’s still hot.”
The marshal held Owen’s gaze a moment longer, then stepped back, gesturing for them to precede him into the house. The gesture wasn’t courtesy—it was tactical. Brandt didn’t want either of them behind him.
In the office, Brandt took the seat facing the door, leaving Naomi and Owen the couch against the wall. Owen positioned himself at the end nearest Brandt, his body angled to keep both the marshal and the door in his line of sight. The room hummed with unspoken tension.
“I appreciate your time,” Brandt began, accepting coffee from Walker. “I understand you’re still recovering, Naomi.”
“I’m fine,” she said automatically. Her ribs twinged in silent protest at the lie, but she ignored them. “Why don’t we skip to the part where you tell me why you’re here? I have no intention of going into WITSEC.”
Brandt’s mouth quirked slightly. “Direct. I like that.” He set down his coffee and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m heading up an expanded federal task force investigating the trafficking operation that targeted you and the two girls you were found with.”
She sat back in shock. “A… taskforce?”
“A long overdue one,” Brandt confirmed. “It’s a joint operation now. FBI, Marshals, Tribal Law Enforcement, with support from State Police. We’ve identified similar patterns across three states—young women, predominantly Native, disappearing with minimal investigation. Some found dead, most never found at all.”
Oh, God. It was happening. Finally, someone was paying attention.
Tears threatened, but Naomi blinked them back. This was what she’d been fighting for since she’d first seen the pattern. What Mary Rose deserved. What Leelee deserved.
“You think this is connected to Leelee Padilla’s disappearance,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “And to my cousin’s.”
“We do.” Brandt nodded, his expression grave. “And to at least fourteen other cases across Montana, Idaho, and Wyoming. The operation is sophisticated—multiple safe houses, rotating personnel, professional counterintelligence measures.”
“Why the Marshals’ involvement?” she asked. “This sounds like FBI jurisdiction.”
“Normally, yes.” Brandt picked up his coffee again and sat back, taking a long drink before he continued. “But the man Ghost killed during the rescue was Julián ‘Maldito’ Reza, a fugitive with ties to the Sinaloa cartel. We’ve been after him for years. That puts it on our radar. And given the cross-jurisdictional nature of these crimes, the Marshals Service is uniquely positioned to coordinate.”
“And you’re here because...?” Naomi let the question hang.
“I need your firsthand account. Everything you remember about your abduction, the location, the men involved. Any names you might have heard, routines you observed, conversations you overheard.” His gaze sharpened. “And I need to know about Leila Padilla.”
The shift in topic sent a jolt through Naomi. “Leelee? What about her?”
“Her body was recovered two days ago in a ravine near where you were held.”
“What?” The word escaped as a whisper. Naomi’s hand went to her throat, fingers closing around the fox pendant. She’dknown, of course—had suspected from the moment she’d been taken that Leelee had met a similar fate. But confirmation hit like a physical blow.
“I’m sorry.” For the first time, genuine emotion colored Brandt’s voice. “I understand she was important to you.”
“She was important, period,” Naomi corrected, fighting to keep her voice steady. “She was a person with dreams and family who loved her. Not just a statistic or a case file.”
