Simon Falls leaned back in his desk chair. The only desk chair on the property. Everyone else preferred mats and cushy chairs. He wanted a stiff-backed seat that put him face-to-face with the monitors on the wall and in front of him. Security feeds, including two rotating video shots of places in town.
Now was not the time to descend into touchy-feely madness. He’d leave the talk about privacy and personal space to the workshop leaders. No one paid him to hold hands. His job came down to one simple idea: protect the camp at any cost. A task that would be easier if everyone did their job, which brought his mind back to this meeting.
He tapped his pen against the desk blotter as he stared at the two men he depended on to handle trouble. This time they’d failed him. He’d handed them one assignment—grab the girl and bring her back unharmed.
They’d run into trouble and had all sorts of excuses. Only one interested Simon.
“What man?” When neither underling answered him, Simon tried again. “At the house. Give me the identity.”
“It was Hank Fletcher, one of the newer guys on our staff.” Todd Burdock, the best shot in the camp, gave his assessment while standing at attention.
Simon turned the information over in his mind. “You’re saying Hank is dating Lindsey Pike.”
Todd frowned as if he were choosing his words carefully. “I’m saying he was sleeping over.”
Grant Whiddle nodded. “No question they’re together.”
None of that information matched the surveillance. Simon watched Lindsey. Had watched her for months once the whispers started and the background investigation ran him into a wall. “Since when?”
Todd shook his hand. “I don’t know.”
Not a sufficient answer, and the man should know that. Simon did not countenance failure. Not here. Not on his watch. “Find out.”
“We can call him in,” Grant suggested.
Simon knew that was the exact wrong answer. That was the reason he ran camp security and the two in front of him didn’t.
“Hank is not to know we were behind tonight’s incident.” That would make tracking impossible, and now Simon had a new person to track. “No, this needs to be handled differently. Who does Hank know at the compound?”
“No one. He sticks to himself,” Todd said without giving eye contact. Then again, he never did.
But Hank was the issue here. A loner. No surprise there. They littered the camp. Disillusioned men who needed a purpose filled the beds and the coffers. They came with what little they owned and handed it over in exchange for a promise.
Simon remembered tagging Hank as one of those types during his interview. Dishonorably discharged for firing when any sane person would fire. He had potential plus a gift for shooting. And he might still work out, but that didn’t mean the Lindsey Pike connection could be ignored.
“He lives at the bunkhouse.” Simon knew because he’d assigned Hank the space. “Is this his first night away from the compound since arriving?”
Grant gave Todd a quick look before speaking. “No.”
That didn’t quite match up with Simon’s view of the man or with what Simon saw on the monitors day after day. Hank did his job, never wavered, rarely asked questions. But everyone had an agenda, and Simon would find Hank’s.
“We need a closer watch on him. I want every minute accounted for, including those with Lindsey.” Especially those with Lindsey.
“So we’re not bringing her up to camp now?” Grant asked.
The question screeched across Simon’s nerves. So stupid. That was the problem with hired guns. They didn’t always come with brains. “You can’t very well try to drag her out of her house two nights in a row. She’ll be expecting you.”
Grant shook his head. “But we’ll be expecting Hank this time. We can take another guy and—”
Enough. “The original mission is on hold until we know more about Hank.” Simon dismissed them by returning to watch his monitors.
Todd cleared his voice. “She is potentially dangerous, sir.”
“She is.” Simon stared at the men again. “So am I. You would both be wise to remember that.”
* * *
THE COUNTY SHERIFF’S office proved less helpful than Lindsey had expected. She didn’t want to file a report or even involve law enforcement. That opened the door into an investigation, which meant someone could stumble over pieces of her past. Pieces she’d kept hidden for years.
“Vagrants.” Deputy Carver made that announcement after his walk-through of her house.
The guy had been on the job for about eight months. He’d earned it the old-fashioned way, by taking over when his father had a heart attack. The elder Frank Carver went into the hospital and then rehab and now waited out his disability leave at home as he worked to get his strength back.
The younger Frank Carver stepped in. Never mind he was green and over his head, he’d grown up in this town. Knew everyone by name.
What Frank Carver, Jr., with his red hair and cheeks stained red the way they did anytime he talked with anyone, lacked in experience, he made up for in sheer shooting ability and endurance. He’d simply been tagging along after his father long enough to be considered a fixture. Combine that with the town’s love and loyalty to his father, and the kid wasn’t going anywhere.
He wasn’t doing anything to help her either. She fought the urge to say “I told you so” to Holt. Settled for mouthing it instead.
The deputy had done exactly what she’d predicted—nothing. No forensics. No photos. He just walked around with Holt at his heels.
“No other answer, really.” Deputy Carver took a closer look at the doorjamb. Studied it. Even got up on his tiptoes since the thick-soled shoes only put him at five nine, and that was just barely. “You said they weren’t kids.”
Holt stood there, studying whatever Deputy Carver studied and shaking his head. “These were grown men.”
“Good thing you were here, then, Mr. Fletcher.” Deputy Carver shot Holt a man-to-man look.
“You can call me Hank.”
She was impressed Holt refrained from rolling his eyes. At six-foot-something, he towered over the kid. Also looked as if he could break the deputy in half. The contrast in their sizes and confidence, styles and stance could not have been more pronounced. At twenty-four, Frank Jr. had to be a decade or so younger than Holt, but the difference in maturity shone through.
Not that she was looking...but she couldn’t really stop looking. Recognizing Holt standing in her house had shaken her. He didn’t
