paused outside a tall, mahogany door marked Conference Room and shoved it open. “Have a seat.”
Bo barely noticed the glossy wood table or the dozen high-back leather executive chairs surrounding it. He took a seat closest to the door, since he was pretty sure he was going to be using it to make his exit in the next minute or so.
Cutter sat at the head of the table. “One of my operatives needs a safe house and protection.”
Bo didn’t hesitate. “So follow protocol and put them into witness security.”
“I’m sure you’re aware that two months ago, Ian Rasmussen hacked the witness security program database. We still haven’t recovered, Bo. Eighty percent of our safe house locations were breached. Six high-profile witnesses have been murdered. A dozen cases federal prosecutors have spent years building are down the drain.”
“Sounds like you have a problem on your hands.”
Cutter’s jaw flexed. “I need your help.”
“I’ve been out of the loop for two years. I train horses now, for God’s sake. I haven’t picked up a rifle since—” Bo bit off the words. “I’m not interested.”
“You were a damn good agent, Bo.”
“All of your agents are good.”
“None of them have a fifteen-hundred-acre ranch in the middle of nowhere.”
Realization dawned like cold water being poured down his back. “You want me to hide someone at my ranch.”
“It’s not in your name, is it?”
Nothing he owned was in his name. One of the prices a former agent had to pay. But if Bo Ruskin was anything, he was cautious. He’d learned that the hard way. “I formed a corporation after I left the agency. Everything is registered under the Dripping Springs Cattle Company.”
Cutter nodded. “I wouldn’t ask just anyone, Bo. There are risks involved. High risks. You’re one of the most capable men I know.”
“Risks like what?”
“She’s got a contract on her head.”
“A contract?” he repeated dumbly.
“Well, two, actually.”
“Sounds like a trouble magnet.”
“Let’s just say she’s not afraid to jump into the thick of things.”
“Cutter, I’m sure you have a contingency plan for these kinds of situations.”
“You are my contingency plan.”
Bo muttered a curse. “So what did she do? Who did she tick off?”
Cutter leaned forward, as if even within the secure walls of the MIDNIGHT Agency headquarters, someone might hear what he was about to say. “She shot and killed Viktor Karas’s son.”
The words echoed like the retort of a killing shot. For an instant the only sound came from the hum of heat running through the vents in the ceiling.
“Karas wants her dead,” Cutter said. “I don’t have to tell you what that son of a bitch is capable of.”
Just hearing the name was enough to make the hairs on Bo’s neck prickle. Viktor Karas ran one of the most brutal crime syndicates in the world. Arms. Drugs. Prostitution. The last Bo had heard, the kingpin was working on getting a nuke for some terrorist group.
“It was self-defense,” Cutter added. “Her cover was blown during a sting. All hell broke loose. There was a firefight.” He shrugged. “Nikolai Karas took one in the head.”
Bo felt no sympathy. Viktor Karas’s brutality and penchant for violence knew no bounds. He’d taken out more than one good man over the years. Whoever took on the responsibility of protecting this woman would be placing himself and everyone he knew in danger.
“Karas has pretty much declared war on the MIDNIGHT Agency,” Cutter continued.
“You got yourself covered?”
“We’ve got the best security in the world.” He shrugged. “Every employee all the way down to the cleaning crew has a high-security clearance. I’m not worried about the agency. I am, however, worried about this operative.”
“So who is it?” Bo asked.
“You’ve met her.”
Bo waited, knowing deep in his gut that he was about to get hit with another curve.
“Rachael Armitage,” Cutter said.
Armitage.
The name struck him with the force of a dagger plunging into his solar plexus. Two years ago Michael Armitage had been Bo’s best friend. They’d gone through the police academy together. Been cops on the mean streets of Washington, D.C., together. They’d joined the MIDNIGHT Agency together. Worked undercover, choreographing and executing some of the most complex and dangerous stings in the agency’s history. Then Michael had been killed. His wife became a widow at the age of twenty-seven. And Bo had given up the only career he’d ever known.
“I’m not interested,” Bo heard himself say.
“Look, I know you and Mike were friends.”
“We were more than friends. Damn it, you know what happened.”
“I know none of it was your fault.”
For the first time in a long time, Bo wanted to run. God knew he was good at it. He wanted out of that conference room. Away from Sean Cutter’s discerning gaze. He wanted to run back to Wyoming to his ranch and horses. It was the only place in the world where he could breathe. Where he didn’t have to think about what had gone down two years ago…
“If I can’t convince you,” Cutter said, “maybe this will.”
Bo’s heart was pounding as he watched Cutter open a thin manila folder and shove several photos toward him. “This is what Karas does to the people who cross him.”
Bo didn’t want to look, but he did, just as Cutter knew he would. He saw horrific images that disturbed him a hell of a lot more than he wanted to admit. “You always were a manipulative bastard.”
Cutter didn’t even try to look contrite. “I still am.”
“Yeah, well, this time it isn’t going to work.” Bo stood so abruptly, his chair fell over backward. He was midway to the door when Cutter stopped him by grabbing his arm.
“She’s in danger, Bo. There have been two attempts on her life in the last week. Karas nearly got her last time. She’s on the edge. She’s been that way since Michael died. She won’t admit it, but she’s running scared.” He grimaced. “For God’s sake, she’s been through enough.”
“We all have,” Bo snapped.
Cutter’s
