by Skye Jordan
“Only partially.”
Dread swamped Savannah. Her stomach bottomed out. “Oh God. Please don’t tell me there was another problem with the divorce.” The weight of the possibility pushed her deeper into the booth’s seat. “I can’t take this anymore. I need him out of our lives. We need to get out of this town.”
Audrey leaned forward and covered Savannah’s hand on the table. “I have good news and bad news. I’m not going to ask which you want to hear first because you obviously need to hear the good.” She pulled a manila envelope from her briefcase and laid it on the table with a smile. “Your divorce is final.”
Your divorce is final.
Savannah’s breath caught. She repeated the words in her head, inspecting Audrey’s gaze for gravity, for confidence. When she found both, all Savannah’s air rushed out. She melted with relief so deep, a sob ebbed from her chest.
“Oh my God…” She kept whispering the words while emotion spilled through her—elation, fear, relief, guilt, regret, excitement. Hope.
For the first time in years, she had hope.
Savannah lifted her head, smiling while tears blurred her vision. “Really final? It’s done? No more wrenches in the system?”
“Not for the divorce. That’s the good news. Brace yourself for the bad news.”
She held her breath and went stone-still. But the look on Audrey’s face gave the news away, and terror clawed at Savannah’s gut. “No…”
Audrey winced and nodded as she pulled more papers from her briefcase. “He’s suing for sole custody of Jamison.”
“No.” Fear and fury raged in a flash fire. Jamison looked up from his game, but Savannah didn’t have the strength to pretend or console him now. “No, no, no.” She curled her hands into fists to keep from slamming them on the table. “No, goddammit. He can’t—” Have him. “He won’t…” Take care of him. Won’t love him. “No.”
Audrey’s hands covered Savannah’s, and she dipped her head to meet Savannah’s gaze. “Just because he wants it doesn’t mean he’ll get it.”
Jagged emotions eddied through Savannah like the icy rapids of the Bitterroot River. She pulled from Audrey’s touch with fear cutting at her insides. Pushing to her feet, she turned her back to Jamison, pressed her hands to the table, and forced her voice low.
“He and Lyle have every judge in this county in their pocket. His deputies have been padding ‘my file’ with false charges. Just this morning, they…” She shook her head and pressed her fingers to trembling lips. The power Hank and Lyle wielded in Hazard County overwhelmed her. “We both know if he wants it, he’ll get it—no matter what.” She closed her eyes and gripped the table with a whispered “Maybe it’s time…”
Time to run. Time to hide. Time to disappear—to another state, another country…
“He’s just fucking with you, Savannah. He can’t take care of Jamison himself. This is just another attempt to torment you because he’s a small, mean, cowardly excuse of a man.”
She straightened and crossed her arms. Yes, he was messing with her. Yes, he was a small, mean, cowardly excuse of a man. But somehow, this felt like his last stand. Like he was telling her that if she didn’t come back, he’d take Jamison—a final fuck-you to Savannah. And if he took Jamison, Hank certainly wouldn’t need her for anything.
Mason’s death popped into her head again.
She squeezed her arms, pushing the dark tendril back into the depths of her mind. “How can I move three hours away if I’m going to have to come back here for court hearings? With a new job? And Jamison’s new school? And we both know how it would look to a judge—especially a judge here—if I moved Jamison three hours away from Hank now.”
“I agree,” Audrey said. “Considering the circumstances, I think you need to wait until custody is finalized before you move.”
Savannah pressed her hand to her forehead. “This will never end.”
“I’ve already filed a petition against the hearing,” Audrey said, “citing the custody arrangements in the divorce papers. This will take time to clear up, but we will clear it up, Savannah.”
She didn’t believe anything at this point. All she knew right now was that even though she’d gotten the official divorce from Hank, he still had her in shackles. She would spend the next ten years paying off Audrey’s bill, even at the ridiculously low rate the woman was charging. Hank, on the other hand, had his father’s unlimited finances to keep Savannah in legal battles until Jamison turned eighteen.
This would never end.
With her hope extinguished, she felt lifeless.
“Thank you—for everything,” She leaned in to hug Audrey. “I could never pay you enough for everything you’ve done for me and Jamison. Without you…” She teared up again, pulled away, and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I need a break. I need to get Jamison home. Can we talk later?”
“How ’bout if I bring dinner and wine around six?” Audrey offered.
Savannah smiled, but her cheeks pushed tears from her eyes. “That sounds perfect.”
“Hey.” Audrey grabbed her hand. “Don’t lose hope, honey. I’ll fight that bastard to my grave, if necessary.”
Savannah laughed, thanked Audrey again, and bundled up Jamison in his parka. Even braced for the cold as she stepped outside, it still stole her breath for a long second. Seeing her car parked smack in front of the fire hydrant brought everything back in a heated rush—a symbol of years of manipulation, of struggle, of abuse. So much abuse.
After settling Jamison in the back seat, she rounded the driver’s side, and the flutter of plastic caught her eye.
They’d left her a ticket tucked into a plastic sleeve and shoved under her wiper blade. Savannah jerked it out, crumpled it into a ball and shoved it into her pocket. “Fuckers.”
She took a deep breath before she opened the driver’s door. She needed to settle. To find even ground. Hell, find any ground. Jamison would pick up on her distress, and his anxiety would skyrocket. Living with his father would ruin Jamison. Absolutely demolish him. Savannah knew. It had almost destroyed her.
Savannah’s heart felt frozen and heavy as she stared up at the mountains towering over the little town—very much the way Hank and Lyle loomed over her and Jamison. She could still remember being overwhelmed with the beauty here and awed by the town’s history when she’d first come to visit. It was harder to remember being head over heels for both Hank and his family. So many broken promises and crushed dreams. There was no part of that hopeful, dreamy girl left inside her now. Hank had killed that part of her a long time ago.
She exhaled heavily, and as her breath billowed in the air, thoughts of running returned. Because she’d never leave her son in the hands of men like Hank and Lyle.
Never.
4
Ian jogged up the stairs of the Manhunters’ temporary headquarters, an industrial building just south of Whitefish, forty minutes south of Hazard. Level one was leased by a drop-ship company. Roman Steele, Manhunters’ founder and commander, had arranged a short-term lease of the second floor, which had been abandoned by a telemarketing company gone belly up.
He hit the top step, turned the corner, and paused. The perimeter of the space had been cordoned off with glass-walled offices, all surrounding a sea of cubicles. In one glance, Ian pinpointed Roman in an office on the right, standing at the printer and talking to the company admin, Camille. Across the space on the left, Everly sat at a conference table, chatting with Sam. And both were shoving something delectable into their mouths.
Ian’s gaze darted to a telltale pink box adorning the conference table and huffed a laugh. “No way.”
Ian, Sam, Everly, and their boss, Roman, had all been on different military Manhunter teams, but their work brought them together from time to time. And no matter where they found themselves, Everly never failed to locate the best donuts in a hundred-mile radius.
In the thirty seconds it took Ian to reach the conference room, his mouth started waterin
g. At the door, he stopped, hands on hips, and pinned her with a look. “How in the hell did you find your caliber of sinkers in this frozen wasteland?”
Leaning back in her chair, Everly popped the last piece of a donut into her mouth, crossed her arms, and offered a superior smirk. “I’m just that good, Heller.”
“She is, man,” Sam declared around a mouthful of apple fritter. He licked his fingers, muttering, “She really is.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” Ian made his way around the table toward the box. “Got any crullers in there, girl?”
She frowned. “Cru-what?”
Ian tipped back the lid and found three perfect crullers among half a dozen other fried delicacies. He grinned at Everly and pulled one of the tender pillows of sugary goodness from the box. “I think I love you.”
He dropped into a chair and stuffed the heavenly fried dough into his mouth.
Every bakery made crullers a little differently, and they were all good. But this kind was his favorite—light, airy, melt-in-your-mouth moist. The sugary softness exploded in his mouth, and Ian moaned with pleasure.
“Okay.” Roman strolled in and dropped a packet of papers in front of each of them. “Forget the donuts.”
“Forget the donuts?” Ian said around the last bite of his own. “There are crullers in there, dude.”
Roman’s gray eyes homed in on Ian with the intensity of a laser. “You better not have eaten the chocolate one.”
He opened his arms wide. “How long have we been friends? Have I ever—and I mean ever—stolen your chocolate cruller?”
Roman smirked. They both knew Ian had no scruples when it came to crullers.
“What was I thinking?” His boss slapped an information packet hard against Ian’s chest. “Sounds like you made unexpected inroads with Savannah and Jamison Bishop today.”
Ian shot a look at his conniving teammate. That girl was always stirring shit. “More like a less-than-friendly discussion.” He glanced at Sam, their tech genius. “Get anything interesting from the bugs in either of the Bishops’ offices?”
“They are seriously the lamest law enforcement group on the planet,” Sam complained while dusting fritter crumbs from his hands, his mouth, the chest of his black sweater. He’d let his stubble grow into an almost-beard that caught everything. “No practical jokes, no good-natured ribbing.”
“Is that a no?” Ian asked.
Before Sam could confirm, the tap of high heels halted the conversation. Everyone turned their attention to the stairs. Gianna Bliss slowly came into view and immediately started toward the conference room. Ian had met her a couple of times while he’d been in the military when she’d come to brief the team on the high-value targets they’d been tasked to capture or kill. At that time, she’d been with the CIA.
Since then, she’d swapped out chasing foreign bad guys for the homegrown kind, living and operating in the US. She must just have stepped off one of the FBI’s private jets. Dressed in a navy power suit, she was probably fresh from one of those high-level DC meetings. She held a trench coat over one arm and a briefcase in the other hand. If her attire hadn’t screamed This is serious business, her expression would have.
And she wasn’t alone. Liam Moore was with her. As Mason’s handler, Liam had reported him missing and been on the op with the Manhunters when they’d located his body. But today, instead of fatigues, he was dressed in a suit, looking just as professional, just as somber, as Gianna.
Roman turned to face her. “This is a surprise.”
Gianna paused at the door and exhaled in one hard breath. “There’s been a development.”
“Must be significant for you to jump the jet,” Roman said.
“It is.” Gianna tossed her trench coat over a chair and dropped her briefcase on the table. She was one of those stunning women who stopped traffic—tall, lithe, confident. She was also wickedly intelligent. Everything other women both envied and loathed. To top it off, she was one of the few women with power in DC.
As the director of the Joint Interagency Task Force, Gianna led a group of agents from various law enforcement departments on tenuous black-ops missions. She reported directly to the director of the NSA and the president. And she used the Manhunters when critical missions needed finesse, raw power or went awry—like one of her undercovers getting killed under suspicious circumstances while hunting a counterfeiter.
“Liam,” Roman greeted.
“Roman.” Liam took the closest available seat. Then glanced around the table with a nod to the others. “Heller, Slaughter, Shaw.”
When Liam’s attention returned to his boss, Gianna, Ian, and his teammates shared a silent glance, confirming the new tension in the room.
Gianna pulled a file folder from her briefcase and tossed it on the table with a slap. Papers and photos spilled out.
Ian homed in on the images first—the gruesome photos from the remnants of a plane crash. He reached for one showing a charred piece of the plane’s tail, and every shred of joviality he’d been feeling just moments ago fled.
“Flight one-twenty-one?” He lifted his gaze to Gianna. “The seven-forty-seven that went down in New York last month?”
“Killing all three hundred and thirty-four people on board and one hundred ninety-eight people on the ground,” Gianna confirmed, “including one of my colleagues. Tens of millions in damage to a city that’s already seen too much tragedy.”
Sam and Everly had also pulled several photos from the melee, documenting the carnage.
Ian asked what everyone wanted to know. “What does that have to do with this mission?”
“We just received confirmation that the terrorists who blew up this plane are linked to the smuggler distributing passports from here—this little dot on the map,” she said. “The four terrorists’ passports have identical flaws in their printing and the same hacker’s code in the RFID chip. And all four passports originated from employees working for Bishop Mining.”
A shock wave traveled the length of Ian’s spine. His teammates wore equally surprised expressions.
“After checking with Interpol,” she said, “we’ve confirmed that the same errors were seen in passports used by terrorists who have attacked across the globe—London, Paris, Brussels.”
This op just got very interesting.
Everly shot him a sassy I-told-you-so look.
“Just to clarify,” Ian said. “The terrorists manipulate Canada’s soft spot for refugees and immigrate there, then search out like-minded men—if not men from their own terrorist cells—and open themselves up to recruitment by Bishop for cheap labor in the work-visa program? After a year in the mine, they grab a US passport and hit the road?”
“They also crash planes, blow up buildings, and target large venues with modified semiautomatic weapons,” Gianna added.
Ian raised his brows, shook his head, and tossed the photo back into the pile. “That’s fuckin’ devious.”
“And fuckin’ terrifying,” Everly added as she scowled at a photo.
“The media know something is up,” Gianna said. “We’ve managed to keep a lid on the details, but I don’t know how long that will last. The public is petrified, and the media is fueling the fear with speculation a little too close to home.”
A heaviness settled on the room. Everyone there knew that when a country’s sense of safety and security was threatened, the economy plummeted. People canceled travel plans. They stopped spending their money at cinemas, restaurants, and malls. They avoided crowded arenas like concerts and sporting events. And they held everything dear very close—including cash. Add to that an angry public demanding answers for the horrific loss of life, and you had the perfect storm for every politician.
And the politician breathing down Gianna’s neck happened to be the leader of the free world.
“Is there any sign of the ledger?” Gianna wanted to know. “It just went to the top of our priority list.”
“No,” Ian said. “We search
ed both offices at the sheriff’s station and Bishop Mining top to bottom and inside out. Whatever ledger Mason was talking about isn’t in either office.”
“We’ll search and wire up both homes,” Roman assured her. “We haven’t gotten anything from the bugs in the wife’s home, but Ian’s made positive inroads with both her and son.”
“Good,” Gianna said, focusing on Ian. “Once the divorce is final, she won’t be able to hide behind spousal privilege when she’s on the stand. Having someone she can trust and lean on now might be a treasure trove of information.”
The conversation had just gone off the rails. “Wait. What?”
“Dig,” she told Ian. “If we’re not getting anything directly from the Bishop men, mine the ex-wife for dirt. Messy divorces always yield valuable fruit. Use the information to flip Hank or Lyle or both. I want that ledger. I want Lyle and Hank Bishop. I want everyone who had anything to do with Mason’s death and the counterfeiting, even if they only knew about it and didn’t disclose. Everyone within reach is going down. Hard.”
Her phone rang. Gianna picked up her trench and her briefcase and strode out of the office, answering her phone with a crisp “Bliss.”
“I guess she’s under a little pressure,” Sam spoke first.
Gianna had closed herself in Roman’s office and paced the length of the glass wall with her phone to her ear.
Roman exhaled slowly, his jaw muscle jumping. “Liam, why don’t you fill in some of the gaps regarding Mason’s mission?”
Liam sat forward and met everyone’s gaze in turn. He was a clean-cut, lean blond. A pretty boy who looked like he fit better in an office analyzing data than in the field getting dirty. If Ian hadn’t seen the man rappel into that mine with his own eyes, he never would have believed Liam capable.
He pulled another folder from a briefcase and passed stapled packets of information to each Manhunter.
“What’s the background on this ledger?” Everly asked.
“A guy in the mines told Mason that Bishop kept a detailed list of some kind that contained the name of every person he’d issued a fake passport to. His name was Tully, and he was due a passport, but Bishop was dragging his feet, so he went to Bishop’s office for a chat. Only Bishop was in the toilet, so the guy got nosy and found an open ledger on his desk with names and dates. Bishop walked in before he could memorize anything, but from working in the mine, he’d recognized names of coworkers, and dates corresponded to the days they started. In light of the new link between terrorists and the passports, that ledger doesn’t just contain the names of people who are guilty of passport fraud—”