This secret agent is back from the dead

A Silver Valley P.D. romance

Presumed a casualty of war, former navy SEAL turned undercover operative Rob Bristol is on the hunt for a ruthless Russian mafia leader. But when beautiful US marshal Trina Lopez captures him, he discovers there’s more at stake than their passionate past: they share a son! And to defeat a killer desperate to silence their family, Rob must risk it all.

Former naval intelligence officer and US Naval Academy graduate GERI KROTOW draws inspiration from the global situations she’s experienced. Geri loves to hear from her readers. You can email her via her website and blog, gerikrotow.com.

Also By Geri Krotow

Silver Valley P.D.

Her Christmas Protector

Wedding Takedown

Her Secret Christmas Agent

Secret Agent Under Fire

The Fugitive’s Secret Child

What Family Means

Sasha’s Dad

Whidbey Island

Navy Rules

Navy Orders

Navy Rescue

Navy Christmas

Navy Justice

Coming Home for Christmas

“Navy Joy”

A Rendezvous to Remember

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

The Fugitive’s Secret Child

Geri Krotow

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07892-4

THE FUGITIVE’S SECRET CHILD

© 2018 Geri Krotow

Published in Great Britain 2018

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

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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“Not happening.” Even through her chattering teeth, the tone of her statement was sharper than she’d meant. “I mean, something between us. After the kiss. The kisses. I don’t want to lead you on.”

“Trust me, that’s the last thing I’d ever expect from you. The leading me on part. As for kissing you, hell, Trina, it’s been five years. We had amazing chemistry when we were together, and that’s not gone away.”

“We had more than chemistry.” She wasn’t letting him off so easily. “If it was only a physical attraction, you going off the radar by allowing Justin to officially die wouldn’t be such a big deal.”

“I thought you were married, Trina.” His quiet words weighed heavy with what sounded an awful lot like pain. Regret.

“Not good enough, Rob. Even if I’d remarried, was still married, whatever. What we shared deserved more than you walking away when you saw me again.” She fought to keep her words aboveboard, fair. Her heart screamed at her conscience, telling her that if she were really fair she’d tell him about their son, how she’d really felt about Rob.

* * *

We hope you enjoy the Silver Valley P.D. miniseries.

Dear Reader,

Welcome back to Silver Valley! The Fugitive’s Secret Child was a natural fit for the SVPD series as we’re beginning a miniseries within the series. This time, instead of a crazy, lethal cult that plagued the town and our heroes and heroines in books one to four, the Silver Valley police are facing the effects of Russian organized crime as it stretches its tentacles into the otherwise picturesque, serene town.

Trina is happy as a US marshal and the mother of five-year-old Justin, but her heart has never healed from losing the love of her life during wartime. She’d been a navy pilot and he was the navy SEAL she’d fallen in love with while supporting his missions into enemy territory. The darkest day of her life was when she was told that her future husband was KIA. But he left her with one gift—their son.

Rob was in fact not killed but taken into enemy captivity, which he survived, and then went on to fight as an undercover operative. This lends well to his current job as a Trail Hiker agent. When he and Trina meet again, it’s surreal and yet the most right thing that’s happened to either of them since they were torn apart.

There is so much happening in Silver Valley and it’s covered in detail on my website. Please visit gerikrotow.com/contact to sign up for my newsletter so that you don’t miss any exciting news. Also connect with me on Facebook—I’d love to see you there: Facebook.com/gerikrotow.

Peace,

Geri

To Alex—you inspire me every day.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

Dear Reader

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Prologue

Winter wind blew off the Atlantic as he got out of his car across from the Norfolk, Virginia, address with the speed and agility of an eighty-year-old. At twenty-five, it sucked to be so fragile. He leaned against a wide oak tree and checked out the town house she’d purchased last year—he’d found that out on the internet.

Two years was a long time to wait. Justin Berger wouldn’t blame her if she hadn’t. A five-month affair in the desert during wartime didn’t qualify as lifetime vows. Even if memories of their time together had gotten him through a year as a POW, several near-death experiences and torture by the enemy, and led to his eventual escape and rescue. It’d be different for her; she thought he was dead.

He’d spent the last five months recovering in the best rehabilitation center on the planet, Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in the greater Washington, DC, area. Before that he’d been in Landstuhl, Germany, where they’d saved his life. The pain had been worth it. Torture with a purpose.

He still needed the cane, and the doctors were certain his femurs and pelvis would never be completely pain-free when he walked. But he was young enough to bounce back and he had the ability to return to his life. A lot of his SEAL teammates didn’t. There was no person on earth he wanted to celebrate his survival with other than her.

Finding her had been easy. He’d asked his higher-ups where she was stationed. Because of the top secret mission, an operation that had officially never existed, his assumed death and actual time as a POW were classified, too. He could have told his parents if he’d had any. A product of the foster system, he didn’t. He only had his brother, who he’d gained permission to inform he was still alive. He could tell her, too, and start life over as a civilian. If she still wanted him. His other option was to work for the CIA under a new name. It would make it nearly impossible for any future targets to research him and find out his full capabilities.

Before he walked across the street, an SUV pulled into her driveway. His gut tightened; his throat closed against the immediate lump at the sight of Trina getting out of her car, her hair pinned up as part of her Navy uniform. Her face, the long, lean lines of her feminine body, was more beautiful than he remembered. If he thought his voice could reach her, he’d call to her, give a slight wave. Anything to connect.

She opened the rear driver’s-side door and leaned in, probably for her laptop or groceries. Another car eased next to hers in the two-car driveway. A man emerged from behind the wheel. Tall, broad-shouldered, in a business suit and topcoat. Dread combined with months of fearing this exact scenario. It poured through his veins, temporarily paralyzing him on the spot. They wouldn’t notice him as the street was wide, with several cars parked along both curbs. The tree provided him excellent cover. Protection he hadn’t expected to need.

He watched as the man walked over to Trina, who waited for him with a large bundle in her arms. A child, a toddler, dressed as a boy. In a bright green parka, with a cartoon hero ski cap, the little tyke clutched a construction truck in his mittened hand. The man took the boy into his arms and laughed, holding him overhead for a quick moment before hugging him to his massive chest and leaning down to kiss Trina on the cheek.

She hadn’t waited. She’d found another and had a child. Trina had her own family now. He’d known it was possible, probable, but still, he’d have bet against it. Hoped she’d mourned for him, needed him. He was caught between the tragedy of his own sorrow and disappointment, and the darkly sick humor of having to struggle to stand upright, quietly, under the large oak tree. If she looked over she wouldn’t recognize his shattered silhouette; she’d only see what looked like an older man with a cane. But he didn’t want to take any chances that she’d see him. If she got the quickest glance at his eyes, she’d see without a shred of doubt that he was a man with an irreparably broken heart.

As soon as they disappeared into the townhome, he arthritically folded himself back into his vehicle and drove away, refusing to look back.

So it was to be the CIA job. Justin Berger had been dead to her, to the world, for two and a half years. Now it’d be forever.

Chapter 1

Three and a half years later

Rob Bristol was pissed off, tired, hot and horny. Not all in that order, but close enough for government work. He shot back the rest of his electrolyte-enhanced water, keeping his gulps silent. As he stretched his neck with a couple of creaky turns of his head he remained vigilant, doing a 360-degree scan of his perimeter. Once settled back on his stomach, he wrapped his arms around his precision sniper rifle and adjusted the sight. His shoulders ached, as did much of his skeleton. Another reminder that his days as a top-secret operative were nearing their end, twenty years earlier than for most.

“Gosh-damned boonies.” The Trail Hikers had once again sent him out to the most dangerous, remote operation the government shadow agency was involved with. In the continental US, anyhow. He couldn’t complain about his employer, though. Rural northern Pennsylvania was still better than Kandahar or the depths of a jungle on the worst day. It was his home country and he had quick access to anything he needed, from weaponry to foodstuffs. He enjoyed life as a civilian secret agent almost as much as he’d loved being a Navy SEAL or CIA agent. He dug the added benefit of being able to choose his missions these days. For the most part. He’d wanted to participate in another especially tricky op that involved travel to Ukraine and Russia. Claudia Michele, his boss and Trail Hikers director, had nixed it. She didn’t care that he’d already completed several successful missions against Russian organized crime in Eastern Europe and New York City. Said his talents were better spent in the former honeymoon capital of Pennsylvania, where a ROC crime boss was reportedly holed up. A mobster who’d eluded the FBI and all other law enforcement agencies.

The irony of this mission, so very unromantic in what was considered a romantic area, wasn’t lost on him. Anger fueled his motivation to take down his target, the man who’d helped ROC bring the ugliness of high-stakes crime to this beautiful area. Rob’s weapon’s sight was trained on the one building on the planet that the world’s most sought-after crime bosses were operating from. He’d followed the dirtbag for the last six weeks. Dima Ivanov was the head of a major Russian organized crime group on the East Coast. Yuri Vasin was number two, Ivanov’s right hand. Ivanov led up to two thousand criminals and a plethora of illegal enterprises. The most recent was human trafficking, and that’s what had pushed the FBI to ask for Trail Hikers’ help. Several dozen underage girls had been smuggled into the US via the Canadian border in Maine and trucked down to the Poconos. From here they were about to be dispersed to the winds of the ROC sex trade.

Time was of the essence.

Ivanov was an old badger, but he wasn’t stupid. In his most recent photos he’d looked older, less energetic than the younger ROC member he’d been. Back when Rob had been with the CIA he’d trailed Ivanov to Russia, Ukraine and back without ever being detected by one single ROC member or any government officials. Rob had helped bring down an entire branch of the East Coast crime ring over a three-day period in the hot hell of New York City and Trenton, New Jersey, last year. It was during a summer heat wave that included power outages and heat-induced rage. He’d come face-to-face with Ivanov. Close enough that the criminal spat in his face as the FBI cuffed him and carted him off. Ivanov had gotten off on a technicality, thanks to the best attorneys money could buy. That was a year and multiple lifetimes ago, as far as Rob was concerned. He’d participated in countless missions since then.

But this was his favorite. He’d majored in Russian in college and knew Russian history inside and out.

Come on out, Ivanov. Rob forced his muscles to relax and drew upon years of experience as he waited for his prey. If he could disable the son of a bitch and his guards, allowing for law enforcement to come in and apprehend the criminals, he would. If not, he’d at least take out Yuri Vasin, who was responsible for ordering hits; nearly two thousand deaths were known. Countless victims’ bodies would never be found. One of Vasin’s main trademarks was leaving no trail of human remains. Vasin didn’t care about getting credit for a hit.

Hot summer sun beat on the back of Rob’s neck and through his drab olive T-shirt and cargo pants. The Poconos were beautiful when snow covered, or drenched in green as they were now. But the July humidity was oppressive, soaking his clothes after only an hour on target.

He’d thought Ivanov would have shown his face by now. There’d been no sign of him since last night, when Rob spotted him taking his last smoke break before bed, around nine o’clock. He knew Ivanov chain-smoked and had come out for fresh air, a risk when he had to know he was a wanted man. Ivanov and Vasin had been surrounded by guards. If Rob wasn’t on such strict orders from Trail Hikers headquarters in Silver Valley to keep collateral damage to a minimum, he’d have taken out both monsters and their thugs in that moment. His mission was to disable Ivanov and Vasin, call in other law enforcement agencies, or LEAs, and then get the hell out of Dodge. Typical of a Trail Hikers op, there were to be no fingerprints of his government shadow agency’s involvement.

Rob liked to think of Trail Hikers as the helping hand for all other LEAs, national and local. A Trail Hikers agent enabled an FBI agent, state trooper, sheriff or local cop to come in and finish the job. And take credit for it.

The real reason he’d gone with Trail Hikers instead of another shadow agency was for his mental health. After three years of ignoring the regret of not crossing the street to let Trina Lopez know he’d lived, he’d sought counseling six months ago. And discovered he still needed to finish what he’d tried to do in Norfolk. Trina was with the US Marshals in Harrisburg, and Silver Valley was only twenty minutes away across the Susquehanna River. He’d made the move to Silver Valley a month later, so that he could face her again, put to right the lack of initiative on his part three years ago. As far as he knew she was still with someone else, had her own family, but he still needed some kind of closure, if only to wish her well. It was for his own sanity.

The beauty of Trail Hikers was that he could live anywhere in the country and work for them. He’d grown to like Silver Valley over the past several months, and it would be nice to stay, but he didn’t think permanently living that close to Trina would be healthy, even with closure.

A gnat flew into his eye, and he swatted it away.

He wondered why Ivanov was staying inside so much today. Usually he liked to go for a walk, at least twice a day if not more often. That sense of dread Rob identified as his instinct waved a warning flag. Did Ivanov and Vasin know Rob was out here?

Ivanov had puffed on his cigarette with Vasin and four other men around him, as if he knew he was hunted, that his enemy was close. Of course by now the criminal had to be downright paranoid, considering his constant need to be on the run. Add in his love of women, vodka and tobacco and he probably had at least the beginnings of cirrhosis and lung cancer. Ivanov’s mind and sense of trust in humanity were pretty much shot, Rob figured.

That Rob understood.

A glint of metal in the sun was his only warning before the building’s door opened. He took the safety off, positioned his fingers to shoot without hesitation.

He waited. And waited.

Nothing. The door was open, but nobody came out. With experience wrought only from years of tortuous situations, Robert ignored his annoyance, his impatience. He could outwait the best of them. As he watched, a tiny figure appeared at the edge of the doorway. An animal? Peering through the scope he discovered he was looking at a puppy.

A dog? He’d seen a lot of strange things in his years as a SEAL, CIA operative and now Trail Hikers secret agent, but he’d never seen a dog, much less a puppy, around Vasin. Unless it was a guard dog with killer instincts. He hadn’t seen any sign of guard dogs or any strays around this compound of sorts. He swiped at the sweat on his nape, the bandanna around his head unable to keep it as dry as his temples as sweat streamed off him, making rivulets through his sunscreen. He sensed a slight breeze around his neck and shoulders and went still.

“We meet again, Robert Bristol.” Hearing his name spoken by the all-too-familiar bass voice chilled him to the bone and made him grateful he’d heeded the CIA’s suggestion and changed his name after he’d been presumed dead as a Navy SEAL. The cold metal of a gun barrel pressed painfully into his temple. “Get up slowly, and leave your rifle. You won’t be needing it.”

Rob did as instructed. He knew the voice, the heavy accent. His captor was no one to brook argument.

Once Rob was standing, his nemesis shoved the gun more deeply into the side of his head, the pressure making white floaters appear in Rob’s vision.

“You try my patience, Bristol. Put your hands up and turn around.”

Robert turned, his arms at shoulder level, dreading whom he’d see.

“Vasin. Fancy seeing you in the Poconos, of all places. I thought Jersey City was your jurisdiction.”

“Go to hell, Bristol. Your time is over.” Vasin’s voice pulsated with acrimony as he stared at Rob, surrounded by four henchmen who also carried the best handguns money could buy. Vasin had stayed as lean and lethal as when Rob had tracked him in a CIA operation three years ago, and ended up in actual hand-to-hand with him. It had been a fight that started with knives and ended with several broken bones, on Vasin’s part. Rob had suffered three butterfly stitches over his left eye that one of his fellow agents had tended to on their helo ride out of New Jersey.

“How’re your ribs, Vasin? I see you can at least breathe again.”

Rob saw the polished tip of Vasin’s Italian loafer close in a nanosecond before an explosion of pain shattered his vision. His body collapsed with zero fight. A kick to the balls did that to a guy.

Dirt. The ground is hard. The grass is like straw.

Thoughts to take his mind off the pain, keep him detached from the anguish to come. Vasin knew a sadist’s way around the human body—what hurt the most, what would elicit a confession the quickest. Rob and cruelty were on a first-name basis. He knew every torture method intimately. So did his bones.

“Drag him by his feet to the ATVs.” Vasin’s thugs grabbed his legs and started the laborious trek over hardened field grass and mud. Rob sucked in his gut as hard as he could despite the quaking tremors from his groin. It was enough to hold his neck up, away from the ground. Enough to protect it from the excruciating jolts, enough to be able to observe that Vasin and his dirtbags were facing front, not looking at him as they trudged to the waiting off-road vehicles. In an instant he grabbed the knife he’d tucked in his front pocket and threw it with little preparation. His target arched his back and dropped. The man let out a loud whoosh as he hit the ground. Satisfaction cleared some of Rob’s pain-addled vision.

One punctured lung.

The second knife was in his left hand, raised to throw it, when one of the remaining men turned and crushed Rob’s arm with one fierce stomp of his foot. Rob saw Vasin’s shoe again through a shroud of unbearable pain before his throat was pressed closed and darkness prevailed.

* * *

US Marshal Trina Lopez looked at the map, her phone GPS and the email from her boss. She was four hours into what was supposed to be a two-and-a-half-hour drive, and all of her coordinates indicated she was in the right spot. But instead of a resort complex as described in her target’s case file, she was looking at a warehouse of sorts. A single, nondescript warehouse that in any other part of the country, on the outskirts of a city, would look normal. If it were lined up with other warehouses. If it had trucks coming and going. If it had access to an interstate highway.

Instead, this building had none of the above. It was in a place she’d expect to see a log cabin, maybe, or some kind of ski lodge. At the base of the mountains in a beautiful, scenic Pennsylvania valley, the desolate building was incongruous with its surroundings. Under the cover of the thick summer foliage, it was no wonder it had looked like just another camping gear storage building. An afterthought of sorts.

She’d had to maneuver along a narrow dirt road in her company car to get here. The Ford Fiesta wasn’t made for the sudden dips and dried-out potholes from last winter. Why had she chosen today to take the agency’s small car and not the company SUV?

Because another mission had priority. It wasn’t her job to question her superiors. Yuri Vasin was wanted for a number of crimes, with drug and human trafficking at the top of the long list. Drug runners abounded, and with the current opioid epidemic the US Marshals had a lot of pressure to bring in any drug-related fugitives. Still, the right equipment for the job helped, and someone hadn’t done their homework right. This site was far more rural than the case file had described. She was supposed to be taking him in from a resort hotel room, not from a camping site. Her partner was coming in from the other side of the mountain and waiting to hear from her to bring in backup.

Rechecking her GPS, she confirmed she was in the right spot before she turned her car back around and drove out a mile to hide her vehicle under a pile of woodland debris.

Car in place, walking to building, she texted her partner. His reply was immediate, and predictable.

If it’s ugly, don’t go.

Mike always played the big brother. Or maybe wannabe lover, she wasn’t sure. And didn’t care. She had no interest, no attraction to him.

Roger.

Her military reply indicated she’d received his text. Mike Seabring was a great partner, and she enjoyed working with him. But his protectiveness could annoy her.

It’ll never be like working in the Navy.

More like it’d never be as natural a fit as working with fellow Navy pilots and one special Navy SEAL—had been.

She steered her thoughts quickly away from that emotional quicksand and kept walking. The hike back through the woods would have normally refreshed her. She breathed in the pine scent, hoping to feel revived. But it was too hot and her day was growing too long to feel anything but tired, sweaty and cranky. By the time she reached the clearing again she was ready to get the show on the road. Or more accurately, get her fugitive and take him back to Harrisburg or have Mike do it. She wasn’t in it for the credit—she wanted this bad guy caught and put away, no matter how they had to do it.

Trina adjusted her holster, as it was digging into her waist. She thought about shedding the leather jacket she wore over her body armor and thin white T-shirt. It was too warm for the jacket, but she wasn’t going into a strange building without her weapon, and didn’t want to open-carry her Glock .45, either. She rustled her thick, unruly hair into a ponytail holder she found in the front jacket pocket, needing to feel prepared and without any possible distractions. Vasin’s case file said he’d always gone easily into custody when caught alone, or she wouldn’t have been sent in solo to apprehend him. Mike would be next to her instead of a mile or so out, checking for signs of a perimeter patrol. Still, she never knew what was behind a closed door.

Her practical, steel-toe combat-style boots stirred up the dirt that surrounded the aluminum building, and thin billows of dust rose to her hips. It was the middle of a long, hot summer, and the record-breaking heat had taken its toll on the grass undergrowth. One short spark and this place would become a forest furnace.

She was confident that Yuri Vasin’s arrest would go smoothly, but her instincts were warning her to be on high alert. Whether it was the drive she’d had up here from Silver Valley, the isolated look of the building she approached or just nerves, she didn’t know. Nerves were part of her job—they let her know she was paying attention, aware of her risks. Her stomach started to flip, and she reminded herself that this was supposed to be one of the more routine apprehensions—not that she ever considered catching a fugitive “routine.” But her work had been pretty stable for the past several years, allowing her to be home for dinner most nights. A plus for her and her five-year-old son, Justin, but she’d called him Jake because she couldn’t bear to hear his father’s name on a regular basis.

Justin Berger. It didn’t hurt anymore, most days, when she thought of her little boy’s namesake. Because she did think about Justin every day, the man who’d fathered her son and given the ultimate sacrifice serving as a SEAL in the Mideast. Back in another life, when she’d been a Navy P-8 pilot and had worked with the special ops teams to help root out the bad guys.

Trina physically shook her head as if it’d rid her mind of the errant memories. It was approaching the anniversary of Justin’s death; it was only natural she’d think of him now.

She turned her thoughts back to the present, back to the work in front of her. Arrest Vasin. Call in Mike to take him or get the jerk into the back of her tiny vehicle. She’d place a call to her team manager as soon as either of them had Vasin in cuffs. Take him to the nearest federal facility for processing, which in this case was Harrisburg.

Movement in her peripheral vision made her stop and reassess. A tiny furry creature crawled out from the other side of the building. Phew. A rabbit. She continued forward. But then the creature whimpered.

A puppy. Jake would be elated if she came home with a puppy to add to their growing menagerie at the farmette she’d recently purchased for them in Silver Valley, Pennsylvania.

No way.

Crap. This was not a canine rescue mission. Yuri Vasin was her man, the fugitive wanted for money laundering in New York, Connecticut, Pennsylvania and New Jersey. With new charges of human trafficking coming out of Wilmington, Delaware, this morning.

Vasin was Russian, five feet eleven inches, one hundred and eighty-five pounds. He definitely was not an approximately ten-pound caramel-latte-colored fuzz ball with big brown eyes and large paws on a too-skinny body. As the puppy stumbled along toward her, tail wagging tentatively, its whines turned to yips.

“Shhh!” She had to stop its noise. Bending down, she hoisted the little guy up and went to gently muzzle his puppy snout with her hand. He wriggled his face out of her grasp and licked her chin, his tiny body quivering with excitement. Or maybe relief?

Vasin couldn’t be that bad, not if he had a new puppy. Although he needed to feed the pup more—this little guy was skinny. She looked around, making sure she was still alone. There weren’t any visible cameras on the outside of the building. It looked abandoned, in fact.

Except for fresh tire tracks that ran from where the front door was to the surrounding grasslands. She saw the tracks emerge from the fields, and as she turned the corner with the puppy in her arms, she found the three ATVs that had made the tracks parked alongside the corrugated metal building.

The flips in her stomach turned to alarm bells.

Vasin wasn’t alone.

* * *

Rob lay on the concrete floor of the warehouse and willed his aching limbs to stay still as he listened to Vasin and his men. His labored breathing made it difficult to ascertain the colloquial Russian, but he understood enough of their conversation to know two things.

First, they said they were hiding out in the Poconos to protect Dima Ivanov who was in his “bunker.” That meant that Ivanov was nearby. This was new intelligence that the Trail Hikers didn’t have—they knew he was close but didn’t realize he had a full-on shelter. No one had suspected Ivanov would risk remaining so close to New York City and his usual operation area, not while the heat on him from all federal agencies was so heavy. But most importantly, Rob hadn’t heard the all-too-familiar sneer of Dima Ivanov’s voice, however. Which meant Vasin was running this current op, whatever it entailed. Rob could handle Vasin. Ivanov’s voice was one he dreaded, because he knew if he heard the heavy, smoke-addled voice, Rob would be dead.

The last time he’d come face-to-face with Vasin and his immediate circle, Rob had had the upper hand. He’d been deep undercover and had helped blow the headquarters of a drug and money-laundering operation out of the water, literally. Ivanov had been operating his command center from a yacht in the Atlantic, just off the Jersey shore. Vasin ran the op on land, and Rob’s CIA team took it all down, working hand in hand with FBI, ATF, DHS and local LEAs. Rob had escaped with his life and that of his team’s—except for Jazz.

Goddamn it, he still saw her eyes right before the bullet blew her apart. The shock of losing a teammate never left him. Their memory never faded. But Jazz’s loss had been the impetus for him to try to find closure for the other part of his life, a relationship he could have put to rest three years ago if he’d only had the courage to cross the damned street. To face for the last time the woman he’d loved when he’d still been named Justin.

A shuffle of chairs and rapid-fire Russian conversation filled his ears. No more thoughts of the woman he’d lost to distract him from the pain. He had to interpret their dialogue. His language skills weren’t what they used to be, but they were good enough.

Hell and damnation. They were going to kill him sometime before tomorrow morning. Something about him being in the way of their “most important mission.”

Robert opened his left eye a slit, since their voices came from his right side. He took in racks of weapons, ammo, explosives. Dang, they were loaded for bear. Just who were they expecting, the national guard? He wouldn’t mind a unit to show up and rescue him right about now.

He knew no one was scheduled to come in here until after he’d secured Vasin—the risks were too great. Vasin and his boss Ivanov were known for retribution; last month six ATF agents had been slaughtered in an ambush in Newark, New Jersey. ROC didn’t get its hands dirty, of course, but intelligence had proven it was clearly done on Ivanov’s orders.

The powers that be had decided that taking out Ivanov alone was best to allow them to begin to dismantle the entire North American ROC from the inside out. It was going to take months, even years. Rob couldn’t worry about that—he still had to complete his mission to neutralize Vasin. Somehow, someway, despite all these men around him.

He tested his binds. They’d used plastic zip ties on his wrists, which remained painfully strapped behind him and forced his back into an excruciating arch. His ankles were shackled, probably by chains, judging from the weight holding him down. The victims he’d witnessed captured by the ROC in New Jersey had been similarly restrained. It was signature Vasin. The man was a sadistic sociopath.

Vasin asked for something, then the sound of pounding on a table—a bottle, maybe?

Liquid pouring, a toast. Then another. Then a third. Keep drinking, you son of a bitch.

Fortunately for Rob, Vasin liked his vodka. Judging from the larger size of Vasin’s nose, the obvious veins mapped over it, Vasin’s alcoholism had progressed over the last two years even as his physicality didn’t appear weaker. And it sounded like he wanted to celebrate tonight, before the big party tomorrow—Rob’s murder party.

Steps shuffled on the floor, toward Rob. A solid hit to his chest forced his eyes to fly open.

Vasin laughed and spoke in a flurry of Russian. His spit hit his face with obvious satisfaction. Rob considered it a win that he felt it on his swollen skin. No extensive nerve damage. Yet.

“I didn’t come here for you.” It hurt so much to speak, damn it. Flashes of a previous time at the mercy of captors. He ignored them, fought off thinking about the one sure thing that got him through that torture.

“No, of course you didn’t. You want my boss, no? But you’ll never get him. No one touches Dima Ivanov.”

“Maybe not, but I know who’s coming to get him and all of you, and when.” Another sign Vasin was losing it; he’d said his boss’s name, blatantly unafraid of Rob. Yeah, Rob was a goner—they were going to kill him. Maybe sooner than tomorrow.

Vasin’s eyes narrowed at Rob’s dig, his breathing hitched. Bait. He’d believed the overblown statement.

“Everything you say is a lie. Who do you work for—the same people?”

“Yes.” Let Vasin think he was still CIA or FBI. Vasin had accused Robert of being CIA when they’d blown apart the New Jersey op. There was no reason to correct him. The Trail Hikers were far more clandestine than the CIA, and Rob was certain Vasin and in fact the ROC had no idea who the Trail Hikers were.

“And who are they, your employers?”

Robert stayed silent. He’d never tell Vasin whom he really worked for. Or that he’d been a SEAL. Vasin was smart enough to know that no agent worth his or her training would ever give up their employer.

“Tell me.” Vasin’s meaty fist hit his temple, and an explosion of lights floated over his vision. The blackness threatened, but he hung on.

“Never.”

“Of course you won’t. So tell me, who’s on their way to get us? The bogeyman?”

Hook.

“Two thousand agents. National Guard, DEA, local teams.” The lie came easily even through his aching jaw. Vasin’s breathing increased.

“When?”

“Tomorrow. Before sunup.”

Vasin straightened and turned toward his men, but not before Rob saw the frown drawn on his face. He watched them squirm in their seats as Vasin asked his team if anyone knew about the LEAs. Then he asked how many of the ROC men were expected to arrive over the next day. Rob let go a small, painful sigh when the men stated they only expected a dozen or so.

Vasin lowered his head, and Robert saw the flicker of worry cross the bastard’s face. After what felt like hours, Vasin motioned with his head toward Rob, shouting orders to his goons. “Get him up and let him take a piss. Then put him in the chair at the table.”

He faced Rob again and leaned in, his breath heavy with vodka and bile. “I’m going to let you tell me everything you know. If you’re lucky, I’ll leave you for dead here, before my boss shows up.”

Rob didn’t have to ask what would happen if he wasn’t lucky. Vasin would torture him until he begged to die.

Time to reel the monster in.

* * *

Trina peered around the corner of the building, her weapon drawn. The puppy had given her enough time to see the ATVs before she’d done something stupid and unforgivable for a US marshal: walk into a danger zone uninformed. Someone hadn’t done their job, because clearly Vasin was not alone and all of her reports indicated otherwise. She’d worry about the lack of communication later. Right now she wanted Yuri Vasin in cuffs.

Security cameras were mounted under the roof’s overhang on the four corners of the building; she’d only discovered them once she was up under the eaves herself.

She flattened herself to the side of the wall and started to inch her way back toward the opposite side of the building where she’d noticed the other, probably faux, doors. But she had to determine if she could see inside the structure and make out what the hell was going on. Trina sent a quick text to Mike, telling him to head in. She’d wait for him to apprehend.

As she crept along the twenty yards of solid steel building, she was conscious of the puppy shadowing her, quiet and stealthy. She couldn’t risk the noise of shooing the dog away, and was annoyed that he distracted her at all. Her fingers hit the corner of the building and she made sure the area was clear before she turned the corner and made straight for the doors. The security cameras had to not be working, or she’d have been stopped by someone by now.

When she lined up with the “doors,” her fingertips felt the smoothness of the corrugated steel—and the paint that had been used to create the illusion of entrances. Except in the middle of the one large garage-style door, where she immediately felt the cut of steel-on-steel. An opening. Maybe not one that was used much, but an entrance or exit of some sort. Further inspection revealed a painted-over window. She slipped a razor out of her front pocket. Slowly and carefully scraped away the black pigment. She kept her free hand over the working one—she didn’t want to alert anyone inside with a flash of light. The paint was thick and chipped off in the tiniest of pieces. That was fine. All she needed was a pupil’s worth.

As soon as she had enough of an opening, she stood on tiptoe and looked inside. Shelves, all stocked with what appeared to be cans of paint—no shocker there—and ammo, the boxes emblazoned with US ARMY. It was hard to see much farther than five or six rows of shelving.

Ammo. Crap. She couldn’t see past the stacked army boxes. Double crap. Either this was some kind of clandestine military ammunitions depot she didn’t know about, or she’d been mistakenly sent to get this Vasin dude at his place of business. He was supposed to be alone, separated from the ROC and far from its head honcho, Dima Ivanov. Intelligence reports revealed that Vasin might have had a falling-out with Dima and that’s why he was working alone. That was another factor that supposedly made him an easy suspect to bring in. But it looked like Vasin had decided to protect himself in the process. And whoever was with him in the building.

Trina sank down onto her haunches, lifting her cowboy hat enough to wipe the sweat off her brow and out of her eyes. She had two choices: go in with Mike, or call for backup and wait to go in with Mike.

She sent a quick text to both Mike and their team leader, Corey. They had to understand that Vasin was not alone, and she told them that she needed direction on whether to abort the apprehension or not. While she waited for the return texts, she headed back to the front of the building. Her boss would need exact details for whatever additional law enforcement they sent in, and she wanted to tell him the license plate numbers on the ATVs.

A sharp rustle behind her startled her and she whipped around and trained her weapon on the source. She let out a sigh of relief as it was only the puppy, making funny growling noises as he ran in a circle in front of her. Her relief turned to trepidation as she realized he was trying to tell her something.

“What, boy?” She mouthed the words as the back of her neck prickled. The tiny animal didn’t want her to go any further and was trying to keep her from moving forward. Intuition tightened her gut and her hold on her weapon but as an explosion sounded in the building she realized she might be too late.

Chapter 2

Rob had done it. He’d convinced Vasin that he was worth keeping alive. For a bit longer, anyhow.

It was enough time to get hold of the tear gas that was on the shelf. If that was what was in the box marked US ARMY TEAR GAS, that is. He’d also spotted several box cutters scattered around the shelves.

“I have to piss.” He spoke to the ROC member through swollen lips, dried blood tasting foul from where his teeth had cut through his cheeks with each blow from Vasin earlier. He played along with Vasin’s order to let him use the bathroom.

“No funny business, or phwwwt.” One of Vasin’s men swiped his finger across his neck while his smug smirk dared Rob to challenge him. Rob had no doubt that the finger would become a switchblade with little provocation. He also knew he’d take this little jerk down.

“I can’t go without my hands, man.”

“Let him go, Aleksey.” Vasin’s voice slurred from the vodka, but the thug listened to him nonetheless. Vasin’s word was law, drunk or sober, superseded only by Ivanov’s.

Two clicks of the very knife Rob feared freed his wrists. Painful jolts of pins and needles hit his arms, hands, as his blood flow returned full force. He fought to flex his fingers and roll his shoulders.

“I give you both but you only need one for your small dick.” The man with the smirk laughed at his poor humor. Rob remained silent and waited for the feeling to return to his hands and fingers.

“The bathroom?” He spoke through clenched teeth.

“The bathroom for you is over there.” Aleksey took him past the ammo and to a small latrine, which was little more than a hole in the ground. Nothing Rob hadn’t experienced before.

Aleksey left him alone so that he could walk over to the table where Vasin sat. He shot down a glass of vodka that Vasin had poured for him, his ura an underscore to the laughter and leers at Rob from the other men. That was the Russian military response to a toast, or more historically, a battle cry similar to the U.S. Marine Corps’ oorah. Aleskey, and the others, were trying to intimidate him.

Have your fun now, suckers.

As they mocked him, he mapped out his route and plan of attack. It might be his last. But he’d have accomplished his mission—take out Vasin and in the process, Ivanov. Rob wouldn’t be the one to actually kill Ivanov, but he’d make damned sure the other LEAs knew where to find him with little effort.

Trina.

He couldn’t risk not surviving this mission, after all.

Because Rob knew Ivanov was in this building, or somewhere very nearby. Most likely in a basement. The type of underground, clandestine, over-the-top living structure that ROC was famous for. Ingenious locations with even more clever hideaways.

Rob forced himself to urinate, finding that indeed, he’d had to go. Funny how pain distracted one from basic needs.

“Can’t find it, you capitalist pig?” Vasin laughed and slammed down another empty shot glass. Rob bided his time, acting as if he were fumbling with his zipper.

Truth was, he’d be hard-pressed to re-zip his pants right now with his fingers still so stiff and swollen. But he had enough range of motion to open a box with a box cutter, grab a tear gas canister and launch it. He’d use his teeth to get to it if he had to.

Another boisterous toast. The men clinked glasses and Robert ran.

“The agent!” Slurred words from one of them.

“Don’t shoot him! We need his information!” Vasin unwittingly gave Rob the precious seconds he needed by making the men halt in their tracks.

He grabbed the box off the shelf and heard the yells, the sounds of vodka-hindered feet. The carton opened with little effort, spilling dozens of canisters at his feet. He kicked them toward his attackers as he clutched one, armed it and threw. It landed in the center of the group of four men. Then he shoved against the shelf in front of them as hard as his battered body allowed him to. A loud squeaking rent the air as the metal contraption yielded. He looked at his captors as the canister fell toward them. The men wore various expressions of shock, fear and dread. They reflexively reached for their weapons, despite their boss’s order, as if bullets would stop hundreds of pounds of metal and ammunition aimed at them. It was too late. The shelves came down, and he didn’t stick around to see how many were trapped. The loud crack of the detonator was immediately followed by the appearance of a misty cloud of tear gas. Rob held his breath and ran for the exit.

* * *

Trina texted her boss again with the minimal vital details of her plan and what she expected but still hoped she wouldn’t find in the warehouse. Before she added a third text, he called her.

“Get out, Trina. Don’t go in there alone. One explosion leads to more. Mike is on the east side of the clearing if you need him, but I want you both out of there now.”

She heard her boss’s voice over the Bluetooth connection in her earbuds and let out a sigh of relief. “I was thinking the same thing,” she whispered as she looked at the puppy and decided not to tell Corey that she was taking one thing from this mission—a new family member. She and Jake had the space now, so why not?

“Stop! Where are you now exactly, Trina?” Corey’s sharp query startled her.

“Next to the building. Heading out.” She read off the GPS coordinates, in case Corey had lost her signal. Keeping her voice in a whisper, she crouched down to grab the puppy.

Corey swore over the connection. “Damn it, change of plans. Trina, you’re closest. I need you to get someone who’s in there, from another op. Damn these mixed comms!” Corey was obviously taking a call from another LEA.

“Who, Corey?”

“Hang on.” She heard another loud bang inside the building and the puppy jumped, moving away from her. Damn it! “Robert Bristol. Don’t come back without him.”

“Got it.” And she’d get the man. There wasn’t time to ask Corey specifically who the man was, if he was wanted by the agents from another op, or was LEA himself. It’d all come out soon enough.

She shot one last look at the door she’d surveyed. Was she going to have to go in there, after all? This Robert Bristol dude had better know she was going to get him. Looking around the building and the surrounding forest, she saw no one. Disappointment weighed on her. As she turned back toward the building, the door burst open and a hunched over yet ambulatory man barreled out amid a cloud of white smoke. Coughing as if he had TB, he appeared a little dazed. Tear gas. Crap.

Trina drew her weapon and pointed it him. “Stop. Hands above your head.”

The man complied, albeit stiffly. She watched his arms rise and noted his hands. Why were her eyes drawn to his hands? They were so familiar. As if she’d seen them, seen him before. She stared at his face. Her insides froze. Was this how it felt to lose your mind? How crazy felt? Because she felt like she was looking at a ghost.

“Gotta go, boss.” She spoke into her mic, never taking her eyes off the man. The man who looked exactly like the man she’d given her heart to years ago. Justin Berger.

“Trina, wait—” She yanked her earbuds and Corey’s voice out. She left her phone on, though. Headquarters would at least have a recording of whatever was about to go down. Hopefully it wasn’t her sanity.

“Stay still. Identify yourself.”

The man looked stunned as he turned toward her voice, arms raised. Tears streamed down his cheeks thanks to tear gas. They fell from dark eyes. That is, one of them was a dark brown, the other swollen to a narrow slit. His body, at least the parts visible to her, was unbelievably bruised. He wore only a T-shirt that had once been greenish but was filthy and torn, and his cargo pants were unzipped, and God, she could see his briefs and what should be tucked away inside his briefs.

Acting on pure instinct born of years of training, she visually inspected him from head to toe, looking for weapons. Even if he had a weapon he appeared too battered to use it, but Trina knew no matter how much pain either a criminal trying to escape, or a trained agent was in, they’d figure out a way. She still wasn’t sure who this man was—friend or foe. Her orders were to get him but she’d rescued agents from tight spots before, under the guise of taking them into custody. She had to treat him as suspicious until either he proved he wasn’t, or Corey told her to trust him.

“Keep your hands up and turn around.”

He complied, and she swiftly approached him and patted him down. No weapons, but the way his pants fit him, the way his form was achingly familiar, had her wondering again if she was having some sort of psychotic break.

He had an air about him that distracted her, made her think she knew him. She shook her head, her weapon still on him. Focus. She needed focus.

“Turn around. Who the hell are you?” Her voice usually commanded response, but this man only stared after he turned around to face her. He lowered his arms.

“Keep them up.”

“You know I’m not armed. Look, our time is short—”

“Who are you?”

“Rob Bristol. Who the hell are you?” He was her last-minute target, after all. She forced out a breath.

“US Marshal Lopez. You’re coming with me.”

Gunfire erupted before he could reply, and “Rob” looked at her. Because she was beginning to feel that she wasn’t crazy. That this was Justin.

“Who were you here for, Marshal? Originally?”

She stared him down, refusing to answer. Was it hotter than she thought? Was she dehydrated? Because this man, this apparition in front of her, looked and sounded exactly like Justin.

The ghost spoke. “I’m with the government, too. There are too many of them for us to handle.”

Trina remained silent.

“Let’s go before they kill us both.” His voice was taut and he’d obviously had the crap knocked out of him, but the tone, the way he measured each word even under pressure, it was unique. She’d only ever known one other man to act like this in the midst of a firefight.

“I don’t suppose you have ID?” She’d never had to guess at whether she was taking in a good guy or not. They’d always been bad guys.

“You’re kidding me, right? Look at me. I’ve had the crap knocked out of me.” The harsh words softened with a tone she’d thought was only for her. It was the same method Justin had used to convince her his tactic was best.

She was going to put in for two weeks’ leave the minute she was back at headquarters. Mental health preventive. Because she had to be losing it. Right here, in the middle of what was supposed to be a routine apprehension.

More gunfire and a cloud of what she assumed was tear gas poured from the crack under the door. Once again she tried to stare him down, make him flinch. “Can you run?”

Rob nodded once, his hands still high.

“Follow me.”

She ran not away from the building, but toward it, and she sensed his hesitation, his desire to run in the opposite direction. When she held up the key she’d hid in her pocket and pointed at the ATV she was headed for, he followed.

As they ran, the puppy loped alongside her. “Buddy, there’s no room at the inn. Go home!” She spoke under her breath as she ran, shooing away the too-cute creature. Robert Bristol needed a quick ride out of here, and she intended to keep them both alive while doing it.

This was the craziest apprehension she’d ever had, especially since she wasn’t leaving with her target but a stranger her mind thought was Justin. And now a puppy was trying to join them. As if it were all some kind of fun escapade and not life-and-death circumstances. They came up to the first ATV and she faced the gaunt man, her Justin-come-to-life, ready to put her weapon on him again if she had to.

“Raise your hands again.” She looked him in the eyes and faltered. Blinked. What the hell was wrong with her? Justin was dead. This man who looked like the one man she would have ever been willing to sacrifice everything for had to be a genetic anomaly. He couldn’t be Justin. Justin was dead. Killed—in action in a war-torn Middle Eastern country during a civil war—five years ago tomorrow. A date etched in her mind but seared on her heart. The part that had never healed.

The eye that wasn’t swollen widened, and she ignored the screaming of her subconscious. So the doppelgänger had the same eye color.

“Who are you?”

He didn’t say anything. With no fanfare she patted him down more intensely this time, noting again that he was clean of any weapons. He’d sustained several bruises and a possible fracture on his ulna. Yet he still held his arm up. His muscles were tight under his dirty olive T-shirt and cargo pants, but that wasn’t her problem. Or advantage. His ass, at once familiar and strange, could solve her obvious mental stress. Justin had had a tattoo on his butt. Certainly this man did not.

She forced herself to not try to find said tattoo and straightened. She looked him in his good eye. “Mess with me and I’ll kill you. Got it?”

“Roger.”

Gunshots erupted again, and this time they were followed by the sounds of footsteps outside the building. Three men had emerged from the structure, but Trina didn’t wait to ID them. She had her man and she had wheels. Time to make their escape.

The puppy’s whimper tugged at the part of her that had nothing to do with being a hardened US marshal. Huge, liquid-chocolate-brown eyes pleaded for her mercy as he sat at her feet.

“Damn it.” Trina reached down and grabbed the pup and handed him to the man named Rob. “Here. Keep him between us. Use your good arm to hang on to me. Get on.”

The puppy seemed to sense this was for the best as he settled without fanfare between Trina and her captive. Rob Bristol reached his good arm loosely around her middle, keeping the puppy safe on the seat. The tiny sparks she imagined dancing on her skin weren’t any kind of awareness; she simply noticed that his fingers brushed her waist. He’s probably a criminal anyway, not a government agent or LEA.

And he wasn’t, couldn’t possibly be, Justin, no matter how many times she’d fantasized that Justin had somehow survived that secret mission all those years ago. They’d never recovered his body, though. That had always haunted her.

“Hang on.” It was her only warning before she gunned the engine, zigzagging over the road she’d memorized, and aimed for the main highway. One thing she knew about bad guys, they usually didn’t like to travel during the day on a major thoroughfare. Too risky. If she could get herself and this unknown-government-agency-dude there, they’d be in the clear.

He kept his arm around her waist, holding more tightly on the bumpy patches, remaining silent save for an occasional unintelligible murmur. Groans of pain, she guessed.

All she had to do was get them to the car, move the branches out of the way, and drive out of here. If she was taking him to Harrisburg, she’d make the most of the few hours’ drive. Trina had a lot of questions for this man once they were free of their pursuers.

* * *

“Ma’am, the US marshal from the Harrisburg office is on line one.” The Trail Hikers receptionist’s voice came over Claudia’s computer speaker.

“Thanks, Jessica.” Trail Hikers agency Director Claudia Michele pressed the key that put the secure, encrypted call through. A retired US Marine Corps two-star general, Claudia thrived on live ops and knew her agents were the best in the world. She trusted that Corey from the US Marshals had followed through and one of his team had managed to get Rob out of the ROC op gone wrong.

“Hi, Corey. I hope you have good news.”

“Absolutely. My marshal reports that she’s got a man who says his name is Rob Bristol, but won’t say who he works for. That sound about right, General?” Corey and the US Marshals as a whole weren’t privy to what Trail Hikers was all about, but like other LEAs in the area he had been told enough to be able to help out Claudia when one of her agents was at risk. She’d gone straight to Corey when she’d found out he had two marshals already in the area.

Claudia sat up straight. “Yes, that’s him. Where did she run into him?”

She listened as Corey related the details of his marshal’s situation, and as he spoke she worked on her computer, finding the affirmation she needed. There’d been no word from Rob since earlier today, and it wasn’t because he’d lost comms due to weather or gear failure. He’d been taken by the notorious ROC member Yuri Vasin, if what Corey relayed was correct.

Claudia started to tell Corey to have his marshal go to a location where another TH agent would get Rob. Then she stopped, remembering the reason Rob had moved to Silver Valley, temporarily.

“Corey, do you mind telling me the name of your marshal?”

“Lopez. Trina Lopez.”

Claudia had to stifle a long whistle, an old Marine Corps habit. She knew all there was to know about her agents—it was part and parcel of hiring someone to be a Trail Hiker. As much as she wanted to see Rob put his old demons to rest, she would have never picked a live firefight as the time to do so.

“Tell you what, Corey. As long as Rob is good to go for now, without medical attention, have her bring him back to Harrisburg. We’ll arrange for a pickup from your office. If he needs medical assistance, have them either call in or go to the Lehigh Valley medical center in Allentown. We have a special team there for this type of circumstance.”

“Will do. I have another marshal in the area but I’ve called him off. In light of your man’s appearance, the fewer eyes on him the better, I figure.”

“You’re absolutely right.” Claudia finished working out details with Corey and then disconnected the call. Rob wasn’t going to be happy he’d run into Trina in this manner, but sometimes fate nudged things along. She knew that firsthand from her working relationship with Silver Valley PD’s chief, Colt Todd. What had started as a business connection turned into much more as they spent time together. She fingered her wedding band, which Colt had slid on not too long ago. Claudia wasn’t one to stick her nose in her agents’ personal lives, but if she helped any of them come to resolution over a private matter, it was better for their entire Trail Hikers team. TH work was fast-paced, intense and often deadly. The more emotionally stable her agents were, the better.

Of course, the US marshal Rob was interested in was married, at least she had been three years ago, from what he’d said. It pained her whenever one of her agents was hurting, physically or otherwise. But if this was the “ripping off the bandage” work that Rob needed to do to move on with his life, she was all for it.

She shifted in her executive chair and moved her mouse over the satellite image of where Rob and Trina had reunited. Reports were coming in that Vasin had been taken into custody, but there was no sign of the big ROC boss, Ivanov. Vasin had better talk, because Ivanov was still at large.

* * *

Rob couldn’t believe it. He’d taken the temporary Trail Hikers position to be closer to where he knew Trina had settled down. She’d returned to her family’s native city of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Since he’d finally realized he needed to see her again, gain closure from the intense affair they’d had, and admit to her that she’d been the one thought that got him through it, that is. His counselor as well as his boss at Trail Hikers both confirmed what he knew but hadn’t wanted to follow through on. He had to face Trina one last time, no matter if she was happily married and settled down with another. It was crucial to keep the PTSD from flaring up again and messing up a mission. Not that it ever had, but he didn’t want it hanging over his head forever.

When he’d first met the counselor and decided to gain closure with Trina, he thought he’d drive up to Silver Valley for a day, face her, then drive back to the condo he owned in Arlington, Virginia. Then the Trail Hikers opportunity had opened up six months ago when he’d turned in his CIA resignation. He was done with the hard stuff. But his CIA handler knew that a man like Rob never retired from clandestine ops. He’d connected Rob with Trail Hikers and the rest was history.

At least, the last six months of his life’s history. He’d told himself he’d approach Trina soon. He knew she was a US marshal; Claudia said she could help him make contact.

But it was supposed to be on his time schedule, when he was ready. Not in the middle of an op gone wrong.

He’d thrown himself out of the building, not sure he’d survive. He was too hurt to outrun the ROC on his own. Trina had appeared: a savior with the face of an angel and a killer body. He’d tried to figure out how quickly he could disappear into the fields and forest surrounding Vasin’s hideout even as Trina patted him down. He’d entertained hot-wiring one of the ATVs, whether or not she came with him. Fifteen seconds was his record. But with swollen hands and fingers, he didn’t stand a chance.

Then Trina had shown up as if his mind had willed her to.

When she’d jangled that key in midair he’d wanted to whoop. Until he caught the glimmer of her eyes, the slant of her cheekbones. Until he’d looked, really seen her body. Same curves but fuller. Somehow stronger than before, which was incredible since she’d always been able to keep up with him on training runs around the airfield. And then she’d spoken. Her voice was unforgettable. Tragedy and fate might have put several lifetimes between them, but he’d recognize her voice anywhere.

Trina was a US marshal. And just as memories of her and what they’d shared in the godforsaken desert saved him in the depths of POW torture, she’d plucked him from certain death today.

Bullets strafed the dirt on either side of the ATV as they sped away. He had to fight from telling her what to do. If she was a US marshal, she knew what she was doing. Judging from how quickly they put Vasin’s men behind them, she was for real. Did she even have a clue who he was? Had he imagined the flicker of recognition that crossed her face, the initial look of shock?

She buried you a long time ago.

“You okay back there?”

“Fine.” He leaned his torso against her back. The hell with it. Aches and repeat injuries to his rib cage and jaw weren’t as easy to ignore as they’d been five years ago. His thirty-year-old body had the aches of a seventy-year-old at the moment, thanks to Vasin’s attention to detail. Rob realized he’d been lucky to transition to the CIA after his SEAL time, and then into Trail Hikers. However, maybe he’d bitten off more than he could chew by signing up for this particular Trail Hikers op. There were other, less lethal ops to take on.

No. Not a thought he’d entertain while escaping certain death, while Ivanov remained out there. Trina took the ATV through a rough field, and the jostling made stars stab at his closed lids. Oh yeah. He’d taken a decent beating this time.

“Hang tight. It’s going to get a little rough, but we’ll be in a regular car soon.” The commanding tone reflected her years of training. First as a Navy combat pilot and now as a marshal. He’d have pegged her as a shoo-in for the commercial airlines, but her will of steel no doubt made her an excellent marshal. The best.

He leaned against a woman who’d changed as much as he had in five years. Yet her body felt as if it still belonged to him. He cursed himself for paying attention to anything but their getting out of range of the ROC’s bullets. She was married, most likely to the man he’d seen her with. And she had a kid. There was no future with Trina, only this present space as he leaned against her. But no matter what he tried to think of to keep his heart from pounding with exultation that he’d found her again, it was pointless.

It was as if no time had passed.

Wrong, buddy. Five years have passed. Five years in which she never tried to find him. Assumed he’d died. Would he have believed she’d died if presented with the same circumstances?

Anger washed over him. She had no idea that her threat to kill him if he tried to escape meant nothing, no clue that he could kill her with his bare hands. Speeding ATV and multiple injuries be damned.

Sure you’re not overestimating your capabilities?

More like underestimating his injuries. Rob groaned, and for the umpteenth time refused to acknowledge his mortality. At least the pain kept him grounded, which he needed. Trina wasn’t his angel or savior. She wasn’t his anything. The ATV hit a large bump, throwing them airborne for a solid second. He held on to the woman and let himself enjoy the physical contact with her, no matter how brief. Even though he’d crushed her chances of happily ever after with him. Or rather, the war and extenuating circumstances had. He would sure as rain jump off this vehicle if he had to. No matter if it killed him. At least it would be on his terms and not Vasin’s. And Trina need never know it was him.

You’d never leave her to face them alone.

No amount of bouncing on an ATV with his most certainly bruised if not broken ribs could cause enough pain to keep him from facing the cold truth. It mocked him with each jarring movement.

He’d never stopped loving Trina.

* * *

Trina changed her focus, from the trail as she swerved off it onto avoiding tree trunks in the dense forest. It was the perfect spot to keep them out of sight and more importantly, out of bullet range of Vasin’s men. The intensity of the wooded route allowed her to hang on to what felt like the last remnants of her sanity.

It was as if her fantasies had materialized in the form of a man who said he worked for the same team she did, and who looked, sounded and walked exactly as Justin had.

His breathing was shallow as he kept his arms around her waist, and she winced with him at each outcropping, each shale rock that the wheels hit. As if it really were Justin. As if maybe, somehow, he’d survived that explosion, crawled out of the detonation crater and lived.

His loud groan of pain tensed her muscles. Now she was feeling his pain. This wasn’t how to work an apprehension.

“Hang on and I’ll get us off this as soon as I can. It sounds like we may have lost them.” Not that the loud roar of the ATV was any way to elude detection. She only had to get them near her vehicle and they’d have the upper hand.

If her mind would stop playing tricks on her.

Chapter 3

“You’re awfully quiet. Hang on, we’re almost there. Don’t even think about jumping—it’ll make it hurt more.” The vibration of her voice felt comforting under Rob’s uninjured arm as he continued to hang on to her.

It was as if Trina had read his mind. That gave him pause, made his heart lurch at the possibility they still shared their unforgettable connection. As steely and official as her tone was, she couldn’t shake the seductive edge of it. When she’d been a pilot helping him in support of SEAL missions he’d heard it, looked up from his tablet to pinpoint who was speaking in such rich notes. Her voice had been what initially drew him to her, how he’d learned there was so much more to the accomplished Navy pilot than met the eye.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Not this time. Not until he leveled with her, told her he’d survived. And wished her well to her face. She had to know, or suspect strongly, that it was him. Trina was too smart not to see the similarities. She had to be at least comparing him to the man he’d once been. A man she’d thought dead for the past five years.

“Damn right you’re not going anywhere.” Her words weren’t directed at him as she didn’t shout over the engine or wind, but he felt her breath, heard her words as his ear rested on her back. He wondered if she could feel how well they still fit together.

“Ugh.” His grunt came out louder than he’d planned, but the ATV rode like a truck without the shock absorbers. Holy hell but Trina knew how to maneuver it, as well as she’d flown the P-8 they’d met in. More importantly, how to evade a pursuer. Within minutes they passed through a copse of birch, pine and fir trees and drove up onto a paved road. A real highway.

It was pure bliss to his bruised ass and kidneys, as well as his sore crotch.

With no fanfare, she stopped the ATV and dismounted, indicating he do the same. She took the puppy from him as he stiffly executed a controlled fall off his seat. At least he was on two feet.

Trina’s gaze assessed him, but if she thought it was the man she’d once loved, her expression revealed nothing. She’d had the time she needed to regain her composure.

“We have to move quickly. Can you still run?”

“I’ll do my best.”

Her cool gray eyes met his. Awareness, tight and immediate, thrummed between them. He held his breath, waiting for her to acknowledge she recognized him.

“Damn right. Let’s go.” She tucked the damned dog under one arm and grabbed his upper arm with the other. She propelled him forward, leading them back into the deeper part of the woods, away from the highway. For someone with such a lean body she was remarkably strong. And fast. Just as he remembered.

His breath hitched, and the air felt like fire as it entered and exited his lungs, scraping as it went. The raspy sound would have alarmed him if he weren’t afraid they were both about to get shot to pieces by one of Vasin’s men. He was pretty sure Vasin was down for the count, with a shelving unit and tear gas to fight through. He’d caught the other thugs unawares, too, but at least one if not two of them had escaped and shot at them. He had no doubt they were close behind on the remaining ATVs. His ears strained to hear their roar. He was afraid that they’d alerted Ivanov to the breach of their inner sanctum. The ROC would unleash hell on earth to stop Rob and anyone who threatened their dominion.

“Come on! Don’t slow down now.” No compassion laced Trina’s urgent order.

“Going. Fast. As. I. Can.” He gritted his teeth, but his swollen cheeks didn’t make it the pain-relieving experience it should have been as his jaw screamed in protest.

The roar of an ATV reached his ears just fine, however. Cold sweat would have broken out on his neck if he weren’t already overheated from the physical demands of the run and his pain non-management.

Trina heard the engine as well. She kept moving, kept up their forward momentum as she half pushed, half dragged him by his good arm. “Come on, buddy. Pretend you’re in shape and have to score the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl. You’re a wide receiver, running with the ball toward the goalpost.”

In shape? Couldn’t she see he was freaking injured, not out of shape?

“We’re headed to that spot over there, by the way.” He looked at her out of his good eye, which made him turn his head, and he tripped. Sharp rocks and hard dirt raced up toward him, filling his limited vision, before a hard yank on his shirt collar had him upright. His neck howled in pain.

“Aggggh.” He stifled the scream, and it sounded like a damned frog. This was definitely an example of how not to run into a former lover.

“Stay with me.” Trina’s voice strained as she dug in with the heels of her work boots and kept him from falling face-first onto the forest floor for a second time. She held on to his collar as she pulled him up next to her, her silver eyes steady on him again. “You okay?”

He grunted.

“Then get in this car, back seat, now.” She’d led them to what he’d thought was a huge shrub but she pulled the branches off to reveal a small hatchback—a Ford Fiesta. If he had the breath he’d whoop and hug the tight-assed marshal. She was his ticket out of hell. Until he told her he was, had been, Justin. That he was still alive. Would she even care?

“Okay, get in.” He bit his lip as he held on to the small car’s roof with his arm, holding his injured arm against his middle. After he got into the seat, Trina put his seat belt around him, and he caught a whiff of her scent. When he breathed in sharply she stilled and stared at him, her expression wary. Frightened.

Yeah, she’d noticed the resemblance.

The buckle clicked into place and Trina straightened outside the car. “Keep an eye on the dog.” The mangy pup was placed on the seat next to him, where it immediately curled up and went to sleep. Rob envied the dog’s ability to give in to basic instinct.

He’d be fighting his the entire time he was with Trina.

* * *

The shooters had come so close to them but never noticed the car under the branches, between two full bushes.

Only minutes earlier, getting killed by fugitives had been her biggest worry. Not whether or not she was sane, thinking the man behind her was Justin. Justin was dead. But if he’d lived, if this was him, she’d have to tell him about her Justin Berger, his son, Jake.

No, you don’t.

Yes, she did. Protecting Jake from strangers was one thing, but from his father another. Although the man in the back seat was virtually a stranger. He couldn’t be Justin.

It’s improbable but still possible.

As she cleared the remaining branches off the car, she used the small space from Rob Bristol to get it together. She refused to look back as she took off her cowboy hat, threw it across to the passenger seat, and slid into the driver’s seat. Trina waited as the sound of the Russians’ ATV engines faded, making certain they were gone before she started the car.

The man remained silent as she drove up onto the highway. After a few miles on flat pavement, she checked him out in the rearview mirror. His head was tilted back as if he’d fallen asleep. Or unconscious. Panic gripped her chest.

“Hey! You still with me?”

Nothing.

He could be messing with her. But then he lifted his head, and she saw the tortured expression on his face. Compassion pierced her defenses.

“Are you all right? I’ve got pain meds in the first aid kit.”

“A-okay, baby cakes.”

Realization slammed through her, blowing away her cobwebs of disbelief and denial. Unless this was a ghost, and she’d imagined the entire time between seeing him stumble out of the building that was housing Vasin and now, this had to be Justin. He was the only one who’d ever called her “baby cakes.”

Justin was still alive.

She headed east, called her boss and refused to look her passenger in the eye. She gripped the wheel, waiting for Corey to pick up.

“Trina, why the freak haven’t you checked in?” Corey Blumenthal’s voice rumbled in her earpiece. She couldn’t use the speakerphone, not with an unknown in the back seat, no matter that he was probably a fellow LEA agent or officer.

And he wasn’t unknown, but a freaking practical ghost.

“Handling things. I’m safe. I should be in Harrisburg in about two hours or so. I’ve got Rob Bristol with me.”

“Thank God! We’ve got reports that the warehouse you went to had an event. Where are you?” Her boss’s voice remained professional, but she heard the concern in it.

She gave him her coordinates so that he could confirm her GPS unit was working. “I’m within two and a half hours of base. Unless you tell me to go elsewhere.” The puppy chose that time to bark. Of course.

“What the hell is that?”

“A dog. He wouldn’t stop following me.”

“You’re a US marshal, Lopez, not a dogcatcher.”

“Yes, sir.” She and Corey were on first-name basis, but she liked to rankle him by reminding him he was two decades older.

“So, you have Bristol. Well done. Just to be safe, describe him to me.”

What the hell? He never questioned her like this.

She looked in the rearview mirror as she drove, catching quick looks at Justin—God, it was Justin—but not enough to get them in an accident.

“Shaved crew cut, blondish, graying scruff on his chin, dark eyes, well, eye—one of them is swollen shut—about six feet, maybe two hundred, two-twenty.” And all of it hard muscle, if he was anything like he’d been when they’d made love under the desert stars, making the baby she’d raised on her own.

“Lopez. What about ID?” Corey’s impatience bristled more than usual because she got it—she was annoyed, too.

“Not possible. I asked. No ID, no papers on him. Not saying who he’s with.” Her fingers betrayed her as she spoke, burning with the memory of patting him down—there’d been nothing under his clothing except hard, sinewy male body. Justin’s body.

“Ask him.” Her boss’s voice shook her from her lust.

“He claims he’s an agent of some type. I trusted my gut. He’s been beat to hell by the ROC members.”

“Robert Bristol. TH.” Her fugitive croaked out his name again but this time added the “TH.” Trina locked gazes with him in the rearview mirror, fighting the urge to slam the car to a stop, get out and pull him out to get to the bottom of his identity.

“He says his name is Robert Bristol, TH, whatever the hell that means.”

Was that a sparkle of glee, amusement or demonic intention in his good eye?

“That’s all the identification we need. You’ve got the right man, Trina. Bring him in.” Corey paused, the line crackling in her earbud. “Well done, Trina.”

“Yes, sir.” She finished her conversation with Corey and turned her attention to her passenger.

“That’s not your name and we both know it. Where the hell have you been?” Trina wasn’t playing his game any longer. The initial shock was wearing thin and she had to know whom she was transporting back to headquarters, at least, whoever he used to be. Before he called himself Robert Bristol.

“Please keep your eyes on the road, Marshal Lopez.”

“Shut the hell up.” Backed into an emotional corner, she relied on good old sailor-speak.

“Trina, what the hell is going on out there? Are you okay?” Corey’s concerned voice filled her ear. She’d neglected to disconnect. Just great.

“I’m okay, boss. We’re having a little ‘whose LEA is bigger’ contest, that’s all.”

This time she made sure to disconnect.

* * *

“Damn it!” Trina slammed her palms on the steering wheel of the small economy car. A cheap rental, judging from the clean smell of the upholstery and lack of air-conditioning. At least she’d opened the windows and let the clean air stream in. “Want to explain why your name is Rob Bristol these days?”

“Self-preservation.”

He liked the way her gray eyes looked almost black each time she glanced at him in the rearview mirror. Her hair was escaping the ponytail holder, and long, wavy wisps floated around her as the air blew in through the front two windows she’d lowered halfway.

He couldn’t help it; he laughed. And then groaned.

“Are you in pain?” Her tough countenance fled. Did she care if he suffered? It could be a good sign if she did.

He shook his head. Nope, couldn’t go there. Trina was married, and he had to gain closure with her for their time in the desert. Nothing more. Achieve point A, move to B.

“Stop.” He choked out the word.

“I can’t stop—we have to make it to Harrisburg.” Same tiny lines between her brows when she frowned, if a bit deeper and definite. The years had been tough on each of them, it appeared.

“No, I mean, stop making me laugh. It hurts my ribs.”

“It’s going to hurt a lot more if you don’t start talking. What were you doing in that warehouse? Did you lie to me about working for the government? Do you work for ROC?”

“Hell no. I was trying to take Vasin out.” The words escaped and he realized he had to reel them back in, but couldn’t. He’d never let classified information spill before, no matter how much pain he was in.

“Take Yuri Vasin, second to only Dima Ivanov, out? What’s your definition of ‘out,’ by the way?”

“Actually, it turns out I had to take out Vasin first. And before you get upset, know that he’s under a huge metal shelf sucking in tear gas. He’s as good as caught. The local authorities will have no problem apprehending him. Ivanov remains unseen and at large, but I’d bet my life he’s near the warehouse, if not in it.” She had to know about the basements and concealed structures-within-structures that ROC was famous for. Nothing about that was classified.

“Well, that’s reassuring.” Her sarcasm tore at him, and he reassessed his initial appraisal of US Marshal Trina Lopez. Or rather, added to it. She’d come a long way from the serious but always chipper Navy pilot he’d known. She was still spot-on with her job, but her demeanor was more sober. Wiser. She hadn’t made a misstep when she’d taken him into pseudo custody—she’d hedged her bets, in fact. As a well-trained, intelligent US marshal would do. The few he’d worked with over the years had been all business, the epitome of professional. Trina proved no exception.

No other US marshal had been the love of his life, however. And not one of them had thought he was dead for the past five years, come back to life as if in a dream.

More like a nightmare. Yeah, he supposed he was Trina’s worst nightmare, in many ways.

That made him laugh again. Ouch.

Freakin’ ribs.

* * *

Trina’s deep shock at seeing Justin alive wasn’t going to dissipate anytime soon, but she had to take care of what was in front of her nose. She was concerned about his injuries, wondering if he was internally bleeding as they sped across the state.

She sighed and focused on a few deep, calming breaths as she drove, certain they’d left the criminals behind them. She didn’t want to see anyone in pain, and especially not a man who wasn’t a bad guy. Was in fact, the guy she’d fallen for and gotten pregnant by. He was a different kind of guy now, though. He’d been in the vicinity of very, very bad men. And he knew who Vasin and Ivanov were. Not usual LEA targets. More like FBI, even CIA. The Marshals had been called in to nab Vasin only because they hadn’t received the intelligence that he was with other men and protected. Trina wasn’t fazed by running across an agent from another LEA—it happened all the time. But in this instance, and with “Rob” not revealing which agency he worked for, her hackles were at attention. It had nothing to do with the sexual attraction she was imagining between them. Seriously, in the middle of an op?

A quick look at her rearview mirror revealed Rob with his head laid back again, maybe trying to escape the incredible discomfort he was in. She’d call in for a doctor as soon as they were an hour out from the Harrisburg station. Giving him first aid unless he was facing imminent death wasn’t an option, as they had to make time and put road between them and ROC. Rob had said he was fine, that he didn’t need to stop at Lehigh Valley medical center. She chose to believe him. Stopping to clean wounds and place bandages was a luxury when being chased by bad guys.

She should have checked him over for any bleeding wounds. And internal bleeding—it was pretty clear he’d probably snapped a rib or two, either from his escape out of the warehouse or from Vasin and his posse whaling on him. But her mind, her heart, had been vibrating from the effort to assimilate what she witnessed.

The resurrection of her son’s father. A man come back to life.

Her phone buzzed and the ID indicated it was Corey on a secure line.

“Hey, boss.”

“Any more information from Rob Bristol, Trina?”

“Nothing more than what I told you. He says he’s Robert Bristol, that he was working to find Ivanov and Vasin. He’s got a lot of bruises, maybe a cracked rib. But nothing serious, hopefully.”

“He’s telling you the truth, Trina.” Corey never spoke with such a dramatic tone of conciliation unless he thought she was about to lose it from a particularly rough operation, or when he was insistent she take time off.

“Okay, fine, so who does he work for?”

“I’ll fill you in when this is over. All of it’s above my pay grade. Bottom line is that he’s not a suspect or fugitive. He’s one of us, but with a different group. You can trust him. And if you need to, follow his orders.”

Trust the man who let her believe he’d died during a failed raid in the Mideast? Who’d obviously lived but never came to find her afterward? Who didn’t know their passion, their uncontrollable lust for each other, had made a baby who was her precious Jake?

“Okaaaaay.” She couldn’t help drawing out her response. Just a little.

“I’ve called because you’ve got new orders, Lopez.”

“Can’t they wait until we’re in? We’re only sixty miles out.” She wanted to be home with her son, in her house. The sooner the better.

“Nope. You’re not stopping in Harrisburg. As a matter of fact, you’re going to pull off in three miles and get a new rental, then head south on I-81. Use your company card and find a hotel when you need to, and hole up. You need to take three days to get back here. You need to practice maximum evasion—not just for his sake but for yours and Justin’s. These are the worst of the worst, Trina. ROC don’t leave anyone alive who’s pegged them.”

“We have to do this all weekend?”

“Yes.”

“Where do we end up, then?” She tried to sound calm, professional.

“Ultimately, you’ll bring Rob Bristol back to his home base.”

The hair on her nape prickled, and she massaged her neck with one hand on the wheel.

“And where is that?”

“Silver Valley.”

“As in where I just bought my new house?” What the hell was Rob Bristol of “TH” doing in Silver Valley?

Corey was quiet for a moment. “Yes. I can’t say anymore on this line. Stop along the way. Stay in more populated areas, at regular hotels. Nothing fancy. You’re just another couple playing tourist. Charge everything to the company.”

Trina groaned. The “company” was of course the US Marshals. This was official business. She blew out a deliberate, angry puff of air. This was not happening to her. Yet inexplicably, it was.

“Roger, boss. Got it.”

“Check in as usual.”

“Will do.”

“And Lopez?”

“Yes, sir?”

“The dog food is on your tab.”

Corey disconnected the call, and Trina would have screamed at the top of her lungs if she were alone.

Alone. Her gaze flew to the mirror and collided with the blue laser that was Rob Bristol’s stare. Justin’s. The glance that had set her on fire at one time, made her wet before he’d stroked between her legs with his fingers. Made her entire body quiver in anticipation.

She gulped. “Your left eye appears to be getting better—the swelling is going down.”

“What did you have on your schedule this weekend?”

Dang it. He’d heard the call. Or her side of it, at least.

“Nothing that can’t be rearranged.” She wished her heart, her soul, felt as calm and easygoing as her reply. Trina had her family and Jake’s friends’ families to rely on. Since they’d moved, though, his friends were forty-five minutes away, north of her office in Harrisburg. They hadn’t set down roots in Silver Valley yet. But he’d be able to stay with her parents, or her brother would stay over at her place with him. She need only make the call.

“There was a time when you would have done anything to spend an overnight with me, Trina.”

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