Page 13 of Only the Hunter

“Do you sit on this street watching my place all day?”

That earns an eye crinkle and a side glance.

“No.”

I check the time and shoot Rhodes a text.

On the way. Running late.

Gabe’s jaw flexes. The skin is smooth, likely freshly shaven. He drives with both hands on the wheel, and his attention constantly shifts between the road, the rear view and his side views. He’s the most defensive, controlled driver I’ve ever observed. Gabe always moved quietly and deliberately, even as a kid. You could mistake him for the laidback type until you realized nothing got past him.

It’s unsettling how much hasn’t changed—and how much I still notice.

“What exactly does military intelligence involve?”

“Signals. Mostly analysis.”

I have no idea what that means. “Sounds thrilling.”

“Mostly headphones and long hours.”

Sounds boring, but more interesting than bodyguard work. “And NSA?”

“Like I told you. I’m in the process.” He turns onto the main thoroughfare. “Nothing guaranteed.”

“Why NSA?”

“I’m good at the work.”

“It’s like your dad, right? Is he still CIA?”

“He died overseas.”

My stomach freefalls. “I’m so sorry. Scott didn’t tell me.”

“I probably didn’t tell him. Had a short leave. Enough time to sit with Mom, get through the service, and get back.”

There’s something in the way he says it—not dismissive, but final, like a door closing quietly rather than being slammed. I know better than to push. Some losses don’t get announced. They just become part of a person, visible only in the way they hold themselves and the things they don’t say. I recognize it because I know something about that too.

“That’s not the reason I’m pursuing NSA.” He passes a car, turns into the left lane, and his gaze steadies on me briefly. “What about you? How’d you end up in human trafficking?”

“Chance, I guess. Internship. I met with some of the women.” I fiddle with a hang nail on my thumb. “Couldn’t get them out of my head—still can’t.”

“It’s got to be emotionally draining.”

“Yes. But when we put someone away⁠—”

“Someone else takes his place.”

That’s correct, but that’s not where I was going. “Mother Teresa said that you can’t worry about all the problems. You look at the problem you’re facing, and handle that one.”

“I’m not familiar with that quote.”

“I’m paraphrasing.” I shrug, watching the cityscape pass by beyond the expressway. “Or maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe it was someone else. But the idea holds merit.”

“Scott says you’re obsessed.”

I shift in the seat. “That’s what he told you?”