1

Ian Heller worked the flimsy lock on the back door and slipped into the duplex in less than twenty seconds.

Where was the challenge in that?

He silently resettled the latch on the door and paused in a laundry room the size of a closet, anticipating the unexpected. Hell, he was hoping for it. A pet they hadn’t known about, a surprise visit from a friend… Who was to say that the sheriff himself wasn’t sitting in the living room waiting for his ex?

But no. There would be no excitement tonight. No hand-to-hand combat. Not even a damn reason to draw his weapon. And for the hundredth time, he second-guessed his decision to give this supposedly elite, civilian special-ops team a try.

Then again, he didn’t exactly have offers coming at him from every direction.

“I’m in.”

“Copy that.” Sam Slaughter was the Manhunters’ expert hacker and, tonight, Ian’s lookout. “Quickstep it, dude. I’m freezing my balls off out here.”

“In and out,” he assured Sam. This would be so easy, Ian couldn’t even legitimately call it a job.

Wind battered trees against the rotted siding and rattled the single-paned windows. The space was warm compared to the nasty Montana weather, but his breath still billowed in the air.

He moved into the doorway leading to the kitchen. The room was immaculate—nothing but a toaster on the counters and an empty sink. Two wooden chairs were pushed under a tiny table. An ancient desktop computer and keyboard took up most of the tabletop. The short drapes on the windows had been gathered back in perfect mirror images of each other. On the stove’s handle, a single kitchen towel had been folded into a precise rectangle and hung directly in the center of the bar. Three pictures on the fridge—all of the kid, Jamison—were lined up in precise order. A whiff of pine and lemon lingered in the air.

He was pretty sure if he opened the cabinets, he’d find canned goods lined up in alphabetical order.

Ian’s sixth sense vibrated along the back of his neck. “Someone’s OCD.”

“You must be talking about yourself,” Sam’s voice sounded in Ian’s ear. “Because I’ve never known a woman who’s OCD about anything but shoes, hair, and makeup.”

Shoes. Ian glanced down at his boots and pulled a rag from his back pocket to wipe the soles. He flipped on his LED headlamp, pulled off his gloves, and dragged a listening device the size of a pushpin from his pocket.

“Remember,” Sam said. “Kitchen, living room, bedrooms. Once those are in place, you can look for the ledger.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “Dude. Give me a break. I may have been out of the game awhile, but I’m no grunt.”

“Just sayin’,” Sam said, conciliatory.

Hiking his ass to the kitchen counter, Ian swiveled to his back. He tilted his head, angling the light toward a crevice in the corner where the cabinets met to wedge the bug into the shadows.

“What the…?” Sam said. “They’re back. Heller, you’ve got incoming.”

“What happened to the grocery store?” he asked, incredulous.

“Fastest fucking store run in history,” Sam agreed.

“Milk, bread, and eggs.” Everly’s voice joined the group. She’d been surveilling the mother-son pair while Ian took charge of tactical assault. As if this could be called a tactical assault. “I cut in front of them in line to buy a pack of gum. I took forever to find my wallet and my money. She freakin’ offered to buy the damn thing for me. And they still made it back here in fifteen minutes.”

Ian shut off his headlamp, rolled off the counter, and moved into the living room, headed toward the hallway. Something caught his eye before he cleared the kitchen. He stopped and scanned the table again. A small black box was hidden behind the monitor. Ian recognized the company logo, and his curiosity was piqued.

“Her detail’s in tow,” Everly said. “One of the deputies has been following her as long as I have.”

“Consistent with the intel,” Sam said.

“She’s got a VPN router by her computer.” Ian cut across the living room, ducking into a hallway. Maybe he’d have some fun tonight after all.

“That’s not consistent with intel,” Sam said. “Why the hell would a single mother and waitress in a backward Montana town need to scramble her IP addresses?”

“A better question,” Everly said, “is how did a woman with a five-year-old get through the grocery store in ten minutes flat?”

“She’s clearly supernatural.” This from Sam.

Tags: Skye Jordan Manhunters Romance
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