In the wake of a tragedy,

the Tactical Crime Division is the first call.

When ironclad body armor inexplicably fails and soldiers perish, the Tactical Crime Division jumps into action. Agent and former ranger Davis Rogers asks to go undercover to find the traitor responsible for the death of one of his friends, and Petrov Armor CEO Leila Petrov is happy to provide access to her company...especially once she discovers she’s being framed. But will their joint efforts be enough to uncover the truth?

ELIZABETH HEITER likes her suspense to feature strong heroines, chilling villains, psychological twists and a little romance. Her research has taken her into the minds of serial killers, through murder investigations and onto the FBI Academy’s shooting range. Elizabeth graduated from the University of Michigan with a degree in English Literature. She’s a member of International Thriller Writers and Romance Writers of America. Visit Elizabeth at www.elizabethheiter.com

Also by Elizabeth Heiter

K-9 Defense

Bodyguard with a Badge

Police Protector

Secret Agent Surrender

Disarming Detective

Seduced by the Sniper

SWAT Secret Admirer

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Secret Investigation

Elizabeth Heiter

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90519-4

SECRET INVESTIGATION

© 2020 Harlequin Books S.A.

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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For my mom, who gets to be surprised by this book

(even though there are no aliens).

Thanks to Denise Zaza, for inviting me to be a part of

the Tactical Crime Division team’s story! Thanks to my

sister, Caroline, for beta-reading this book for me.

To my writer pals Tyler Anne Snell and Heather Novak

for keeping me on track. And to my new husband,

for all of the brainstorming.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

About the Publisher

Prologue

The sandstorm came first. Then came the bullets.

Training had been going well. The locals wanted to take the lead in the fight on their land, and US Army captain Jessica Carpenter was more than willing to let them. Leave behind the ninety-degree heat—and that was before she loaded herself up with fifty pounds of gear, which made it feel a million degrees hotter. Leave behind the sand that swept up out of nowhere, got into your eyes and nose and mouth until everything was gritty. Leave behind trudging for miles up mountainsides, where one wrong step sent you on a downward slide over nothing but sharp shale and deadly rocks.

Go home to her kids. Her oldest was starting middle school this year. He was getting into gaming and skateboarding, and losing interest in talking to his mom over satellite phones when his friends were down the street waiting. The youngest was about to start kindergarten. Her baby, who’d never met her dad and cried every time her mom left for another tour. Ironic that Jessica, who ran headfirst into firefights, was still here and her unassuming engineer husband had been taken from them with a simple wrong turn in a thunderstorm and a head-on collision with a telephone pole.

“What was that?” The young soldier at her side jerked, his weapon coming up fast, sweeping the space in front of him even though there was no way he could see anything.

Jessica slapped her hand over the top of the weapon, forcing it toward the ground. “Don’t fire unless you can see what you’re shooting.”

It was going to be nearly impossible. She tried to ignore the hard thump-thump of her heart warning her something was wrong. Sandstorms came hard and fast here, with the ability to shred away the top layer of skin. They reduced visibility to almost nothing, and the sound—like high-velocity wind—meant she could barely hear the soldier screaming beside her.

She put her hand on his shoulder, hoping to calm him, as she strained to hear over the wind. Had she imagined the gunshots? Maybe it was a local, startled by the ferocity of the sandstorm. More likely it was one of the newer members of her team, still not used to the violence of it.

The sand whipped up from her feet, stinging every inch of exposed skin like a thousand tiny needles. Times like these, she was grateful for the uniform that stuck to her skin in the heat and the full body armor she and her team had donned. Yes, it was a training op, but they’d chosen to take the locals into a dangerous pass, practice tactical approaches. Out here, you could never discount an ambush.

Yanking her goggles down over her eyes, Jessica blinked and blinked, trying to get the grit out. No matter how much her eyes watered, the sand wouldn’t clear. Her vision was still compromised. She hunched her shoulders upward, trying to protect the exposed skin on her face, but it didn’t matter. If this kept up, it would be raw in minutes.

Time to bug out. She lifted her radio—her best bet of them hearing through the storm—to tell the team to get back to the vehicles when another shot rang out.

Instinctively she ducked low, forcing the soldier beside her down, too. Her MP4 carbine assault rifle was up without conscious thought, but she couldn’t see a thing. Was there a real threat? Or was someone panicking in the storm?

“Report!” Jessica yelled, but her voice whipped away on the wind.

Even though it would make her a target, Jessica flipped the light on her helmet, trying to illuminate the space in front of her. Her hand brushed the camera strapped to her head, reminding her she’d been taping the training session. Little good it would do them now, even if the camera wasn’t ruined.

She didn’t expect the light to make a bit of difference, but it actually helped. Or at least that’s what she thought until she realized it was just the storm dying down as fast as it had come. She had a moment’s relief until movement caught her eye. An insurgent, darting from an outcropping in the mountain above, the muzzle on his rifle flashing.

“Take cover,” Jessica screamed as she took aim.

The insurgent ducked into a mountain crevice, but as the howling wind abated, the heavy boom-boom-boom of automatic fire took its place. He wasn’t alone.

Toggling her radio, Jessica told base, “We’re taking fire. Sandstorm moving out. Insurgents...” She paused, glancing around and trying to gauge numbers. Dread sunk low in her chest, bottoming out as she saw her soldiers racing for cover. “At least twenty, maybe more. Send—”

The radio flew out of her hand before she could finish and Jessica swung her weapon up, ignoring the way her other hand burned. She didn’t dare look to see how bad it was. First she had to assess her team. At least she’d made them wear their body armor. Brand-new and the best the army had, it was lightweight but ultrastrong. It could stop a bullet from anything short of a .50 caliber. And her soldiers were wearing full-body plating today.

It wouldn’t save them from a shot to the face or a lucky hit that found its way underneath the plates, but she had faith in their training and their gear.

Then the soldier next to her—the new recruit who’d been on her team for less than a week—let out a wail that made her stomach clench. He hit the ground hard, head thrown back at an impossible angle.

Still, Jessica dropped next to him, reaching for a pulse beneath his neck guard. That’s when she saw the bullet holes. Straight through the chest, five of them in an arced line. She slammed a hand down over them, furious at him for not wearing his vest, and pain ricocheted up her arm. Not just from the bullet that had nicked the fleshy part of her thumb, but from the hard plating that should have protected him.

Her dread intensified, a new panic like she’d never felt in the almost ten years she’d dodged bullets for the army. Her head whipped up, surveying the scene. The locals, diving for cover or already down and not moving. Her soldiers, taking hits that should have knocked them down but not taken them out, crumpling under the fire of the insurgents.

Too many of them.

The panic worsened, tensing all her muscles and dimming her vision even more, a tunnel within the specks of sand. She didn’t want to die seven thousand miles from home. Didn’t want to fail her team. Didn’t want to leave behind the kids who meant everything to her. The kids she’d taken this job to support, back when her husband was still studying for his degree. The job she’d discovered she loved enough to keep even after he was gone.

But she didn’t want to die for it.

Fire seared through Jessica’s arm and the force of the bullet made her stagger backward. She’d been hit. She shifted her MP4 to the other hand, blood from her thumb smearing across the trigger guard as she returned fire. The next shot knocked her back. She slammed into the ground, gasping for breath.

Bullets hitting your body armor always did that. Ripped the air from your lungs and left a nasty bruise.

But this time the pressure wasn’t lessening. It was getting worse. Jessica gasped for air, trying to raise her MP4 as she saw another insurgent taking aim at her. She couldn’t lift it, so she went for her pistol instead, strapped to her side and much lighter than the assault rifle.

Her fingers closed around it even as her vision began to blur. Then the whole world went dark.

Chapter One

“I assume everyone’s seen the news coverage.” Jill Pembrook, director of the FBI’s Tactical Crime Division, didn’t bother to wait until her team was settled in the conference room. She stood at the front of the long table, arms crossed over her tailored navy blue skirt suit. On a large screen behind her, a video was paused, frozen on the terrified face of a soldier.

Pembrook was petite enough that even standing while most of the team was sitting didn’t give her much clearance over those assembled. But she didn’t need it. Pembrook had been with the Bureau for almost forty years, meaning they’d opted to keep her on past the regular mandatory retirement age. With her pale, lined skin and well-coiffed gray hair, she might look like someone’s sweet yet chic grandma, until you locked eyes with her. Then you knew exactly why the FBI had handpicked her to lead TCD—a rapid response team that could activate quickly and take on almost any threat.

Davis Rogers was still amazed he’d made the cut to join the team. He looked around the room at the other agents, with backgrounds ranging from the military like him to hostage negotiation and profiling to missing persons and computer hacking. He’d only been here for a few months. But they’d welcomed him into the fold fast, with the kind of camaraderie he’d only felt with his family—in and out of the military.

Normally he’d sit back and take the assignment the director gave him. He’d be willing to bide his time and prove himself, without any of the hotshot antics that had motivated many an army ranger. But not today. Not with this case.

He gritted his teeth as Hendrick Maynard stepped up beside Pembrook. Hendrick was their resident computer genius. With his tall, lanky frame and a face that was still battling acne, he looked young enough to be in high school, but that facade hid a genius mind and mature outlook.

Hendrick seemed more serious than usual as he pressed the handheld remote and started playing the video on the screen behind the director. The clip he played was one Davis had seen last night on the news and again this morning in slightly more detail on the YouTube version.

It started suddenly, in the middle of a firefight, with gunshots blasting in the background and sand whipping everywhere, the sound intense even over video. The soldier who’d been frozen on screen finished his fall and didn’t get up again. The camera made a quick scan of soldiers and Afghan locals going down, all of it hard to see through the sand that shot up from the ground like a tornado. Then everything suddenly cleared as the camera dived in for a close-up of a young soldier, eyes and mouth open with the shock of death. The camera panned down, a hand slapping against his chest as the bullet holes became visible.

The average American probably wouldn’t have realized from the brief footage that the soldier had been wearing full body armor. But somehow the news station had known. They’d also known who’d been running the camera: decorated US Army captain Jessica Carpenter. Widow, mother of three, and as of 6:52 a.m. Tennessee time, a confirmed casualty.

Davis pictured her the way she’d looked a decade ago, the day he’d met her. Only a few inches shorter than his own six feet, with gorgeous dark skin and hair she’d had twisted up and away from her face in braids, she’d worn that army uniform with a confidence he’d envied. She’d been five years older, and with two months more military experience, it had seemed like much more. If she hadn’t been happily married, with a toddler and a new baby at home, he might have taken his shot with her.

Instead, they’d become friends. She’d even trained him early on, back before she’d become a captain and he’d headed for Special Operations. If he wasn’t sitting in this conference room right now, waiting for the chance to go after the people responsible for her death, he’d be flying to Mississippi to attend her funeral this weekend.

Davis squeezed the underside of the table to keep himself from slamming a fist on top of it. As he refocused, he realized Hendrick had turned off the video screen and taken a seat. Around him, agents were nodding thoughtfully, professionally. Only fellow agent Jace Cantrell—JC to the team—showed a hint of anger on his face. But JC had been military too. And once a soldier, always a soldier.

As in the Bureau, dying in the field was a possibility you accepted. You did whatever you could to prevent it, but if it happened, you knew you’d be going out doing something you believed in. But not like this. Not the way Jessica had died, trusting the military, trusting her training, trusting her equipment.

“I want to take the lead on this case,” Davis blurted.

Gazes darted to him: from profiler Dr. Melinda Larsen, silently assessing, suspicion in her eyes, as if she somehow knew he had a history with one of the victims. Always buttoned-up Laura Smith was quiet and unreadable, but her Ivy League brain was probably processing every nuance of his words. JC, staring at him with understanding, even though he didn’t realize Davis knew Jessica personally. No one on the team did.

“Is your personal investment in this case going to be a hindrance or a help?” Pembrook asked, voice and gaze steady.

Davis’s spine stiffened even more. She was talking about his army background. She had to be. But if she thought he was going to fidget, she underestimated the hell he’d gone through training to be a ranger for the army. “A help. I’m familiar with how the army works. And I’m familiar with the product. I’ve worn Petrov Armor vests.”

Petrov Armor had supplied the body armor Jessica and her team had been wearing during the ambush. That armor—supposedly the newest and best technology—had failed spectacularly, resulting in the deaths of all but three of the soldiers and one of the locals. In his mind it wasn’t the insurgents who had killed Jessica and her team. It was Petrov Armor.

He didn’t mention the rest. He’d more than just worn the vests. He’d had a chance to be an early tester of their body armor, back when he was an elite ranger and Petrov Armor was better known for the pistols they made than their armor. He’d given the thumbs-up, raving about the vest’s bullet-stopping power and comfort in his report. He’d given the army an enthusiastic endorsement to start using Petrov Armor’s products more broadly. And they had.

“I’m not talking about the armor,” Pembrook replied, her gaze still laser-locked on his, even as agent-at-large Kane Bradshaw slipped into the meeting late and leaned against the doorway. “I’m talking about Jessica Carpenter.” Her voice softened. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

The gazes on him seemed to intensify, but Davis didn’t shift his from Pembrook’s. “Thank you. And no, it won’t affect my judgment in the case.”

Pembrook nodded, but he wasn’t sure if she believed him as she looked back at the rest of the group and continued her briefing. “Petrov Armor won a big contract with the military five years ago. The armor this team was wearing is their latest and greatest. It’s not worn widely yet, but their earlier version armor is commonly used. The military is doing a full round of testing across all their branches. They’ve never had a problem with Petrov Armor before, and they don’t intend to have another.

“Meanwhile, they’ve asked us to investigate at home. We got lucky with the news coverage. We’re still not sure how it was leaked, but not all of it got out. Or if it did, the news station only played a small part. And somehow they don’t have the name of the body armor supplier. Not yet,” she said emphatically. “Rowan, we don’t have to worry about PD this time. I’m putting you on the media. Hendrick can lend computer support if you need it.”

Rowan Cooper nodded, looking a little paler than usual, but sitting straighter.

Since the TCD team traveled all over the country and abroad, they regularly had to work with police departments. Sometimes their assistance was requested and cooperation was easy. Other times the local PD didn’t want federal help at all, and it became Rowan’s job to smooth everything over. Davis had never envied her that job. But he envied her dealing with the media even less.

“What’s our initial read on the situation?” JC asked. “Did Petrov Armor just start sending inferior products or are we talking about some kind of sabotage?”

“At this point, we don’t know. The army hasn’t had a chance to begin evaluating the vests yet. They’re still dealing with death notifications and shipping home remains.”

The clamp that had seemed to lock around Davis’s chest the moment he’d heard the news ratcheted tighter. Jessica had lost her husband a few years earlier. Davis had met him once, when he and Jessica happened to rotate back home at the same time. He’d never met her kids in person, but he’d gotten to talk with them once over a ridiculously clear video chat from seven thousand miles away. They’d been funny and cute, jostling for the best position in front of the camera and all trying to talk at once. They were orphans now.

Davis took a deep breath and tried to focus as Pembrook continued. “Petrov Armor has recently gone through some big changes. About a year ago, founder and CEO Neal Petrov retired. He passed the torch to his daughter, Leila Petrov, formerly in charge of the company’s client services division. One of the biggest changes she’s made has been to shut down the weapons side of their business and focus entirely on the armor. But you can bet Neal Petrov was the one to convince the board of directors to agree to that decision. He had controlling stock share and a lot of influence. He stayed involved in the business until three weeks ago, when he got caught up in a mugging gone bad and was killed.”

“You think the new CEO is cutting corners with dad out of the picture?” Kane asked, not moving from where he’d planted himself near the doorway.

That strategic position was probably in case he wanted to make a quick getaway. The agent-at-large had known the director for a long time, but he was one of the few members of the team Davis couldn’t quite get a read on. He seemed to flit in and out of the office at random, more often away on some secret assignment than working with the team.

“Maybe,” Pembrook replied. She looked at JC. “I want you to bring her in. Take Smitty with you.”

Laura Smith nodded, tucking a stray blond hair behind her ear as Davis opened his mouth to argue.

Before he could, Melinda jumped in, sounding every bit the profiler as she suggested, “Make it a spectacle. Do it in front of her people. We don’t have enough for a formal arrest at this point, but Leila Petrov is only thirty, pretty young for a CEO. Technically, she’s been in charge for a year, but we have to assume her father has been holding her hand until recently. Almost certainly he convinced the board of directors to let her take the helm when he retired. If we shake her up from the start, get her off balance and scared, she’s more likely to cooperate before contacting a lawyer. And she’s more likely to slip up.”

Pembrook nodded and glanced at her watch. “Do it in an hour. That should give her employees plenty of time to get settled in before you march her out of there.”

Davis squeezed his hands together tighter under the table. He could feel the veins in his arms starting to throb from the pressure, but he couldn’t stop himself any more than he could prevent blurting angrily, “Director—”

That was all he got out before she spoke over him. “Davis, I think your military background will come in handy, too. I’m going to let you run lead on this.”

Shock kept him silent, but his hands loosened and the pain in his chest eased up. “Thank—”

“You’re dismissed, everyone. Let’s jump on this.” Pembrook turned toward him. “Follow me, Davis. Let’s have a chat.” Before he could reply, she was out the door.

Davis was slower getting to his feet. As he passed Kane in the doorway, the other agent offered him a raised eyebrow and a sardonic grin, but Davis didn’t care. Not about Kane’s opinion and not about whatever warnings Pembrook was about to level at him.

He was on the case. Whether it was new CEO Leila Petrov to blame or someone else, he wasn’t stopping until he brought that person down.

He glanced skyward as he stepped through the threshold of the director’s office, saying a silent goodbye to his old friend. Promising to avenge her death.

“THE SOLDIER YOU see died at the scene. Army captain Jessica Carpenter, who took the video, also died when she was shot through her bulletproof vest. The army is looking into the circumstances. Keep watching for updates on this story and more. Next up—”

Eric Ross turned off the TV and Leila Petrov had to force herself to swivel toward him. She tried to wipe the horror and disbelief she was feeling off her face, but Eric had known her since she was a lonely thirteen-year-old. He’d been her first kiss two years later. Three years after that, he’d broken her heart.

He read her now just as easily as he always had. “Maybe it’s not our armor.”

“Maybe it is.” Petrov Armor had supplied the military with millions of dollars’ worth of guns and armor in the past thirty years. Their accounts had started out slow, with her father barely showing a profit in those early years. Now, the military not only kept them in business with their big armor purchases, but those sales also allowed her to employ almost two hundred people. It was her father’s legacy. But it was now her responsibility.

The numbers said there was a good chance those soldiers had been wearing some version of Petrov Armor. But logic said they couldn’t be. Petrov Armor was serious about its testing. Any tweak, no matter how minor, was checked against every bullet and blade in its testing facility. Every single piece of armor that left its building was inspected for quality. If the armor was damaged, it went in the trash. The company could afford the waste; it couldn’t afford to screw up.

Leila breathed in and out through her nose, praying she wasn’t going to throw up. Not that she had much in her system to throw up anyway. She’d barely been eating since her dad had stood up to that mugger instead of just handing over his wallet. In a single, stupid instant, she’d lost one of the only two close family members she had left. Tears welled up and she blinked them back, not wanting Eric to see.

Maybe once he’d been her first confidant, her closest friend, and her lover, but now he was her employee. The last thing she needed was for anyone to doubt her strength as a leader.

It had been an uphill battle for a year, getting her employees to take her seriously as CEO. She thought it was working until her dad died. Then she realized just how much resentment remained that she’d succeeded him. She’d come in every day since, not taking any time off to mourn, in part because she’d known her father would have wanted her to focus on work. And in part because work was the only thing that could take her mind off her crushing loss. But it was mostly to prove to the staff that she’d earned her position. She couldn’t afford to lose her cool now, not when so much was at stake.

Leila took a deep breath and tipped her chin back. She spotted the slight smile that disappeared as quickly as it slid onto Eric’s lips, and knew it was because he recognized her battle face. Ignoring it, she said, “We need to get ahead of this. Start making phone calls. Anyone you’ve made a sale to in the army in the past year. Find out if it’s ours, so we can figure out what happened. And we’d better see if we can track down the actual shipment. If there are any other problems, I want to find them first.”

“Leila—”

“I need you to start right now, Eric. We don’t have time to waste.”

“Maybe you should call your uncle.”

Joel Petrov, her dad’s younger brother and the company’s COO, hadn’t come in yet. If somehow he’d managed to miss the news reports, she wanted to keep him in the dark as long as possible. He’d handled so much for her family, keeping the business afloat all those years ago when her mom died and her dad had been so lost in his grief he’d forgotten everything, including her. Her uncle had picked up the slack there, too, making sure she was fed and made it to school on time. Making sure she still felt loved.

Right now, she could use a break. Hopefully they’d find out those devastating deaths weren’t due to their armor. She’d worked hard to transition the company from producing both weapons and armor to solely armor. She wanted Petrov Armor to be known as a life-saving company, not a life-ending one. This incident put that at risk.

Maybe the panic Leila was feeling over the whole situation would be a thing of the past before her uncle climbed out of whatever woman’s bed he’d found himself in last night and she’d be able to tell him calmly that she’d handled it.

“We’re looking for Leila Petrov.”

The unfamiliar voice was booming, echoing through Petrov Armor’s open-concept layout, breaching the closed door of her office. Even before that door burst open and a man and woman in suits followed, looking serious as they held up FBI badges, she knew.

Petrov Armor was in serious trouble.

She stepped forward, trying not to let them see all the emotions battling inside her—the fear, the guilt, the panic. Her voice was strong and steady as she replied, “I’m Leila Petrov.”

“FBI,” the woman announced, and the steel in her voice put Leila’s to shame. “Agents Smith and Cantrell. We have some questions for you. We’d like you to come with us—”

Eric pushed his way up beside her, taking a step slightly forward. “You can’t possibly have warrants. What kind of scare-tactic BS—”

“Stop,” Leila hissed at him.

The other agent spoke over them both, his voice raised to carry to the employees behind him, their heads all peering over their cubicle walls. “We can talk here if you prefer.”

Leila grabbed her purse and shook her head. “I’ll come with you.”

“And I’ll contact our lawyer,” Eric said, his too-loud voice a stark contrast to her too-soft one.

She kept her head up, met the gazes of her employees with confident, “don’t worry” nods as she followed Agents Smith and Cantrell out of Petrov Armor.

She prayed that slow, humiliating walk wouldn’t be the beginning of the end of everything her father had worked for, of the legacy she’d promised herself she’d keep safe for him.

Chapter Two

Despite its location in a nondescript building on the outskirts of Old City, Tennessee, the Tactical Crime Division had an interview room that would be the envy of most FBI field offices. Maybe it was a result of working with a profiler who believed in setting the stage for each individual interview. That meant sometimes the room looked like a plush hotel lobby and other times it was as stark as a prison cell. It all depended what Melinda thought would work best to get the subject talking.

Today it leaned closer to prison cell, with uncomfortable, hard-backed chairs pulled up to a drab gray table. But what Davis was most cognizant of was the video camera up in the corner, ready to broadcast in real time to the rest of the team everything he was doing.

Don’t lose your cool, he reminded himself as the door opened. He could hear Smitty telling the CEO of Petrov Armor to go ahead in.

He’d read Leila Petrov’s bio. Even with her undergraduate degree in business with minors in communications and marketing followed by an MBA, thirty years old was awfully young to be the CEO of a billion-dollar company. Then again, nepotism had a way of opening doors that little else could.

He’d seen her picture, too. She was undeniably gorgeous, with shiny, dark hair and big brown eyes. But she looked more like a college student getting ready for her first job interview than a CEO. Still, he wasn’t about to underestimate her. He’d seen what that could do on too many missions overseas, when soldiers thought just because someone was a young female meant they couldn’t be strapped with a bomb.

But as she came through the door, he was unprepared for the little kick his heart gave, sending extra blood pumping to places it had no business going. Maybe it was her determined stride, the nothing-fazes-me tilt of her chin in a room that made hardened criminals buckle. He felt her reciprocal jolt of attraction as much as he saw it in the sudden sweep her gaze made over his body, the slight flush on her cheeks.

She recovered faster than he did, scowling at the setup. “If you’re trying to intimidate me, it’s not going to work. I’m here voluntarily. I want to help, but I don’t appreciate being bullied.”

He debated rethinking the whole interview plan, but decided to trust Melinda. He’d never worked with a profiler before coming to TCD, but in the short time he’d been here, he’d become a believer. “If you think this is being bullied, you have no business working with the military. Take a seat.”

Instead of following the directive, she narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. Her stance shifted, as if she was considering walking right out.

Silently Davis cursed, because the truth was, she could leave whenever she wanted. But he’d picked a course and he refused to back down now. So, he crossed his own arms, lifted his eyebrows and waited.

A brief, hard smile tilted her lips up, and then she pulled one of the chairs away from the table and perched on the edge of it. Rather than looking poised to run, with her perfect posture and well-tailored black suit, she managed to look like she was in charge.

Never underestimate someone who’d made CEO by thirty, no matter the circumstances, he told himself. Then he pulled his own chair around the table and positioned it across from her. Settling into the seat, he leaned forward, reducing the space between them to almost nothing.

If he couldn’t intimidate her with this room and his job title, maybe sheer size would work. She was tall for a woman—probably five foot ten without the low heels she wore—but he still had a few inches on her. And a lot of breadth with muscles he’d earned the hard way in the rangers.

Her eyes locked on his without hesitation. They were the shade of a perfect cup of coffee, with just a hint of cream added. This close to him, he could see how smooth and clear her skin was, with deeper undertones than he’d first realized. The flush on her cheeks was still there, but now it was darker, tinged from anger. And damn it all, she smelled like citrus, probably some expensive perfume to go with the designer clothes.

Clothes that hung just a little looser than they should suggested she’d been skipping meals. Despite her appeal, he didn’t miss the heavy application of makeup underneath her eyes that couldn’t quite hide the dark circles. He didn’t miss the redness in those eyes either, as if she’d been up late crying. Most likely still grieving the father she’d lost unexpectedly three weeks ago.

“I’m Special Agent Davis Rogers. I’m sure Agents Smith and Cantrell told you what this was about—assuming you didn’t watch the news this morning.” Davis knew Smitty and JC wouldn’t have given her much in the way of details. They wanted to keep her off balance by having different agents bring her in than the one questioning her. But so far, nothing seemed to faze her much.

He didn’t want to respect that, but it was a trait that was crucial in Special Operations. He couldn’t help admiring it in a civilian CEO facing a massive investigation of her company and possible jail time.

“The soldiers who were killed in an ambush,” Leila replied. “Reporters say they were wearing armor. I’m guessing, since I’m here, that the army thinks they were wearing Petrov Armor?”

He could see the hope in her eyes, the wish that he’d correct her, say it was all a mistake or she’d just been brought in for her expertise. He actually felt bad for a nanosecond, then he remembered hearing the news about Jessica—over the television as her family had since the video had leaked before notifications could be made. “They don’t think it. They’ve confirmed it.”

She sighed heavily, then nodded. Her gaze stayed serious, no trace of panic, just sadness lurking beneath determination. “I want to see the plates.”

“Excuse me?” Was she joking? “They’re evidence in an open investigation.”

His words should have made her blanch, but instead the hardness in her gaze just intensified. “They’re not ours.”

He couldn’t stop the snort of disbelief that escaped. This was her spin?

She rushed on before he could figure out how to respond to that ridiculousness. “We have a lot of checks and balances in place. My dad joined the military when he was eighteen. He stayed in four years and watched three fellow soldiers die in a training accident. It stuck with him, made him want to do something to prevent it. He decided to dedicate himself to making better gear and weapons. The army paid for his tuition, helped him get the knowledge and skills to start Petrov Armor. It mattered to him—and it matters to me—that what we make saves lives. From the beginning, most of our gun and armor sales were to the military.”

The words out of her mouth were passionate, but Davis had been an FBI agent in white collar crime for four years before getting recruited to TCD. He’d learned quickly that one of the most valued qualities in CEOs of crooked companies was being a good liar. He’d also learned that when things got dicey, those same CEOs would throw others under the bus as fast as they could. So, he leaned back and waited for it.

Leila leaned forward, closing the gap between them again.

He hid his surprise at her boldness, trying not to breathe her subtle citrusy perfume.

“Nothing leaves our facility without being inspected. Furthermore, we don’t make changes without testing them with every kind of weapon we promise to protect against. There’s no way our products were breached by the kind of weapons the news reported were being used. So, either the bullets the insurgents were using changed or those soldiers weren’t wearing Petrov Armor.”

Since she was sticking with her story and he had no idea how long she’d hang around, Davis decided to help her out. “What about the person in charge of inspections? Or the people in charge of testing? Isn’t there a possibility that corners were cut without you realizing it?”

If she had any brains, she’d agree with him, give herself a little distance in case the whole thing blew up in her face—which he was pretty sure it was going to do.

Instead, the fury in her gaze deepened. “You really think I’m going to sell out one of my employees? No. That’s not possible. Anyone in a key role like that has been at Petrov Armor a long time. We don’t concentrate power without unannounced checks by other members of the team. It was my father’s rule long before he took the company public and the board of directors and I stand by that to this day.”

Davis felt himself frown and tried to smooth out his features. She was either a better liar than she seemed or she actually believed what she was saying.

The problem was, he believed the army. Jessica had been wearing Petrov Armor when she died. Which meant someone else was lying.

He had a bad feeling it might have been Leila Petrov’s father, longtime CEO of Petrov Armor and as of three weeks ago, dead. If Davis was right, then he’d already missed his chance to throw the bastard in jail. If he was right, there’d be no way left to truly avenge his friend’s death.

MELINDA LARSEN HAD seen some of the best liars in the country during her twelve years with the FBI. Before that, while doing her graduate thesis in psychology, she’d talked to incarcerated serial killers. They’d woven the most convincing tales she’d ever heard about their innocence with almost no body language tells that contradicted what they were saying. They’d also scared the hell out of her, with so much evil lurking beneath calm or even neighborly exteriors.

It had all been practice for her role at TCD, where she didn’t have the luxury of months-or years-long investigations, but had to make assessments almost on the spot. It was a near impossible task, but Melinda had discovered she thrived on the challenge.

It was also the best distraction she’d found in the past decade to keep her from thinking about the losses in her own life. Because no matter how much she’d thrown herself into her cases before TCD, there was always one unsolved case at the forefront of her mind. But here, that case was starting to fade into the background. She was starting to finally accept that she might never know the truth about the most important case she’d never been able to officially investigate. At TCD, she was finally starting to move on with her life.

Leila Petrov hadn’t presented much of a challenge. But Melinda still gave her standard disclaimer as she stared at Davis and Pembrook. Because no matter how good she was—and she knew she was one of the best—she wasn’t immune from mistakes. “One interview isn’t enough time to form a complete assessment.”

Jill Pembrook gave a slight smile as she nodded, half amusement and half encouragement. It was a look Melinda had come to expect in the year she’d worked for Pembrook. Davis just crossed his arms over his chest, looking pissed off in what Melinda thought of as his civvies—well-worn jeans and a dark T-shirt that emphasized the strength in his arms and chest. But she knew Davis’s anger wasn’t directed at her. It was for the high-priced lawyer who’d shown up in the middle of his interview with Leila Petrov and pulled her out of there.

“I think she’s telling the truth. She doesn’t know anything about it.”

At Melinda’s proclamation, Davis seemed to deflate. “I agree,” he said. “And let’s be honest, Petrov Armor isn’t small, but it’s not exactly a huge company. Unless it was pure sloppiness—which I doubt, given their history supplying the military—there’s something unusual going on here.”

“Cutting corners,” Melinda suggested. “Maybe these checks she thinks are in place aren’t being followed. Or she’s too distracted grieving her father to notice they messed up a big shipment. Or we could be talking about sabotage.”

Davis looked intrigued. “Cutting corners could suggest her father knew about it and was just trying to make more money from substandard, cheaper materials, and maybe less vigorous testing, too. Sloppiness would suggest one or more of her employees are taking advantage of her grief to be lazy. Or maybe they’re all grieving and distracted, too. But sabotage? Are you thinking someone inside the company or out?”

“Given what I’ve read about their process, sabotage from someone who doesn’t work there seems unlikely. So, I’d say inside. If that’s the case, it could be someone with a grudge against the military.”

“That’s unlikely too, considering what Leila said about the people in charge of anything important being there for years,” Davis cut in. “If this had been happening a long time, what are the chances the military wouldn’t have already found out?”

“I agree,” Melinda said. “So, if it’s sabotage, it’s probably someone who wanted to discredit Neal Petrov himself. But honestly, I think the most likely motive is the most obvious.”

“Greed.” Davis nodded. “They produced inferior products to save money, get a bigger profit. Well, it sure backfired. But if that’s the case, we’re back to Neal Petrov. As CEO and biggest shareholder, he’d be in the most likely position to profit. With him dead...”

“JC has been on the phone with the army while you were interviewing Ms. Petrov,” Pembrook said. “He’s confirmed that the shipment of armor the soldiers who were killed were wearing went out after Neal Petrov was killed. It’s possible he set it up before he died, but I think there could be an accomplice.”

“It makes sense,” Melinda agreed. “If there are really as many checks and balances as Leila Petrov claimed, it might be hard for one person to pull this off, even if he was the CEO. Two, on the other hand...”

Davis nodded, anticipation back on his face that told Melinda how badly he wanted to put someone behind bars for his friend’s death. The case was probably too personal for him. It could lead to mistakes. But it could also be exactly the dogged determination they needed.

“Melinda and I have been talking about sending someone inside,” Pembrook said, staring at Davis.

“Undercover?” He sounded frustrated as he said, “Well, Leila Petrov knows me, JC and Smitty, so we’re all out. Who were you thinking about sending in?”

“I think you should do it,” Melinda said, before Pembrook could respond. They hadn’t had a chance to talk about who might go undercover before Davis had come into the room.

Before the interview, Davis would have been the last person she’d have suggested. But the more she’d watched him and Leila, seen the sparks practically flying between them from both anger and attraction, the more the idea had grown.

Davis stared at her like she’d gotten into the head of one too many criminals and finally cracked. “What would I do undercover that—”

“This.” Melinda cut him off, holding up her cell phone. She’d found an advertisement for a job as an office assistant to Leila Petrov. “We lucked out.”

“How?” Davis demanded, glancing from her to Pembrook as if their boss would set her straight—or suggest Melinda get her own head checked. “Leila Petrov is never going to go along with this.”

“I think she will,” Melinda contradicted as Pembrook just watched them, her mind probably running through a million scenarios at the speed of a computer.

“And why’s that?” Davis demanded, even though he had to be dying to be the one to go in.

“Attraction,” Melinda said simply.

As she spoke, Kane Bradshaw walked past the open doorway. He didn’t pause, just lifted an eyebrow at her, looking amused.

Forcing herself to ignore him, Melinda told Davis, “There was an immediate physical attraction between you two.”

When Davis frowned, she added quickly, “It’s my job to catch these things. I’m not saying you were unprofessional. But you can play on that attraction to gain her trust.”

“She’s in charge of the company,” Davis argued. “There’s no way she’s going to go along with this.”

“I think she will.”

“Because she thinks I’m cute? Come on. This isn’t high school, Melinda.”

She couldn’t help a wry smile in return. The six-foot tall, broad-shouldered African-American agent was cute. That would probably influence Leila Petrov, whether she wanted it to or not. But it wouldn’t get Davis into the company; it would merely stop the door from being slammed in his face before he could make his case to her. “No, but we both agree she’s probably innocent. I think she wants to find the truth. You can help her get it.”

That quieted him down, but only for a minute, before he frowned and shook his head again. “Believe me, I want to be the one to find whoever’s responsible. But this seems like a crazy risk. It’s not worth it.”

“How sure are you about this?” Pembrook asked Melinda.

Her heart beat harder at the possibility she was suggesting the wrong course of action and it could blow up an important investigation. But as she mentally reviewed Davis’s interview with Leila, her gut insisted this would work. “Davis needs to convince her the only way to save the company her father founded is to get ahead of this. Which means she needs to think they’re on the same side. If that happens, I’m very sure.”

Pembrook turned her steely gaze on Davis, who stood at attention like he was undergoing military inspection. Finally she gave a curt, final nod. “You’re going in.”

Chapter Three

“There’s been a mistake. The FBI is investigating, and they’ll track down who’s really responsible soon enough. In the meantime, we need to focus on getting our next shipments ready.”

Those were the words Leila had used to rally her employees when she’d finally returned to the office. They’d all nodded and smiled back at her. Tight, worried smiles that led to whispers as soon as she went into her office.

Hopefully, there’d still be next shipments to deliver. Eighty percent of their business was with the military. The rest was domestic law enforcement and private companies, usually civilian security firms. They’d already absorbed a significant revenue loss by closing the weapon side of the business. Now that armor was their only product, the military’s business and their reputation were crucial. But it would all dry up if the tragedy overseas came back to them.

Leila shut the door to her office because she was tired of pretending not to hear the whispers. Then she let out the heavy sigh she’d been holding in since first thing that morning, when FBI agents had taken her to their oddly nondescript office to be questioned.

When Eric had sent the company lawyer to haul her out of there, she’d been half relieved and half annoyed. Relieved because as hard as she tried not to let it get to her, that stark office and that muscle-bound federal agent with the too-intense stare had started to raise her anxiety. Annoyed because the more she thought about it, the more certain she was there’d been a mistake. No way had their armor failed.

She’d bet her reputation on it. Sinking into the plush chair behind her desk, she opened her laptop, ready to get to work. Because it was more than her reputation that would be destroyed if she didn’t figure out what had really happened—and fast.

The question was, how? With the FBI unwilling to let her see the armor the soldiers had been wearing, how could she prove it wasn’t theirs?

She should have started working on that question as soon as the lawyer had gotten her out of the FBI office, but she’d been too unnerved to come directly back to work. So, she’d gone to her father’s gravesite first, spent a long while talking to him the way she used to. Only this time, the conversation was one-sided.

It was the first time she’d been there since she’d had to dump a shovelful of dirt over his coffin, watch it slowly disappear from view. She hadn’t been ready to see his name on that sleek granite headstone. But after too long sitting there battling her grief, she’d started to feel his presence. Started to feel his love. It had helped her focus on what she needed to do.

The knock on her office door startled her, and Leila called out a distracted “Come in” as she pulled up the latest military invoices. She’d already charged Eric—the company’s head of sales—with reaching out to his contacts, but maybe she should be doing the same. Between the people she knew and her father’s connections, maybe someone would be able to get her more details about the armor the soldiers had been wearing.

“Leila, I know today has been a little crazy, but I’ve got some good news.”

Leila glanced up at their head of HR. Ben Jameson was young and new, but anxious to prove himself. So far, he’d been efficient and always full of energy. “I could use some good news.”

“I found you an assistant.”

“Oh.”

He frowned at her lack of excitement, but with everything else going on, the last thing she wanted to deal with was a new employee who needed training. Glancing back at her laptop screen, she debated how she could put him off for a while. Just until she could deal with the disaster with the FBI.

“We got his résumé a few hours ago,” Ben continued quickly. “Normally, I’d do more of a formal process, but he was available for an immediate interview and he’s exactly what we’ve been looking for. I called his references right away and figured we should scoop him up before someone else does. He said he could start today, so I thought, why not let him get the lay of the land?”

When she didn’t reply, he added, “I mean, I thought if the FBI stuff has blown over...”

Finally she looked up and nodded, hoping her CEO face hadn’t slipped. “Great. I could use the help.”

Ben’s face lit up. “Perfect! Let me introduce you.” He turned back toward the door and called, “Davis!”

No way. Two men named Davis in one day?

Leila got to her feet, anxiety already tensing the back of her neck before Davis Rogers entered her office.

This morning, he’d looked more like the brawny owner of a night club in jeans, and a T-shirt that clung to a muscled chest and arms. He’d even had a layer of scruff on his chin. Definitely not what she’d expected for an FBI agent.

Now, he was clean-shaven in dark dress pants and a blazer. He should have looked less appealing in clothes that hid his physique. Instead, it made her focus more on his face. On hypnotizing dark brown eyes made even more intense beneath heavy brows. On unlined brown skin she wanted to run her hands over, feel for the last traces of this morning’s scruff. On generous lips she wanted to kiss.

The thought startled her. She wasn’t the type to lust over men she barely knew. Putting it down to too many emotions near the surface—stress, grief and anxiety mixing together and messing with her head—Leila straightened her blazer, trying to focus. “What do you think you’re—”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Davis spoke over her. “I’m so excited to join Petrov Armor. I can provide any assistance you need,” he added, only a hint of sarcasm there, probably so small Ben wouldn’t notice.

But Leila sure had. She felt her face scrunch up with disbelief as Ben looked back and forth between them. But before she could toss Davis out of her office, one side of those lush lips lifted in a slow grin. It was a smile half full of amusement and half full of confidence, like he knew exactly what she was thinking.

What kind of game was he playing? Did he honestly think she was going to let him screw with her company, with her employees?

She smiled too, but infused hers with enough warning that he should have taken a step back. It was a trick she’d learned long before rising to CEO, back in university when walking home from the library at night meant passing drunk guys who thought it was acceptable to follow. It never failed to drop the smirks off people’s faces.

But Davis stepped closer, held out his hand. “I think we can work well together to do what needs to be done.”

Nervy. She should have expected it from an FBI agent. And he should have expected her to immediately call his bluff. But as she looked past that cocky grin into his steady gaze, she saw something she hadn’t expected, something that looked like honesty.

“Thank you, Ben.” She flicked her gaze to her young head of HR, who opened and closed his mouth like he was trying to figure out what to say. Then he nodded, stepped backward out of her office and shut the door behind him. Leaving her alone with Davis.

“I’m letting you stay out of pure curiosity,” she told him, crossing her arms over her chest. “But you’ve got about two minutes to explain why I’d let you run this charade. Then, I’m tossing you out and my lawyer will be back down at your office, asking questions about the FBI’s ethics.”

Instead of looking worried, Davis stepped closer, his gaze locked on hers in a way that made the hairs on the backs of her arms stand up and each breath come faster. Then, he was holding a folder up between them, almost in her face.

She frowned and stepped back, taking the folder. One glance and she understood the cocky grin he’d given her. It was a close-up of a piece of body armor. It had been pierced by three bullet holes. And there, stamped on the edges in their trademark, was the Petrov Armor logo and a rating that should have stopped the kind of bullet that had made those holes.

Her gaze returned to his, as dread rose from her gut and seemed to lodge in her throat.

“We’ve tracked this to a recent batch of armor. I don’t believe you know anything about this or I wouldn’t be telling you. So, right now you have two choices—keep my cover and let me figure out how this defective armor got out, or blow it and bring the rest of my team down here to tear apart this place until we find the truth. We’re getting warrants right now.”

Leila looked at the photo again. It could have been faked. Or the bullets could have been some new form of armor-piercing technology that their armor didn’t protect against. But deep down, she knew something was very wrong in her company.

A recent batch probably meant it had happened on her watch. The way the company was set up, this wasn’t a sloppy error. It was intentional, someone trying to destroy what her father had spent so much of his life building.

She lifted her gaze back to Davis’s, suddenly understanding that he—and the FBI—might be her best bet to find the person responsible. That letting a stranger try to tear apart her company could very well be the only way to save it. A secret investigation might find a single person responsible, might allow her a chance to save Petrov Armor. A public one—no matter the outcome—would destroy them.

“I want you to keep me updated on everything you do here. If I agree to this, you let me be involved in the investigation.” She held out her own hand, the way he’d done before. “Agreed?”

That smile returned, smaller and more serious this time, as he put his big hand in hers and shook. “Agreed.”

With that single touch, Leila hoped she hadn’t just doomed her company.

ULTIMATELY, IT DIDN’T matter if Leila Petrov was unaware that defective products were being delivered to the military. As the CEO, she was responsible for what happened here.

Ultimately, she was responsible for every piece of armor that had been sent overseas with the promise to save lives that had betrayed the soldiers who’d worn it. That made her responsible for every single death. Including Jessica’s.

That truth would be easier to accept if Davis wasn’t more impressed with her with each passing minute. The woman was tough. So far, as she’d walked him around the office and introduced him to her employees, he could see that she was respected. Sometimes grudgingly, but most of them seemed to genuinely like her as a boss.

Then again, most of them seemed to have truly liked her father. They kept touching her elbow or bowing their heads, sadness in their eyes as they spoke his name. Still, if Leila hadn’t known about the defective products, what were the chances her father hadn’t either? The more he saw of their process and security as he walked around, the lower those chances appeared. Because even though the recent shipment had been sent out after her father died, it had probably been made while he was alive.

It had become immediately obvious that Petrov Armor took its security seriously. No way were these systems ignored until the news report yesterday. They were too ingrained, too second nature as he watched employees without hesitation card in and out of not just the building, but also any sensitive areas. He’d noticed the security cameras around the outside of the building, but they were inside, too. Whoever was behind the defective products knew how to get around all of it. Either that or the company’s own security would be what ultimately brought them down.

Making a mental note to ask to see some of the camera footage from when the defective armor had been made, Davis pasted on a smile as he was introduced to yet another employee.

“Davis, this is Theresa Quinn, head of research and development at Petrov Armor. Theresa, this is my new assistant, Davis Rogers.”

Leila’s voice hadn’t wavered through any of the introductions and none of her employees seemed to have picked up on anything strange, but he could feel her discomfort. She didn’t like lying to them. He hoped she wouldn’t break down and tell anyone who he really was.

He’d have to stick close to her. He already needed to pretend to work with her if he wanted to keep his access to Petrov Armor. But a CEO with a conscience was both good and bad. Good because if he was right and she really wasn’t involved, then Melinda was right, too. Leila would want the truth, even if she didn’t want it to get out. Bad because lying obviously didn’t come easily for her.

“What happened with those FBI agents?” Theresa demanded, with the tone of someone who’d been around a long time and held a position of power. It was also a tone that held a bit of irreverence, as though she was Leila’s equal instead of her employee.

Davis looked Theresa over more closely. Wearing jeans and a blouse with the sleeves rolled up past her elbows and reddish-brown hair knotted up in a messy bun, Theresa’s attire made her seem younger than the crinkles around her eyes suggested. Davis pegged her at close to fifty. He wondered if the aura of confidence and authority she radiated was just age and position, or if she had more sway at Petrov Armor than the average head of R and D.

Leila visibly stiffened at Theresa’s question, and Davis made a mental note that the two women didn’t like each other.

“Like I said earlier, everything is fine,” Leila answered.

Theresa’s eyes narrowed. “Just like that?”

“Just like that. It wasn’t our armor.”

“Do we know whose it was?” There was still suspicion in Theresa’s voice, but it was overridden by curiosity. “Because that’s going to take out some of the competition.”

Davis tensed at her callous comment, but he kept his body language calm and eager, like he imagined a new assistant would act.

“The FBI isn’t going to share that kind of thing,” Leila replied. She turned toward Davis. “Let me introduce you to our head of sales.” Then she called across the open concept main office area. “Eric!”

The man who turned toward them looked about his and Leila’s age. With blond hair gelled into perfect place and dark blue eyes almost the exact shade as his suit, he looked like a head of sales. But as he walked toward them, his gaze landing briefly on Davis before focusing entirely on Leila, all Davis could see was a man with a crush.

Probably betraying her company wasn’t the way to win the woman over. Unless Leila hadn’t returned his affection and Eric wanted revenge.

As Eric reached their side, his attention still entirely focused on Leila as if no one else was there, Davis stuck his hand in the man’s path. “Davis Rogers, Leila’s new assistant.”

Eric’s eyes narrowed slightly with his assessing gaze, but he offered a slightly less than genuine smile and held out his hand. “Eric Ross. Head of sales.” His hand closed a little too tightly around Davis’s as he added, “I’m glad Leila finally got an assistant. She works too much. You make sure she takes it easy.”

Before Davis could reply—or even figure out how to reply to that—Eric had dropped his hand and turned his attention back to Leila. His voice lowered slightly as he added, “Your dad was just like a father to me, too, Leila. You know you can talk to me.” He put his hand on Leila’s upper arm, comforting but a little too familiar. “No one is going to think less of you if you take time off to grieve.”

Leila shrugged free with a stiff nod and a slight flush. She cleared her throat, ducking her head momentarily. Her voice wavered just slightly as she answered, “I know he was, Eric. Thank you.”

Davis glanced between them, wondering at their history, as Theresa interjected with less emotion, “We all miss your father. He was a great CEO and a great guy.” Then she walked away, leaving Davis to wonder if her comment had been meant as sympathy or a subtle dig at Leila’s leadership.

Based on the way Eric scowled after Theresa, he thought it was a dig. Davis studied him a little closer. His history with Leila and her family obviously went back a long time. If Neal Petrov was like a father to Eric, maybe the man had let him in on his secrets. Or had him help make a little more money off the books.

Before Davis could ponder that, a man came hurrying across the office, making a beeline for Leila. Probably midfifties, with dark brown hair and light blue eyes, he looked like a younger, more handsome version of the man Davis had studied in pictures just that morning. It had to be Neal Petrov’s younger brother, Joel.

As soon as he reached them, the man gripped Leila by her upper arms, staring intently at her face. “Are you okay? I heard the FBI pulled you in for questioning about this military disaster.”

Leila’s gaze darted to Davis, then back to the man who had to be her uncle. She didn’t quite look him in the eyes as she replied, “I’m fine. It was a mistake. Don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry? You know I always worry. With your dad gone...” He sighed, gave Leila a sad smile, then let go of her arms. “I’m sorry,” he said more softly. “We should have talked in private. But I wish you’d called me right away. Eric said—”

“Everything is okay,” Leila said, cutting him off. “Uncle, this is my new assistant, Davis Rogers. Davis, this is Joel Petrov, our COO.”

Joel’s attention shifted to him, and the intensity of the man’s scrutiny was like a father inspecting his teenage daughter’s first date. Fleetingly Davis wondered why Neal Petrov hadn’t convinced the board of directors to make his brother CEO instead of his daughter.

Then Joel’s hand closed around his. “Davis. Nice to meet you. I’m sure you’ll like it here.” Just as quickly, Joel let go, dismissing him as effectively as if he’d left the room.

“I’m glad it was all a mistake,” he told Leila. “But if anything else comes up, let me help you handle it. You’ve got enough to deal with right now.” He squeezed her hand, then headed off into a private office on the edges of the open space and closed the door.

“Let’s finish our tour,” Leila told him, all business as she strode past her uncle’s office and toward the testing area.

Davis hurried after her, his mind spinning. Neal Petrov’s brother was COO of the company and yet, when Neal had stepped back, he’d talked the board into putting his twenty-nine-year-old daughter in charge instead. And even after leaving his CEO role, from what his employees had said, Neal Petrov was still in the office all the time. As founder and biggest shareholder, he still profited. Maybe stepping back protected him from liability if things went sideways. Maybe he hadn’t pushed to have his young daughter in charge because of nepotism, but because he thought she was too inexperienced to realize what was happening under her nose.

He frowned, remembering the sadness in her eyes when Eric had talked about her father. If Davis’s suspicion was true, her father hadn’t really cared about her. Because by using her inexperience and trust against her, he was also putting her in the position to be the first one law enforcement came after if it all unraveled. He was making her his scapegoat.

Davis was a long way from proving any of it, but if he was right, he wished more than ever that Neal Petrov was still here, so he could truly make the man pay.

“Let me show you the area where we do testing,” Leila said, her tone strong and confident, as if showing him their process would prove there was no way for someone to have sabotaged the armor. “We used to have a separate section of the building for gun testing, but that closed last year and we’re in the process of converting it into another R and D area for our armor.” She used her security card to key through a new doorway, holding it open for him.

As he followed, his phone dinged and Davis glanced at it. A message from Hendrick lit up on his screen.

This case is much bigger than we thought. Turns out Petrov Armor’s name has come up in Bureau cases before—a LOT of them over more than a decade. But nothing panned out.

Frowning, Davis texted back a quick question: Military cases? Defects?

The response came back fast and made Davis swear under his breath.

No. Supplying guns to known criminals.

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