Alias: Ghost
Classification: Deep Cover Asset
Operation Status: Compromised
Charges Filed:
Unauthorized arms trafficking
Conspiracy to commit treason
Civilian Casualties:
14 confirmed
7 probable
Sentence: Life imprisonment, Federal Bureau of Prisons. Early release granted. See Addendum 4-B.
Her hands trembled as she scrolled to addendum 4-B, but the entire section was blacked out. Only a handful of words remained visible—”mitigating factors,” “asset protection,” “classified.”
“My God,” she breathed, sitting back in her chair.
The man she’d kissed this afternoon was a convicted arms trafficker and traitor. Someone who’d gotten people killed and then somehow wormed his way out of serving his full sentence.
She kept reading.
Note: Subject demonstrates exceptional tactical awareness and strategic planning capabilities. Recommendation for continued surveillance. Consider armed and dangerous. Trust level: zero.
Trust level: zero.
The words echoed in her mind as she remembered their first meeting at Nessie’s, when she’d accidentally dropped the stack of Leelee’s Missing flyers. Ghost had helped her gather them, and there had been an unexpected gentleness in his voice when he’d acknowledged the pattern she’d been fighting to get peopleto see. Had that been genuine concern, or was he just that good at playing whatever role the situation required?
The man she’d trusted with her investigation—the one person in this godforsaken town who seemed to actually see what was happening—was the absolute last person on earth she should trust.
A traitor.
God.
Naomi closed her laptop with a snap and rubbed her eyes. The blue glow of her screen had burned dots into her vision, shadows dancing across the darkened living room of her rental.
She needed a drink. She reached for the wine bottle she had yet to open, then thought better of it and went for the whiskey. Wine wasn’t going to cut it tonight. She poured herself a finger and leaned against the kitchen counter, rolling the amber liquid around the glass as she stared at the laptop.
How could someone with that much blood in his rearview just… live here? Help out at a ranch? Rebuild a bakery?
She’d trusted him. She’d let him touch her, let him see her. Maybe not all the way, but more than anyone else in years. How many times had she told herself he was different? That the way he protected her, the way he looked at her, meant something?
Maybe it did. Maybe that was the problem.
He’d killed people. A lot of people, from what she could piece together. Civilian casualties, arms dealing, conspiracy, treason. Words that didn’t seem to fit the man who’d cradled her face in his palms and kissed her like the world would end if he let up.
Did Walker Nash know who he’d welcomed onto his ranch? Did any of them?
Did she even know him at all?
And he had the nerve to be pissed she hadn’t told him about leaving the FBI.
“What a hypocrite,” she muttered, tipping the whiskey back and feeling it burn a clean path down her throat as her phone buzzed again.
