“We have a new assignment, but I think we may be over our head on this one.” She told him about Rowan Smith, the murder, and the funeral wreath. “Michael asked me to do a background check.”

“And?”

“Nothing.”

“So?”

“Just that-nothing. It’s as if she was born eighteen years old and just started college.”

“Maybe you’re not as good as you think,” he teased lightly.

“John, I’m worried. That funeral wreath really freaked me out. I read about the murder of Doreen Rodriguez in the papers, then I read the chapter in her book. It’s identical.”

“What did you find on her?”

“She graduated from Georgetown twelve years ago and went directly into the FBI Academy. Graduated top of her class. She has several marksmanship awards, and I found a couple of newspaper articles where she had a hand in apprehending a criminal, but she’s never quoted. She resigned four years ago, about the same time her first book was published.”

“Sounds like typical burnout. It happens.”

“I’m getting to that. There’s a court document from more than twenty years ago. Name change.”

“Oh?”

“She was a minor. And it’s sealed.”

“Okay, you’ve piqued my interest.”

“I’m not done. She listed her address in Washington, D.C., so I did a search on property ownership. The house is in the name of Roger and Grace Collins.”

“That name sounds familiar.”

“Roger Collins is assistant director of the FBI. There’s something strange in that, don’t you think? That she had a name change as a minor and was living at the home of one of the FBI directors?” She paused. “What if she knows more about this killer than she’s letting on? Why would a kid need a name change? Witness protection?”

“I can think of a lot of reasons, not all of them nefarious.”

Tess ignored him. “And I can already tell Michael’s getting emotionally involved. I’m worried, John.” She felt bad about giving this information to John before she told Michael, but she knew John’s instincts were better. She’d tell Michael tomorrow.

“I’m ready to wrap up down here. Give me two days.”

Tess hung up, feeling better. While she trusted Michael, John had more experience dealing with federal law enforcement agencies. Michael tended to be too trusting, while John was the exact opposite-so distrustful that it sometimes bothered Tess. She’d never met anyone so driven, so focused on his job-whatever it happened to be-than her oldest brother.

If anyone could get to the heart of the Rowan Smith case, it was John.

John snapped closed his cell phone and pushed aside Tess’s worries. He had work to finish quickly if he was to get back up to California to help his brother. Though more confident in Michael’s ability than Tess was, he wondered about Smith and her background. He knew how deceptive the FBI could be, especially when they protected one of their own.

He couldn’t give this operation any more time. He called his DEA contact with the longitude and latitude of the warehouse where over ten thousand kilos of pure heroin was stored. He’d hoped to track down the elusive Reginald Pomera, but not this time.

He looked down and saw his clenched fists. He’d thought for sure this was the time he’d confront Pomera. He was so close. So close he could almost smell the bastard.

He forced himself to relax, taking slow, drawn-out breaths. Reminded himself that his consulting assignments for the DEA were sporadic work, at best. His new career was the security business with Michael and Tess. He was no longer an agent, no longer in the employ of the government.

Unless, of course, they needed his specialized skills in tracking down and hunting big-time drug lords like Pomera, he thought bitterly. Then he reminded himself that it had been his choice to walk away from that career.

Not as though he’d had much of a decision. Sell your soul to the devil to catch a devil. It wasn’t a choice he could have made.

He paced, checking the status of the warehouse through the electronic sensors he’d planted earlier. Four guards around the perimeter, two inside. No one was on alert. Business as usual.

Even if Tess hadn’t called him about returning to L.A., he would have needed to call in the raid soon, anyway. The drugs were scheduled for transport tomorrow night-and his gut told him Pomera was not going to make an appearance.

There was no way he could allow those drugs to end up on the streets of America. It was a small blow to the huge drug cartel, but a blow nonetheless. And if one kid didn’t die-it’d be worth it.

If all went well, he’d be in Los Angeles in thirty-six hours.

A quiet knock awakened Michael. Early-morning light streamed through the curtains. He jumped from bed, alert, not mindful that he wore only briefs. Rowan stood in the doorway.

She averted her eyes. “I’m going for a run.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I’m going with you. Give me three minutes.”

He hadn’t slept well, and it showed in his reflection. His dark whiskers made him appear even shabbier than he felt; his green eyes were bloodshot, making them seem brighter. He splashed water on his face, finger-combed his hair, and dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt.

The smell of coffee lured him to the kitchen. Rowan stood at the sink drinking a tall glass of water, her long, straight blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail. She wore no makeup, yet Michael found her just as attractive this morning.

“Let’s go,” he said, pushing aside his personal interest in Rowan. He wouldn’t let her distract him from the job he had to do. Not that she was doing it on purpose, he thought. If anything, she kept a wide physical and emotional distance from everyone.

“It’s a three-mile run from here to the other end of the beach and back. I run it twice. Up for it?”

“No problem,” he said. “Let me look around.” He noticed she had a gun in a holster at her back. Not the Glock; this one was a little Heckler amp; Koch, the “Rolls-Royce” of 9mm semiautos. “Nice piece,” he commented. “Writing must pay well. I’m sure you couldn’t afford that on a government salary.”

She was beautiful when she smiled, he noted. “Yeah, it was a treat when I could walk into the gun store and pay cash for it. Maybe we should go to the range today, get in a little target practice. I’ll let you try it.”

“Couldn’t hurt,” he said.

After checking the deck and beach, he said, “In the future, you might want to consider driving somewhere else if you feel the need to run.”

“Maybe.” She didn’t sound like she had any intention of taking him up on his suggestion, and she set off at a vigorous pace, preventing further conversation.

Rowan was surprised at how comfortable she felt with Michael Flynn. If she didn’t think about him as a bodyguard, she could almost get used to the company. As long as she thought of him as merely backup, she could live with the lack of privacy. For now.

She loved running on the beach, the packed, wet sand hard enough for traction but soft enough to cushion each step. It was early and cold, the air salty and thick, the churning water caressing the land, then pulling back, a never-ending cycle of tides in, tides out. The edge of the world, where the vast Pacific met land, humbled any human who appreciated its strength.

Two laps later, she jogged up the steps to her deck. She was about to enter the house when Michael commanded, “Stop.” He brushed past her, unlocked the door, and looked around. When all was clear, he told her to come in.

A reminder of who he was and why he was here.

Rowan and Michael had no opportunity to go to the shooting range that day. She was needed at the studio for a rewrite. Annette had suggested all parties involved meet in Malibu, but Rowan put her foot down, saying, “I need to get out of this house.”