“Because I’ve been looking for it online, and I think I found it.” She looked up from her phone with concern pulling her brow, turning the device to face Savannah. “Is this it?”
“Yes. Where did you find it?”
“Google images.” Still frowning, Misty tapped the screen a few times. “I searched for military tattoos of a skull.”
“Why are you making that face?” Savannah asked.
“Because the unit the tattoo is associated with isn’t what I expected.”
Dread slipped into her gut. Her mind piped up with I knew he was too good to be true.
She stopped what she was doing and stepped up beside Misty. Her screen was filled with Wikipedia information on a military group called Manhunters.
Misty read, “An elite group of men recruited for the sole purpose of identifying, capturing, interrogating, and killing high-value targets.”
A chill swept through Savannah’s stomach.
“The Manhunters report only to their leader, a high-ranking member of the CIA, who identifies targets for elimination. Those killed by Manhunters range from drug lords to scientists, diplomats to heads of government.”
The cold leaked through her whole body. The memory of Hank landing a punch to Ian’s jaw discounted the whole “elite military team” concept. But then Savannah remembered how quickly and easily Ian had taken the opportunity to get in shots at Hank. And how calm Ian had been when Hank pulled his weapon. “He never would have gotten a shot off.”
“Savannah,” Misty said, pulling her from her thoughts. “Have you talked to him about his work in the military?”
A protective instinct rose inside her. She wasn’t ready to believe the worst of Ian. “A little. Not about what he did, just about why he left and what he planned to do now.”
“If this is true,” Misty said, “you should probably think about ending things between you.”
Shock hit, and Savannah pushed back. “What are you talking about? You haven’t been able to say anything but great things about him all morning. About how I was glowing. How happy you were that I’ve finally found a good guy.”
“That was before I knew this,” she said, matching Savannah’s vehemence. “Do you really want an assassin around Jamison? Think about it. If he’s capable of doing the things they talk about here, what’s to keep him from doing it now?”
“Don’t call him an assassin, and stop jumping to conclusions. You’re quoting Wikipedia, for God’s sake. Not exactly the most reliable form of information. Especially not if his team was as elite as that says.”
The bell on the door signaled the beginning of the dinner crowd.
“I just don’t want you or Jamison to get hurt—physically or emotionally.” Misty had lowered her voice. “After living with someone as violent as Hank, the last thing you need is another tyrant in your life.”
“Ian’s nothing like Hank. He’s certainly no tyrant.”
“Hank didn’t seem like one at first either.”
“Good afternoon, ladies.” Chuck was a miner who came in every day at the end of shift.
“Hey, Chuck,” Savannah called, then told Misty, “Don’t tell anyone about this. I’ll talk to Ian.”
Without waiting for an answer, Savannah continued to Chuck’s table with hot coals burning in her gut. She had to make a deliberate, concerted effort to work up small talk.
After putting Chuck’s order in, Savannah glanced around the café. When she found Misty helping another customer across the café, she stepped into the hallway to the bathrooms and pulled out her phone. She took a breath and dialed Doctor Dunfy’s office then leaned back against the wall with her eyes closed in dread and chanted a quiet “Please, please, please be true.”
“Doctor Dunfy’s office,” the receptionist answered.
“Hey, Sarah, it’s Savannah.”
After some quick small talk, Savannah said, “I think Jamison may have broken a tooth on a granola bar this morning.”
“Oh, ouch,” Sarah said. “Poor baby.”
“Yeah, who would have guessed, right?”