2. Dev

Icouldn't believe I was in the same truck as Firefox. The Firefox. The legendary hero who'd saved Washington, DC, from total annihilation twice. Who'd personally protected the president of the United States. I just…wow. Wow!

It didn't hurt that he was hot as hell—no pun intended. I pegged him as being in his midforties, with the lines around his mouth and hazel eyes to prove it. Silver threaded through his otherwise light brown hair, especially obvious at the temples where it was cropped close. Silver fox much? He wasn't as obviously muscular as me, but how he held himself told me he was fit and capable of handling himself in a fight. A great quality to have as a SPAM agent.

And the best thing? He was completely immune to me.

I wanted to do a happy dance in my seat, but A, that would be weird, and B, it would be dangerous, considering there was snow drifting onto the highway. So I kept my joy contained, as tough as it was.

April had started to warn me about Sullivan's attitude, then amended it, "Well, I guess that won't be a problem for you." Something in the way she said it reiterated that she didn't like me, but that was okay. No one at headquarters did. There was a reason I was posted in northern Ontario, beyond the fact that it was home and I liked it here. If I was up here, I wasn't in DC and they didn't have to interact with me in person. They could be abrupt with me over the phone—even condescending and rude. But as soon as they were in my physical presence and I spoke to them…

Bam. They had to be nice.

That was my superpower. That was it.

If I were a different kind of guy, I could probably be pretty dangerous. Could you imagine if I wanted to climb the political ladder, for instance? Or, you know, even SPAM's internal ladder. If I wanted to, I could manipulate my way to the top of whatever.

Good thing I didn't want to. Nah, give me the solitude of the northern wilds, my fellow Canadians, and the freedom to live my life as I pleased.

The only thing missing was a partner, but I'd resigned myself long ago to the fact that I'd never find one because I couldn't trust the emotions of the people I spoke to.

Except maybe now.

And that was getting more than a few steps ahead of myself. Goodness gracious.

"Outfitter first, then hotel?" I asked when we were only a few minutes out of Nipigon. Firefox—I mean, Sullivan—had been quiet the entire time, scowling at his phone.

"Outfitter, then the scene." He scowled at the sky. I was beginning to think it was his permanent expression, and nothing personal. "What time does it get dark here?"

"About five." It was almost four, and the low, gray clouds that said snow was on the way didn't help the daylight situation at all.

"Shit. Scene first then."

"It might be better to get you geared up now, and hit the scene in the morning."

He shot me a glare. "Who's the specialist here?"

I almost retorted, Who knows the weather here? But that wouldn't be very nice. Besides, his grumbly question was more proof that my power didn't work on him, which was awesome. I smiled and shrugged. "Okay."

He looked at me like I'd grown a second head, and that was pretty cool too.

We arrived at the scene ten minutes later, the Canadian Tire store located at the edge of town. I pulled into the lot and drove to the back of it, away from the store itself.

Sullivan's ever-present scowl deepened. "Why'd you park so far away?"

"The store isn't the scene." I nodded out the windshield. "That is."

In front of us was a massive pile of snow, accumulated from the countless snowfalls we'd had since the beginning of the season that buried the parking lot. It was easily four times my height, and I wasn't a short guy.

"Wait." Sullivan squinted at me. "They set the snow on fire?"

"See how it looks a little more melty at the top?" I pointed out the area in case he didn't know what to look for. It was smoother than the rest of the pile, more ice-like. "That's how I knew it was something for SPAM."

"God, I hate that acronym," Sullivan muttered. "Any clues?"

"Not a single one. I wasn't aware of it until after it was out."

"How'd you find out?"

I gave him a look. "This is small-town northern Ontario. It was all over Facebook and the news." Returning my gaze to the mound of snow, I added, "And I'm friendly with one of the firefighters."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of Sullivan's eyebrows arch. Yeah, it was that kind of friendly, but I didn't think I needed to share that. Monica truly was just a friend, though she was happy to have some fun between the sheets once in a while.

"According to my friend, the fire department was stumped. There was no sign of incendiary material—no gas or other flammables. Just snow. On fire."

Sullivan grunted. "That's definitely our kind of weird."

For some reason, that tiny concession made me smile. "Right?"

Sullivan kept his eyes on the mound of snow, but his gaze grew distant, like he wasn't seeing it anymore. Or, well, anything. "Southeast," he muttered.

"Huh?"

His eyes didn't lose that distant look, but they tightened at the corners. "Go southeast," he ground out.

"Oh. Oh, we're tracking. Got it." I put the truck into gear and headed southeast. Well, roughly. We had to get out of the parking lot first.

I followed Sullivan's low instructions, heading all the way down 1st Street to Brennan. By that point, Sullivan's eyes were closed and his entire body was rigid with some sort of tension. Pain? Effort? There was no way to tell without him revealing it, and I didn't think he would, even when we reached our destination. He didn't strike me as the open type.

We were passing the Nipigon Marina, bundled up tight for the winter, when Sullivan made a pained noise. I glanced over in time to see a drop of blood slip from his nostril to color his upper lip with a vivid streak of red.

Blinking in shock, I said, "You're bleeding."

"Yeah," he agreed, his voice gruff, eyes still closed. "What's at the end of this road?"

I glanced around to quickly get my bearings. "Campground. It's closed for the season."

He grunted. "Keep going. They're there."

Instead, I stopped the truck. "No."

"No?" he echoed incredulously, squinting at me. "We're about to—"

Popping open the center console, I dug out a handful of tissues and shoved them at him. "About to bleed to death, looks like."

"It's not that bad." But when he pressed the tissues to his nose and they immediately bloomed red, I had to scoff. "It's not," he insisted. "This is normal."

"Uh-huh. Looks totally normal."

"Normal for me." He rolled his eyes and gestured with his free hand for us to continue down the road. "Let's go."

I narrowed my eyes. "On a scale of one to ten, how bad is your head hurting right now?"

The glare I got back was impressive, and I thought for an instant he was going to insist his head wasn't hurting at all. But that tension I'd noted earlier hadn't eased, and the lines at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth only deepened. I knew I had it right—whatever Sullivan had done had triggered at headache at the minimum, and more likely a migraine.

"Do I need to call April to get the whole story?"

"Fuck," he muttered. "About a twelve."

My eyes widened. I hadn't expected that level of pain. "We don't know how many people are in there with our firestarter," I said reasonably. "It'll be dark before we can search the whole campground, and you're not at a hundred percent."

"Don't worry about me. I've worked through worse."

There was something sad about that. Had no one looked out for this man before? "Maybe, but you don't need to today. Let me get you to the hotel, and you can settle in, take a bath"—he snorted, like that was the craziest idea ever—"or whatever, and we can head back here in the morning. Deal?"

He stared at me for a second, and I thought he was going to argue. But then his shoulders deflated, and he asked, "Can I get some more tissues?"

I was going to take that as a win.