go for the weakest link. When they couldn’t hit the big guys directly, they’d go for the contractors. Security was lax there. She’d run the same scheme with Tate before, and it tended to work.
But guys like Isaac were also the ones with the itchiest trigger fingers, desperate to assert and to keep their authority. Tate was fortunate Isaac hadn’t punished him for Meghan’s escape today, especially with the kind of hacker Phoenix had proved to be. But she’d been around enough punks like him to understand the wannabe mobster’s thought process. “Isaac thinks as long as you’re around, you’ll catch the flack for my getaway. Phoenix is why he didn’t cut you loose or kill you himself.”
“Exactly. If things go our way, the big guy may be angry enough to deal with me personally.”
“Which could get you killed.” For real this time. Meghan backed away from the truck and paced toward the house. The thought dug at her still-bruised heart, and she didn’t need him to read it on her face. She wasn’t ready to lose him twice, especially when she still didn’t know where he’d gone the first time. If she had to grieve for him all over again, the pain might be the one foe that could destroy her.
“Here’s hoping it doesn’t go that far.” Tate glanced at his watch, a chunky black monster, the same kind he’d worn for as long as she’d known him. “I have to go. It’s a pretty good drive to Saginaw from here. I’m hoping Phoenix has already heard Isaac’s report and decided he needs a face-to-face with me.”
It was a long shot with the kind of shadowy hacker they were targeting, but it was probably their best shot. Still, Meghan didn’t like him walking straight into danger without someone guarding his back. “I’m going with you.”
“Oh, no, you’re not.” He held up a hand to stem her building argument. “Think. They catch sight of you anywhere near me and we’re done. You’re captured and I’m dead. Like it or not—and I know you’re not a fan of the idea—I have to go this one alone.”
She opened her mouth and closed it again. No, she wasn’t a fan. Not one bit. But he was right. And the truth made it an even harder pill to swallow. “Fine. But if I don’t hear from you in the next twelve hours, I’m coming after you. And if it goes south...”
“Fair enough.” He looked up from his watch, searching her face in a way that skipped electricity across her skin. “You’re a valuable asset.”
The jolt fizzled. There it was again. She was nothing but a means to an end.
Tate stilled, the sudden lack of movement ushering silence between them. “But I also need...” His voice deepened. “Despite what you think, I trust you.” A flash Meghan couldn’t read slipped across his features, then vanished. He turned toward the house. “You’re sure you’re safe here?”
Whatever the flash was, it must have been a trick of the moonlight, because he was all business. It didn’t stop Meghan from wanting to rewind the moment and make him say whatever she imagined he’d thought. “Safer here than anywhere else.” Then again, safety was probably a thin thread. If Phoenix was the hacker who had blackmailed her years ago, then she was in bigger trouble than she’d thought. Still, she couldn’t ask for help. Not yet. When it came to Tate and her former team, full disclosure meant risking everything. She’d been blackmailed in college, had been young and scared, but none of that would matter. She’d hacked personal data for an unknown entity who could turn out to be a terrorist, and the truth was enough to send her to jail for a long time if her team found the truth.
No, she couldn’t tell Tate about anything yet. Not until she was certain she really could trust the man who’d let her believe he was dead, who could be up to anything now. No, she needed answers first.
“Stay low. I’ll be in touch.” He stepped closer, then stopped and almost smiled. “It’s good to see you, McGuire. Really good.” He held her gaze for a moment, then turned and walked away.
* * *
Dawn was creeping over the edges of the horizon when Tate rattled the truck to a stop in front of the small house on a back street near Saginaw. With peeling white paint, faded wood and a sagging front porch, the place was a testament to Isaac’s failures. The man’s life goal was to be the leader of a crime ring capable of driving fear into the heart of the nation. The saving grace was Isaac lacked the mental acuity to build such an empire.
Tate had lost count of the times he’d had to hold back his fist to keep from knocking Isaac’s arrogance down a few pegs. He’d love to take the guy down for something as petty as the meth lab in the shed, but it wouldn’t do the mission any good, and it would scatter Isaac’s pack of yes-men to new haunts.
Killing the engine, Tate surveyed the house. Light shone from the window in the front living room, but the rest stood a dark vigil over the street.
The hairs on the back of his neck raised. Something was going on. On Fridays at sundown, Isaac ran a party that raged until Monday morning. Those parties required some of Tate’s best acting skills. He’d avoided more pills, pipes and bottles than he cared to consider. And he’d dodged just as many scantily clad hangers-on who believed him to be the strong, silent type who needed taming. His heart broke for a couple of the girls he’d managed to talk to without having to fight them off. But rescuing them would mean jeopardizing the mission, losing his target and probably sacrificing his life. It was hard to sleep, knowing he could help, but the mission wouldn’t allow him to yield his cover. It was doubly hard to sleep knowing some of the men and women who walked through Isaac’s front doors craved this lifestyle and viewed help as a weakness.
Yeah. Weekends were the worst on this op. Tate was fortunate the whole lot of them in the house were usually too wasted to realize he wasn’t.
But now, as the world tinged a deep pink, no drunken revelry filtered out to the street. The place was quieter than he’d ever seen it. In the four months Tate had been hovering around this crew, they’d never missed a weekend, never taken the party anywhere else. Isaac was too jealous of his territory to risk someone out-partying him.
To the left of the house, on the short parallel tracks of concrete that passed for a driveway, Isaac’s little souped-up Honda sat close by the side door. Five more tricked-out coupes lined the lawn, chrome dull in the faded morning light. The gang was all here, but the house was silent.
Tate brushed the grip of Meghan’s gun, his teeth working his lower lip. He was about to walk into the unknown with a weapon he’d never fired. He slipped the revolver from the small holster and flicked it open, checking the cylinder. Five .357 rounds, so at least they had some heft. His Glock held fifteen rounds in the magazine. Meghan’s revolver gave him a third of what he’d normally carry. If things turned ugly, he’d have to be extra careful of his aim. And pray. A lot.
The curtain in the front window shifted. Was someone watching for him? Maybe Phoenix had told Isaac to clear the house and do the dirty work.
Tate tapped his index finger on the trigger guard. This could be an ambush, and the walk to the door would make him an easy target. And the whole world had better believe he wasn’t going down at the whim of a pack of street thugs.
Maybe he was overreacting. There was no way for Isaac to know Tate had purposely let Meghan go. No witnesses had seen what transpired between them. It was possible the party had moved elsewhere or ended much, much earlier than usual.
But this would be the first time, and Tate didn’t put faith in coincidences. The belief everything happened for a reason had kept him alive on more than one occasion. Reading the situation was his specialty,
