But thanks.”
“That’s the beauty of Quincey. I can hire and fire whoever I want. I want you. Your military training is sufficient to cover the minimal qualifications. I’ll provide the intel you need to cover the rest. You’re a damned good detail man, and you have time on your hands while you figure out your next step. You’ll be in and out in a couple of months, tops. Work with my team, feel ’em out and give me a report—then you’re free to go and do whatever you line up next. I’ve already found a house for you to rent. Fully furnished. Just bring your Skivvies and a toothbrush.”
Still sounded fishy.
“What makes you think I want to do anything but sit back and collect my dis-dis—” crap, that was hard to say “—disability check? I have a severance package coming, and I’ve squirreled away some money over the years. I’ll be okay.”
Financially. Mentally was another story. He might never recover from what he considered a betrayal of the corps. But he’d give ’em a chance to make it right once he healed.
“No one hates a handout more than you, and you’ll go crazy with nothing to do. You’re too smart to sit and watch TV all day. Do you have a plan?”
“To get back in.” He tried not to snarl, but Roth more than anybody knew Sam never wanted to be anything but a Marine and he damned sure wasn’t a quitter. “But right now they won’t even let me apply to come back as an instructor or as a private contractor in the Precision Weapons Section.”
He’d begged for a job. Begged. And damn it, this Marine didn’t beg for anything.
“I swear to you, Sam, this isn’t BS or pity. I need you. A few months in Quincey will buy you time to put a plan together while you heal. I’ll help in any way I can. The salary isn’t bad either.”
Sam searched the strained face across from him, seeing how difficult it was for Roth to ask for a favor. “How many on your force?”
Not that he was considering it.
“Five, including me.”
Nope, not even thinking about it. Stagnating in a backwater swamp wasn’t anywhere on his bucket list. He’d lived in North Carolina during one of his dad’s stints at Lejeune. He hadn’t hated it. But he hadn’t seen any reason to return either.
“How many do you suspect?”
“All four until proven otherwise.”
Not good. “You don’t have anyone you can trust with your six?”
“No. I’m telling you, Sam, this small-town department isn’t run like any operation either of us has ever seen. There’s no black-and-white. It’s all shades of gray, and the corruption went on for a long time. What I have to figure out is where a favor for a friend or looking the other way crosses the line into illegal activity and how many of my officers are doing it.”
Sam stalled by wrapping his lips around the bottle and letting the cold beer roll down his throat. He had that itch between his shoulder blades—the one that told him he was in somebody else’s crosshairs. Time to seek cover.
But how could he refuse Roth’s request? Roth never asked for anything. Not only did Sam owe him, Sam had nothing better—nothing, period—to do. He sure as hell wasn’t going home to his family. Not that his dad, a recently retired Marine, wouldn’t try to be supportive. But his mother and sisters would smother him.
Short of going to ground, did he have a choice? Maybe he could hang in Quincey until he healed enough to approach the corps again. “It’ll take ’em a few weeks to process my paperwork.”
“I can wait.”
He had to be crazy. “Shoot me whatever you have on your deputies.”
“No. I want your unbiased first impressions—they’re always damned accurate.”
Flying in blind. But as Roth had said, the assignment would keep Sam occupied while he healed and plotted his next step. Working with Roth again might be fun.
How bad could it be?
“I’ll see you ASAP.”
* * *
TO ALLEVIATE THE scorching heat, June Jones spritzed herself with the water bottle and kicked her feet in the four-foot-diameter plastic wading pool she’d bought for her nieces and nephews. She had three days of vacation with nothing to do but work on her tan and wait for the new tenant to arrive.
Idleness was not her thing, and vacations...well, she rarely took them. Someone else always needed the time off more than she did, and she loved her job. Why leave it? Labor Day weekend was just one of fifty-two in the year for a single woman whose friends had recently paired up with their Mr. Rights. The unofficial end of summer didn’t mean family trips to the beach or mountains for her—unless one of her siblings needed an on-site babysitter. Labor Day meant the opportunity to earn some overtime.
But not this year. Even though she’d volunteered to cover the holiday shifts, her new boss, who happened to be the husband of one of her two besties, had ordered her to stay away from the office.
She squinted at her watch. Approaching one o’clock on her first day off and she was already climbing the walls. She might go crazy before the seventy-two hours passed. Shifting in the lawn chair for a comfortable position, she dredged her brain for something more productive to do than sit here and sweat. But she’d already done everything that needed doing.
She’d risen at five and fed her landlord’s animals, baked cookies, brownies and cheese puffs for the new tenant’s welcome basket and cleaned both houses, hers and the rental next door. Her friend-slash-landlord, Madison, was spending the long weekend with her fiancé and had told June she had no idea what time the new tenant would be arriving. But June took her assignment as deputy lessor very seriously. That meant twiddling her thumbs for as long as it took even if it drove her to adding tequila to her pitcher of virgin margaritas.
Determined to prove to her naysayers that she knew how to relax, she refilled her glass and took a sip of the tart slushy beverage, then tilted her head back, sprayed herself with the water again and tried to pretend she was enjoying the final day of August. Why hadn’t she planned ahead and picked up books from the library, rented movies or bought ammo?
The cackle and scatter of the chickens brought her to instant alertness. Remaining still, she eased her eyelids open, scanned the area and the sky from behind her dark lenses and listened for what had set them off. She heard nothing—not even the usual country critter sounds—and she didn’t see a hungry hawk. Animals didn’t lie. Their silence spoke volumes. She wasn’t expecting anyone except the man who’d rented the cottage beside hers. But in Quincey, North Carolina, neighbors tended to drop in unannounced, especially when they wanted to know your business. But neighbors made noise.
Movement drew her eye to the corner of the empty cottage thirty feet away. A blond-headed guy just over six feet tall eased around the back corner with slow, silent footsteps. He wore dark wraparound sunglasses, charcoal cargo pants and an olive T-shirt that conformed nicely to his torso—not too lose or tight.
He wasn’t from around here. Was he her new neighbor? She hadn’t heard a vehicle drive up.
“Can I help you, sir?” she called out while
