Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

T he place had one window, sunlight slanting in through shuttered blinds, the smell of bacon frying, and as Shep opened his eyes, following the stripes of light on the wooden floor, he spotted a man in a tiny L-shaped kitchen.

His captor. Maybe. Possibly.

Weirdly. Because the man wasn’t dressed like a thug—he wore a pair of snow pants, a black turtleneck under a patterned ski sweater, a wool hat, and insulated hiking boots. A down jacket hung on a hook by the door. He hummed as he cracked a couple eggs into a cast-iron pan.

So, what, his host was Ken the Mountaineer?

Except the jangle of a cuff around Shep’s wrist, securing him to the arm of a sofa, suggested something not quite so convivial.

His eyes burned, and a scratch roughened his throat from the acid of the bear spray. Or maybe the residue of his attacker’s arm around his throat. Hard to believe the lean guy—maybe five foot ten, a hundred sixty pounds soaking wet—could so easily wrestle him to the ground.

Hence, the bear spray.

The room held sparse wooden furniture with homemade cushions, and a tiny Formica-topped metal table pushed against the wall in the kitchen.

He glanced at his wrist and put his other hand on the clasp, just to see if he could move it.

The sound of his movement turned the man at the stove. “Ah, you’re awake. I feared I’d doused you with too bloody much . . . but you kept breathing, so that boded well.” He spoke with a hint of a European accent. Sounded almost Russian, without the brr of the vowels, but his English bore a hint of a British accent—although most second-language English speakers in Europe spoke the King’s English

“Boded well?” His voice sounded raked. “Who are you? And more importantly, where is my dog ?” He didn’t know why Caspian came to mind, as if sitting right there in the forefront. Maybe because his last clear memory included poor Caspian crying out. “You didn’t have to hurt him.”

“He’s fine.” The man picked up a towel and wiped his hands while eggs sizzled and popped behind him on the gas range. “I let him out of the garage before I closed it.”

“It gets below freezing at night!”

“He’s a dog. How do you like your eggs?”

Shep’s mouth opened.

“No preference? Okay, then I’m going to scramble them.” He turned back to the stove.

“What is going on?” He worked the cuff again. “Why?—”

“We’ll get it sorted.” The man scooped the eggs out and put them in a bowl. Added a scrap of bacon. “Sorry, no coffee. I could offer you a cuppa.”

Tea? What ? —

The man walked over and set the bowl at the edge of the sofa, just within Shep’s reach if he extended his hand. His stomach decided to betray him and growled.

“What time is it?” Shep asked.

“Nearly noon. I expect to hear from Laney by tonight, so don’t fuss. Cooperate and you’ll be back home in a few hours.”

The words had nothing for him. “Who’s Laney?”

“Oh, sorry, pal. Da. I think she’s going by . . . what is it?—oh, yes, London. ”

Shep’s entire body chilled as he stared at the man. Clean-shaven, green eyes, sharp features, almost Slavic, so yes, maybe Russian. “London?”

The man checked his watch. “She should have received my message by now. It might be a little longer—I’m not sure where she’s hiding the key, if it’s not on her.”

Shep ignored the eggs, suddenly not hungry. “It’s going to take a lot longer than you think, mate. I don’t know what’s going on here, but London is”—he drew in a breath, growled out the word—“dead. So if you’re trying to, I don’t know, enact some sort of revenge or leverage or whatever you have in your head . . . it’s over, pal.”

The man had sat at the small table, picking up a cup of tea. Now he looked at Shep and laughed.

Laughed.

It shuddered through Shep, and he turned at once brittle and hot.

Especially when the man smiled. “She’s not dead.”

No. “I saw her body.”

The man took a sip of tea, put it down. “You saw a body.”

He refused the terrible, wild spurt of lethal hope. “It was her—her build, her hair?—”

“The woman you saw was a member of a group of assassins called Odin—a Russian word that means ‘one.’ In English, they call themselves the Orphans. Your girl, London—Laney, as I know her—killed her and set up the woman’s body to divert her escape.”

Shep just . . . well, the information simply wouldn’t settle into him. “No. That’s not . . . I mean . . .” And yes, he knew she’d had a different life before she came to Alaska. Knew also that it’d involved clandestine skills, but murder . . . “No. London wouldn’t kill anyone.”

“But Laney Steele would.” The man winked.

Shep just stared at him. “You don’t know her. Didn’t know her. She wasn’t?—”

“I think you’re the one who didn’t know her.” He set down his cup again. Picked up a paper napkin and wiped his mouth. Folded it on the table. “I’m the one who knew her. The real version of your friend London. Laney Steele, Black Swan, spy . . . and my fiancée.”

Every cell in Shep’s body simply shut down. Her fiancé? “But you’re . . . dead .”

Tomas made a sound of wry humor, maybe, but shook his head. “No. She just left me for dead. And I’ve made a good go of it, but . . . well . . .” He pursed his lips. “I’m not the only one looking for her. And this is why I know that Laney is not actually dead. What I’m not sure about is if she is still in Anchorage. So indeed, this is a bit of a long shot. But I’m willing to take a gamble. After all, she owes me, and she knows it. And . . . for the record, I do believe she really does care for you.”

Shep looked away.

“At least, the woman you know does. What does she call herself? London? Interesting.” He sighed. “I’m not sure that the woman I know as Laney Steele knows how to love. But she is good— very good —at her game. So we’ll just sit tight and wait. And we’ll see who is dead and who isn’t.”

They’d be waiting for a ghost. Because despite the man’s words, it had been over a month. And if London were alive, she would have told him instead of letting Shep believe . . .

Not even this Laney person could be that cruel.

“She’s dead, buddy. Let me go and I’ll walk away.”

“No eggs for you, then?” Tomas got up. “They’re getting cold, and you’re being quite rude.”

Wow, Shep had never in his life wanted to hurt someone the way he wanted to wrap his hands?—

Breathe . He wasn’t that guy. Had never been that guy, and that was the problem, really. Why he lived in Alaska, worked on an SAR crew instead of . . . well, instead of the other offer he’d gotten.

“So, you’re Tomas, then.”

The man had started for the bowl of eggs and now stopped. “She told you about me.”

Shep lifted a shoulder.

“Interesting. I would have thought . . . I suppose she would since you were there, weren’t you? On the mountain. In the avalanche. And maybe she hoped I was dead, so telling you that . . .” He shook his head. “Oh, Laney. Pitiful.”

Tomas set the egg bowl on the counter and Shep swallowed just a smidgen of regret. His stomach probably couldn’t handle it anyway, although suddenly his SERE instructor sneaked into his head. “Eat when you can.”

Oops. But while Sergeant Hogan was here, Shep started to listen.

“Survive. Evade. Resist. Escape.”

Apparently, he’d jumped right to the end of class.

But still—three of the A’s stuck in his head. Attitude. Adaptability. Awareness .

The best chance for escape happened in the first forty-eight hours. He’d already ticked off a good chunk of that, and clearly Tomas knew to immobilize him by knocking him unconscious. But now . . . “Betray an emotional breaking point, and throw your captor off guard.”

Which meant roleplay submission. He blew out a breath, looked away even as he surveyed the window, the door.

Tomas pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and lit one, holding it between his lips as he spoke. “It’s okay. Oy—she even got the jump on me. I didn’t see it coming.”

Shep sighed, maybe a little too much, but . . .

Smoke spiraled out of Tomas’s mouth, the cigarette held between his finger and thumb, cupped in his hand, the bead of red hidden. “Laney is a Black Swan. Never forget that.”

Wind stirred the curtains at the window—the frame had a gap.

“Fact is, she played you too. Not sure why, but she always has a mission.”

Shep’s jaw tightened, but he looked over at Tomas and didn’t have to pretend the confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Like I said, she’s very good at her game.” Another drag, more smoke. “Truth is, I never really thought she loved me. Even though she said it. Deep inside, I knew it was exactly that—a very delicious game.”

He smiled, and Shep swallowed back bile.

Tomas laughed. “Yeah, that’s how I felt when I saw her with you the first time. Same old Laney, flirting, stirring that flame inside. She’s a real sparrow.”

This couldn’t be the same person. London was . . . well, she was a woman of honor, chaste, a woman of faith and morals.

Tomas blew out smoke. “All I want is the key. You can have what’s left of her.”

Shep knew better than to reply. But his gaze flashed to the lighter on the table beside the pack of Chesterfields.

Tomas had moved to the chair closer, sat on it now, his ankle propped on his knee. “She’ll try to rescue you before she hands over the key, so we’ll need to fix that.”

“What key?” he asked, just to buy himself time.

The window casing looked flimsy at best. London wasn’t coming—he knew that much—and as soon as Tomas figured that out . . .

Well, chances were that Shep wasn’t walking away from this with a handshake and an apology.

“Oh, just a little bank key, so to speak. To an encrypted . . . box, let’s say.” Tomas drew in another drag. “It contains money she stole from me—well, not me, per se. The Russian mob. Which, of course, they think I stole, so that’s an inconvenience. But we’ll get it sorted.”

The Russian mob? The question must have shown on Shep’s face.

“Oh, so much you don’t know, my boy. The Black Swans are a group of operatives, all female, trained in the art of deception, infiltration, burglary, and all sorts of other techniques that make them highly desired and rather exclusive in their choice of clients, including the US government. Laney’s mission was to break into the . . . let’s say, bank account of the Petrov Bratva and steal their money.”

“Why?” Shoot. He shouldn’t have asked, but he’d noticed the gas burner contained a flicker, as if it hadn’t quite shut off.

“Because they were funding terrorism—some of their own, some to outfits like the Boko Haram, ISIS, Hezbollah, Hamas . . . all the big players, and some smaller ones too.”

“How do you . . . Never mind. I don’t care.”

Tomas smiled, snuffed out his cigarette. “Because I used to work for the Bratva. Accounting. And of course, back then I was younger and weaker, and Laney was beautiful and very, very good. And now they want their money, or they want me dead. And Laney is going to fix that.”

“She’s not coming, man. So just let me go and let’s be done with this.”

“You think I’m going to kill you.”

Shep refused a response.

Tomas shook his head. “I’m not going to kill you, Shep. You’re far too valuable to me for that.”

Shep glanced around the room, searching for something—a pin, a paperclip, a piece of wire—but nothing.

Tomas looked at his watch again. Stood up. “Two hours until nightfall. I suppose I need to get ready.”

Ready?

And all sorts of questions stirred inside Shep.

Except . . . “If you’re leaving, how about those eggs?”

“Hmm.” Tomas considered him. Then nodded and set the bowl and a fork down at the end of the sofa. “This will all be over in a jiff.” He walked away. Stood at the door, looked at Shep. “You’ll see.”

Shep couldn’t stop the shake of his head.

“Really. Sit tight and watch. You’ll see that your London is very much alive.”

And for a second—a very long, brutal second—Shep wished Tomas were right. That somehow London—or Laney, or whoever she was—would show up out of the night, alive and beautiful, and he didn’t care in the least—well, mostly not—what she’d gotten herself into.

He just wanted her alive.

And maybe—a close second—in his arms. But he’d be okay with just alive.

Then Tomas grabbed his jacket and a small backpack and left, the door closing with a soft click and a bolt turning.

Time to escape .

* * *

Maybe she should have dressed warmer.

London crouched in the woods, just below Moose’s massive timber home, darkness seeping out of the two-story picture windows off his deck, the place quiet, eerie, and maybe a little haunted by the memory of a man she’d known as Hawkeye.

Behind her, the Knik River rushed, gray and frigid, lethal chunks of forming ice jockeying their way downstream. A mist lifted into the night and slid under her black thermal shirt, her gloves. She wore the wool hat too, boots, a small notebook in her pocket, along with her night-vis monocular, and she held a KA-BAR. She couldn’t believe she’d left so many of her tools behind, but frankly, she’d left a lot of herself behind when she’d followed Ziggy that night over a month ago.

She’d really had no desire to retrieve her bag of Laney’s goodies. She’d had to swing by her old digs, wait for Boo to leave, sneak in, and retrieve them from her bedroom.

But here she was, back in the game.

For now.

Boo hadn’t touched her belongings. She didn’t blame her—who packed up their dead roommate’s things? Maybe Boo had been waiting for Shep to make that move.

London’s throat tightened.

Please, Tomas, don’t hurt him.

She’d hiked in from where she’d parked, a mile downstream, in a closed-for-the-season glamping campground. The soggy riverbank pressed moisture into her boots, and her feet chilled despite the wool socks.

She shivered. But this would be over soon. She’d driven past the Tooth and seen both Axel’s and Moose’s trucks parked in the lot, along with Boo’s Rogue. Flynn would be at work, a detective in the Anchorage Police Department. And Oaken was probably in his studio.

All clear .

London stepped out from behind the trio of birch trees and sneaked toward the house. Hawkeye had been a zealot for security—she remembered that from her first go-round with this place. Nearly got caught by Moose coming out onto his deck. But over the past year, she’d mapped it, knew how to dodge the lights all the way to the root cellar located in a shelter that also contained Moose’s supply of firewood.

Funny that he’d never figured out that this root cellar, located some twenty feet from his house, actually led to a space under the house, Hawkeye’s nest. Which meant it’d ended up being a genius place to hide the bio card.

Then again, Moose didn’t seem to spend a lot of time in his yard. Mostly sat on the deck, or grilled steaks, or hung out at Air One, so . . .

Or maybe he knew and simply hadn’t said anything.

She scooted into the shadows under the shelter, waited behind the wood, but the house stayed quiet. A heartbeat, then she opened the root cellar and descended the wooden stairs to the earthen floor.

Empty, smelling of dirt and age. Maybe once upon a time, homesteaders had stored their potatoes and dairy and anything they wanted to keep safe for winter here. In the daylight, standing on Moose’s deck, she could make out the remains of a foundation, so her guess was it might have been dug under the floor of a homesteader’s house.

Now, Moose’s beautiful timber home—a mansion, really—stood overlooking the river, imperious and oblivious to the control center inside.

She headed to a built-in bookshelf and pressed a latch, and the shelf jerked. She had to wrestle it open, and it shook a little, but behind it was a metal door with a push-button mechanical code. Seven numbers. She pulled out her notebook, paged it open, and shone her phone light on it, then pressed the numbers in the correct order and the door unlatched.

The door refused to budge, probably age and disuse rendering the hinges stiff. She put her shoulder against it and finally moved it, the squeal raising the tiny hairs on her neck. But it came open enough for her to squeeze inside. Then she pulled the shelf tight against the opening and pressed the door closed—again, putting her weight behind it.

Pitch darkness, except for her phone light. She ran her hand over the cement walls and found the switch. Turned it on.

Lights illuminated a cement tunnel that went all the way to the house, another metal door on the other end.

What Moose didn’t know—probably—was that he could arrive home and discover her sitting in his sauna room or even watching television in the basement without having touched a lock on his doors.

The place reeked of moisture, despite the attempts at sealing it, the bunker moldy and damp. She hustled down the twenty or so feet toward the far door, same mechanical lock, same code, and then let herself inside the safe room.

Moose had an office upstairs with a couple built-in flatscreens that showed exactly the same pictures that these screens displayed. However, his security setup didn’t include satellite coverage of the Black Swan mansion slash fortress in Switzerland. Or a dedicated satellite communication line from what looked like a defunct massive satellite near the shore.

Moose had once mentioned taking it out, but London had quietly shut him down, mentioning disposal costs. The guy pinched pennies like no one she knew.

Now she turned on the computers, and the screens came to life, fed by the electricity from the house. She turned on the satellite link to the mansion too, then sat down in the desk chair as Ziggy’s face appeared on the screen.

“What took you so long?” Her voice came through the speakers.

“I had to pick up the code and . . . some things. Where is Shep?”

“Tomas sent me coordinates. Said to come alone.”

“He’s going to try to kill me.”

“Probably. Or maybe he just wants his money.”

“Not his money. The Bratva’s money.”

“And now your money.”

“It was never my money. I’m just holding it.”

Ziggy’s mouth made a tight line. “Okay.”

London tried to read her mentor’s dark eyes. “Did you know?”

Ziggy frowned.

“That Tomas was alive?”

Ziggy’s shoulders rose and fell. “Yes. We found him after you left but decided not to tell you.”

“Might have been helpful.” She didn’t bother to tame the sarcasm.

Ziggy didn’t bite. “I know he was a mark, but I also know you had feelings for him. And we needed him dead.”

“Why is that always your go-to? Can’t people simply . . . disappear?”

“Only to be found again? The people they left behind kidnapped, tortured, and killed?”

To put a fine point on it. Ouch . London’s voice lowered. “Tomas had no one but me.”

Ziggy’s too. “Listen. We tried. We put him into our own WITSEC program. The Petrovs still found him.”

Of course they did . They had tentacles and covert operatives around the world. Even in the US government. “And now what—Tomas wants the money so he can disappear?”

Ziggy sighed. “I don’t know. But even if he has the bio card, he doesn’t have the seed phrase, right?”

London nodded, pointed to her head. “Twenty-two random words, in specific order.”

“Okay then. Get the key. Find Tomas. End this.”

She stilled. “Ziggy?—”

“You want him coming after you again?”

“I have a rule?—”

“Your rule nearly got you killed! And let a rogue CIA agent run free to terrorize America. You know how much damage Alan Martin has done to your country? He betrayed your country, helped the Petrovs nearly murder your president—twice—sent a plague of smallpox into your nation, and most recently, tried to start a war between Russia and America!” Ziggy took a breath, but barely, her voice cutting low. “If you had killed him that day on the mountain?—”

“I didn’t know.”

“You should have known. You read the situation?—”

“It’s done. And I nearly died that day.” Never mind that, yes, she’d panicked seeing her CIA contact dead.

Maybe she wasn’t cut out to be a Swan. It wasn’t the first time she’d had that thought.

“You had the chance to kill him, and you walked away.”

“With the money—that counts for something. I cut off their funds.”

“Yeah, well, it looks like they haven’t forgotten. And maybe they’re using Tomas to get to you.”

“Tomas wouldn’t betray me.”

“You’re so na?ve. Everyone betrays everyone.” From inside the mansion, in the massive office, Ziggy shook her head.

Not everyone . “Shep wouldn’t.”

“He lied to you about why he brought you here.”

“He told me the truth. It just took . . . time.”

“And this is your problem, London. You trust too easily.”

She drew in a breath. “It’s better than believing everyone is trying to kill you.”

“Really?” Ziggy leaned into the screen. “You’re alive because I believe that.”

Right.

Maybe she wore that truth in her expression because Ziggy leaned back, her tone softening. “Okay, I get it. Tomas is a friend. Fine. Find out what is really going on . . . and then we’ll see.”

Yeah, right . She knew exactly what Ziggy meant by we’ll see .

“I’m going to get the bio card. Send me the pin.”

“Remember your training. Once a Swan, always a Swan.”

That’s what she’d been trying to forget. “I’ll be in touch.”

She disconnected the feed, then got up and headed over to a safe built into the cement bunker. Pulling out her notebook, she keyed in the twenty-one-digit number, then pressed her thumb to the display.

The door unlatched.

Inside, along with a stack of other manila envelopes, sat a letter-sized envelope with a bio card along with a piece of paper inside. The twenty-two-word-long seed code. Just in case she forgot it. Her backup, should her memory fail her.

She left the code in the envelope but grabbed the bio card and shoved it into the leg pocket on her cargo pants. Then she rooted through the envelopes, found her ID packet, and took that also.

Because if she was going to disappear, she’d need to destroy all that was Laney Steele.

Then she closed the safe and locked it.

The monitors to the house had clicked on, and she peered at them, searching for movement. The driveway remained empty, the garage door closed, the backyard barren, and no lights flickered on in the house.

So far, so good.

She shut off the computers, then opened the metal door and headed back down the pitch-black hallway, her light bouncing through the space.

She reached the other doorway. A latch on the other side fused to the metal door, rust bleeding down around that. She hadn’t noticed that before. She put her hand on it, tried to tug it open, but the door wouldn’t budge.

She pulled on the handle again, harder?—

It screamed as it popped off, the door shuddering, and she stumbled back with the force of it, nearly fell. What ? —

She returned to the door, shining her light over it.

The rivets at the top of the handle bled red, weakened by rain or whatever moisture had wicked in. Not surprising—this was Alaska—but now what?

She’d have to sneak out through the house. Preferably before anyone returned home. She ran down the tunnel toward the other door, keyed in the code, and thankfully, it opened, no problem.

Back inside the safe room, she found the door to enter the house. No rust. She punched in the code, same as the office door, and the lock disengaged.

She wrenched the door open.

Metal stairs leading up, no light. She shone her phone on them and climbed up. At the top, at the end of a small landing, stood another door, this one unsecured. Maybe she should close the door at the bottom, but frankly, she didn’t want to be stuck in the middle in case this door didn’t want to budge.

She pulled the door open without a fight.

Inside, another door, this one covered in insulated foam, and she guessed it led to the sauna.

Moose never even suspected.

She pushed it open.

The sauna room sat adjacent to a space that held a hot tub. And beyond that, through windows, the basement rec room, with the pool table and massive flatscreen.

All dark.

She let out a breath, then pushed through the sauna, closing the metal door. She’d leave the office door open, but with the sauna door closed, who would know?

She closed the sauna door, heard it latch, and crept out of the room.

Just through the basement walkout, and she’d be into the yard and down to her car and?—

“Gotcha!”

The light flickered on and she whirled around.

Axel stood there, holding a cast-iron pan, his eyes wide.

Behind him, Flynn held her Glock, maybe just a little more lethal, but still, the pan in Axel’s grip looked menacing enough.

“It’s just me.” She put up her hands.

Axel stared at her, blinked. Didn’t move.

“Put the pan down, Axel.” London said.

He lowered it, and it dropped out of his hand onto the floor. “ London? ”

“Hi,” she said.

Silence, then, “ Hi? That’s what you’ve got?” His eyes darkened.

Then Flynn, who’d tucked her gun away, shoved past him and threw her arms around London. “Oh my gosh—I can’t believe it. I can’t . . .”

London hugged her back, her gaze on Axel, who still hadn’t moved. Maybe not even breathed.

Flynn pushed away, held London’s arms. Stared at her. “Are you okay? What happened? How are you—oh my gosh, wait until Shep finds out!” Her eyes widened. “Wait—does he know?”

Aw . “It’s a long story. And shoot—maybe you should just . . . turn off the lights and pretend you didn’t see me?—”

“ Hear you,” Axel said, his voice sounding a little strange. “There was this terrible sound, sort of a whine, and we thought it was an animal, and then we heard movement in the sauna, and I thought maybe, I don’t know . . . maybe a bear?”

“You were going to take out a bear with a frying pan?”

Axel’s eyes narrowed. “Okay, so maybe a small bear.”

A moment of silence. And then she laughed. And oh, it felt so terribly, wonderfully whole and right and good—and, “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have lied to you all—I really am sorry. But it’s a really long story, and if I tell you, then . . . people could get hurt.”

Axel seemed to breathe then. And finally, he reached out and pulled her to himself. They’d never been terribly close, but they were friends, and suddenly, maybe, family.

She hugged him back, wishing he were Shep and that this were over.

Axel pushed her away, met her eyes. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but we’re a rescue team. We specialize in hurt.”

Oh.

She glanced at Flynn, who put a hand over her mouth as if trying not to laugh at Axel’s statement.

Axel let her go. “Okay, fine, that didn’t come out quite like I hoped, but you get it, right?”

London nodded. “Yeah. I get it. But . . . okay, are you sure? Because if you say yes, then right now, your life changes, or at least, what you know about me changes, and maybe that won’t affect you at all, but . . . it could, and?—”

“Yes,” Flynn said. “We’re sure. Do not go out into the dark and disappear again. No one has been okay since they pulled your body—or not your body, as it turns out—from Jewel Lake. We’re barely breathing, and if you leave again . . . Yes, whatever is going on, London, we’re in.”

London cocked her head.

“At least give us a chance to be in.”

London drew in a breath. Oh, this was a bad, very bad idea. But weirdly, her eyes burned, and maybe, at least for a moment, she needed her Air One team. Especially if she hoped to rescue Shep.

Even if, at the end, they didn’t see the London they knew, but someone else.

A version of herself that she’d been trying to forget. But now, someone she clearly needed.

“Let’s go upstairs, but I don’t have a lot of time.”

How she’d missed the upstairs lights, she didn’t know. Maybe they’d come in while she’d been struggling with the door, because groceries sat in plastic bags on the island in the kitchen. Dinner . Her stomach growled, betraying her completely.

She’d eat after she rescued Shep.

“Okay, start at the beginning,” Axel said, setting the cast-iron pan on the stove.

“I don’t think we have time for that. How about if I start at the epic moment where we have about an hour to save Shep’s life?”

Flynn froze, along with Axel. And at that moment, the front door swung open.

And now London froze as in through the front door ran a little girl, age seven, her hair in braids, and behind her, Moose Mulligan, carrying a Moana suitcase along with another bag. He set them in the entryway, then held the door open for the little girl’s mother, Tillie, who stepped into the foyer, shivering.

“Oh, I forgot how cold Alaska is. Can we please go back to Florida?”

Moose laughed, and then the little girl, Hazel, ran over to Axel and hugged him. Then turned to London and also hugged her.

Oh. Uh . But London crouched down and hugged her back because, well, it was Hazel.

And then all the air in the room seemed to evaporate as she looked up and spotted Moose staring at her, his eyes wide, his mouth opening.

She swallowed.

“London,” he said, the name barely whispering out of him. “ London! ”

“Hey, boss.” She stood up.

Tillie had toed off her boots and hung up her coat and now came in, her dark hair back. “Hey, London. Axe. Flynn.”

Flynn gave her a hug, but her gaze stayed on London.

Moose came down the hall, still wearing his coat, his shoes. “London. What the— what is going on ?”

Tillie let Flynn go, looked at Moose, back to London, and frowned. “So, uh, what did I miss?”

* * *

“London died and you didn’t tell me?”

So, this wasn’t quite going the way Moose had hoped. He’d asked Axel to pick up groceries, maybe a pie from the Skyport Diner for dessert, and had planned a steak dinner. They’d put Hazel to bed together, and then Flynn had driven home and he’d gotten rid of his brother to his downstairs lair—yes, the guy needed to move out, pronto. Now Moose could finally sit down with Tillie and ask.

Not pop the Big Question, but ask . . . were they heading that way? And if so, when? And how long was enough time before they could start the life he’d been dreaming about since the day he’d met her—okay, maybe sometime after that, but certainly since he’d kissed her, and definitely after he’d met and fallen in love with her seven-year-old adopted daughter, Hazel, and helped disentangle them both from a man who’d claimed to be Hazel’s father.

Which left him, Moose thought, free and clear to line up and fill in the gap.

Maybe. In time.

Soon, he hoped.

“I really can’t believe you kept the accident from me,” Tillie said now, opening her suitcase with more oomph than needed.

Okay, so the showdown in the kitchen probably hadn’t helped his plans at all. What he’d like to do was erase the last fifteen minutes, start over, and shut Axel up when Tillie asked, “What did I miss?”

No—no—shoot. Because Axel and his smart mouth had answered, “A lot. Like London’s body being found in her submerged Subaru, cold and frozen, as in dead.”

Moose had wanted, right then, to reach out and clamp his hand over his kid brother’s mouth and say ix-nay on the ead-day. Because Hazel’s eyes widened, at which point London saved the day, turning and laughing with an, “Uncle Axel is just kidding. I’m alive and fine, see?” And then she’d high-fived Hazel, who’d high-fived her back.

Then Hazel had bounded upstairs to the guest room to draw a bath in his jetted guest-room jacuzzi, something she’d been talking about for weeks and nonstop on the drive home from Ted Stevens Airport.

So, yeah, that had given him a moment to say to Tillie, “It’s a long story, but true. We did find a body, about a month ago, in Jewel Lake, in London’s car, that looked like London—we thought it was London. Except, she’d been beaten, her fingertips were gone, and?—”

“Seriously.” Tillie’s tone had shut him down. “You’ve known for a month that your copilot and fellow rescue team member was dead ?—”

“Not dead,” Axel had said.

Moose glared at him.

Tillie held up a hand. “Presumed dead, and you all were grieving and you never, not once, mentioned it?” She stared at Moose. “Do you think I’m so fragile that I can’t handle the truth?”

“Not the truth,” said Axel.

“Shut up, Axel. It’s not funny.” Flynn’s voice. “No one likes to be lied to.”

And that statement had sort of shut down everyone.

Silence.

Finally, “Sorry,” London said. “I have reasons.”

He’d bet she did, but his priority was Tillie, his beautiful, strong Tillie who had just, finally, sorted out custody of Hazel and needed anything but a crisis right now.

“This isn’t on you,” Tillie said to London, her gaze on Moose.

“It sort of is—” Moose said.

Tillie’s gaze stayed hard on his. Fine . He looked at London. “London, I don’t care about your reasons right now. Instead, I’m going to trust you and say—okay. I’m glad you’re alive, and we’ll sort this out as soon as?—”

“I’m going to unpack.” Tillie had turned then and walked down the hall, grabbing her monstrously heavy bag. And sure, as a former marine, Iron Maiden champion, and most importantly, a waitress, she had guns, but not on Moose’s watch. So he’d run down the hall after her, taken the handle, and met her eyes.

“Fine,” she’d said and let him carry it upstairs. She’d grabbed Hazel’s bag and followed him up. And then shut the door behind the both of them. Which meant that, yes, he was in trouble.

Now, staring at her, he schooled his voice and responded to her accusation. “I don’t think you’re fragile. Are you serious? Please. And I know you can handle the truth. But you’ve also been handling a lot of emotional bombs over the last month, with the charges and the case against Rigger, all the depositions you’ve given, the custody battle, not to mention getting to know your father again, so . . . yeah. I kept London’s death from you. Frankly, all of us weren’t even sure that . . . well, the body hasn’t been conclusively identified. The face was beaten, the fingers cut off. Seriously, Shep lost it at the crime scene?—”

“ Shep found her?” Tillie had calmed a little, and now, in the silence, they heard singing from the bathroom.

Hazel. “How Far I’ll Go” from Moana.

Tillie smiled, her eyes warming despite her anger. “She loves your tub.”

“I love her.”

And maybe now was the time?—

“And Shep loves London. I can’t imagine finding your body, mutilated . . .” She stepped toward him, put her hands on his chest. “He must have been destroyed.”

“A little. No, a lot. He’s been quiet. I gave him London’s job of putting the training schedule together. I was trying to keep him busy.”

“And what do the police say?”

“No sign of a struggle at her and Boo’s house. And no sign of her killer—no DNA, nothing. It was a complete shock—Shep had seen her the night before and sent her home before an ice storm hit. The next day, they found the car in the lake.”

“So terrible.” Tillie’s eyes filled. She closed them.

Oh, she was so . . . amazing. Strong and beautiful, and he put a hand to her cheek to catch a tear that edged out of her eye. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

She opened her eyes, the anger gone. “I forgive you,” she said softly, then shook her head. “Poor Shep. I’d lose it if I lost”—she swallowed—“you.”

Her words warmed him through. “Me too.”

And of course he kissed her. Pressed his lips to hers, and she was willing and soft and sort of melted into him.

Wow, he loved this woman.

She tasted of coffee from her plane ride and had lost some weight, maybe, from stress, but she slid her arms around his body, holding on. He wanted to deepen his kiss, his hunger for her rising through him, but . . . well, not yet.

It was probably a good thing when she pushed herself away. “My daughter is in the next room, and your friends are in crisis downstairs, and . . . I should go home.”

“Not tonight. I want to make sure you’re safe and . . . I don’t know. I’m still looking over my shoulder a little.”

She stepped away. Sighed. “Me too. So okay, I’ll stay—for tonight. And I’ll let you feed me.”

“I asked Axel to buy pie.”

“Of course you did.” She sat down on the bed. “So, how is Shep?”

“Not great. It feels strange that London wouldn’t have told him she was alive.”

“Reasons, she said.”

“And I want to hear them. But Shep and she . . . they have history. They survived a trauma together in Switzerland a few years ago, and . . . I don’t know. That feels cruel—to be alive and not tell the people you love.”

She nodded, her mouth tight, and looked away.

“Oh, Til, I wasn’t referring to you and your dad or?—”

She held up a hand. “I didn’t know my dad was alive, and he didn’t know where to find me. It’s all good.”

Right. And she’d spent the last month fixing that deep wound between them.

“But . . . do you think London faked her death?”

“Clearly.”

“So why now? Why come back now ?”

He had nothing.

“Go downstairs. I’m going to find some clean pajamas for my daughter.” She smiled. “Feels good to officially call her that.”

“Yeah.” Then he leaned down and kissed her forehead. Somehow refrained from saying, “I look forward to that day too.”

He left her in the bedroom and headed downstairs.

Axel was on his phone, searching a map.

Flynn was texting.

London was pacing, looking at her watch.

“Okay, London. Please tell me. . . . How are you back from the dead?”