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.