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Merry Holidays! Time for a sale!

Merry Christmas & happy holidays! It’s been such a weird year, but I hope you and yours are safe and enjoying some needed fun before the year is over. I hope you’re finding time to read!

December is the month I slow down on writing and editing and plan for the coming year’s releases. I outline books (4 done, 2 to go) and pencil in release dates on my various calendars (6 scheduled so far).

I enjoy Christmas movies and songs, as well as holiday themed stories. White Christmas is my favorite movie, and Santa is Coming to Town by Bruce Springsteen. Both bring back special memories for me.

Do you have a favorite movie or song that instantly puts you in the holiday spirit?

Santa visited early and brought me the one gift I’ve been wishing for – a new sewing machine. I’m a crafter at heart and used to sew all the time. I even made quilts. It’s been fun to get back into the swing of things (see the two items I’ve made so far below) and I’ve spent hours on Pinterest finding more projects.

I’ve also made dozens of bracelets and candles (all sold!) and I have more beads and wax waiting.

If you’re looking for a holiday read, Deadly Holiday, Deadly Attraction, and Operation Christmas Contraband are all on sale on my direct buy site for only 99¢. Merry Christmas!

I’m ready for more interaction with my readers and a spirit of community, so I’ve started a private readers’ group on Facebook. Members will get to see more of “me” the person, and get to see my works in progress (read excerpts as the books are written!), learn about sales, and have early access to release. I won’t be doing much with it until January, but if you’d like to be one of the first, founding readers, you can ask to join here:

Wishing you and yours a peaceful season filled with love and fun,

Misty & family (including Athena, Thunder, and Princess Zoey!)

My sewing organizer with multiple pockets. It zips up and has a carry handle. Great for makeup, nail polish, essential oils, office supplies, and crystals! I call this my Busy Bee pouch. It has two pockets with fun inner linings and heavy duty zippers. 

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“Phenomenal! The book had me hooked right from the start.”

Looking for a hot, new romantic suspense series?

Investigative reporter Savanna Bunkett digs into a rumor about a top-secret government project producing “super soldiers” and finds herself on an assassin’s hit list.

Navy SEAL Trace Hunter—the only soldier to survive the project—must become her bodyguard. He needs her to set the record straight with the entire world about who he is, and he’s her only chance at survival.

When their mutual enemy closes in, can they put the past behind them and trust each other? Or will secrets, lies, and forbidden passions cost them everything?

“Cover ups, intrigue, life and death situations and romance? Yes please!” ~ Reader review



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She’s hell-bent to uncover the truth. He’ll do anything to keep his secrets buried.

Being Savanna’s bodyguard is the last thing Trace wants to do, but she’s his one chance to set the record straight—and he’s her only chance at survival. When their mutual enemy closes in, will secrets, lies, and forbidden passions cost them everything?

FREE on all US retailers!

Enjoy this excerpt!

Navy SEAL Lieutenant Trace Hunter stood outside the Witcher prison walls in nothing but his underwear and stared at the gray Virginia skyline.

You wore the same clothes leaving prison that you wore coming in; hence his lack of street clothes.

Eighteen months since he’d been a free man. Since his world crashed down like a Black Hawk hit by a surface-to-air missile.

He drew a deep breath, the cold November air searing a line straight down his throat and into his lungs. Yes sir, the guard hadn’t been lying.

“Brisk out there,” he’d told Trace as he’d handed him a pair of sweatpants and a jacket and ushered him out a rear service door not far from solitary.

The normal guards had been missing, the numerous doors and gates opening for the two of them as if by magic. But Trace was a lifer. He didn’t understand why he was getting out, or why he wasn’t going out the front gate.

Leaving Witcher had never crossed his mind when he’d entered, so he didn’t argue as the guard directed him through the last gate. He did, however, ignore the kindness of the clothes and bugged out as fast as his feet could carry him.

Thanks to his stubbornness, his skin was now pebbling in the frosty air.

He’d briefly considered there would be a car waiting for him, or more likely, there would be a sniper on the hill and a bullet with Trace’s name on it.

Neither materialized.

Forty yards from the prison, he came to a fork in the road. According to the sign, north lay Rileyville, Population 899. South lay Murder Creek, unincorporated. Either way was a long walk in his skivvies.

Rocks and debris on the road bit into the soles of his feet as he put his head down and headed south. He’d taken off the cheap flip-flops Witcher had provided upon entry and thrown them as far as his arm allowed. He’d survived tougher conditions in hellholes like Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Peru. North Korea had been a ball of laughs, too.

At least those places had been warm.

Who got me out?

Leaving the prison, he’d kept wondering if it was a joke, and that once he finally got to the last gate where the laundry trucks came and went, the normal guards would arrive back at their posts, laugh and tell him to turn the fuck around and go back to solitary.

He’d spent a lot of time there. No way in hell he’d been released early for good behavior.

When he’d asked why he was free to go, the guard with the clothes wouldn’t answer him.

Fucking government.

He loved his country. Had done a lot of shit to keep her safe, but there was one thing he’d refused to do and it had cost him his freedom and his reputation. He knew a secret that could destroy the sitting president. Linc Norman’s enemies would give Trace anything he wanted for this tidbit of info.

He wouldn’t give it to them. None of them.

He also wouldn’t follow the last order his commander-in-chief had issued.

So he’d been branded a rogue operative, a traitor. His story—a false one—had been plastered all over the highly-rated The Bunk Stops Here and then been picked up by news stations around the world. He’d become the face on dozens of cheap tabloids, usurping the Royals’ latest baby and stealing the limelight from the current Disney star-turned-porn princess, all thanks to Savanna Bunkett, the host of TBSH who’d broken the story on him.

The all-American, girl-next-door Savanna did a three-show segment on his fall from war hero to traitor, crucifying him and calling into question every mission he’d been on, every SEAL who’d worked with him.

Not a lawyer in the country would touch him, and even if one had stepped forward to take on the U.S. Attorney General, they wouldn’t have won. He was a dead man walking. Thanks to some back-door dealing, he didn’t even get a trial; he was sent straight to Witcher, the hidden government installment built especially for high-risk prisoners like him. Prisoners who’d been the best at what they did. Highly-trained operatives and military personal who knew every trick their government had up its sleeve and how to get around all of them.

Behind him, the sound of tires on pavement broke him out of his reverie.

SUV, four-wheel drive, twenty-five miles an hour tops.

Trace didn’t turn or acknowledge the vehicle’s presence. It was traveling too slowly to be a casual traveler on his way to Murder Creek unless the driver was a blue-hair. Of course, a man his size walking on the side of the road in nothing but his underwear could cause any normal driver to slow so he or she could gawk.

Trace knew the driver wasn’t an old lady or a curious traveler. The person or persons approaching carried danger. Probably someone working for the president or Command & Control. Maybe the person who’d gotten him cut loose from Witcher so they could gun him down on the side of the road.

Hell, the president had already had him in the perfect spot to end him. People inside had tried, but he was better, faster, more deadly than his fellow inmates. He’d sent more than a few of them to the infirmary, knowing they had only come after him because the president had offered them early release if they took him out.

He’d been well-trained for evasive maneuvers. The tree line next to him would make for good cover if he needed it. He could disappear before the driver blinked. Disappear forever and reinvent himself. Go to the Caribbean, meet some sweet native gal and start a new life. Or maybe Italy. He’d always wanted to visit Italy.

Bonus, Italy was one of the few countries where he’d never killed anyone.

The SUV cruised by him, accelerating ten yards out. Cadillac Escalade. Not official government unless the mayor of Virginia was paying a visit.

Maybe it is a blue-hair gawker.

Tinted windows. All-season, heavy duty tires. If he had to guess, he’d say by the sound of those tires on the cold highway, the vehicle was carrying some reinforced side panels.

His gawker was either incredibly rich and paranoid, or Beyoncé had heard he was out and had come to pick him up.

Doesn’t matter who’s in the car. Only matters what I’m going to do about it.

Escape scenarios were limited. There was one road, the road he was walking on, and the trees.


He liked things simple.

Sure enough, the Escalade made a U-y in the valley and stopped, pointed back toward him.

Fight or flight?

While he’d kept himself in good condition inside Witcher, he was tired of fighting.

Flight it is.

He glanced over at the tree line. The shadows beckoned. The anonymity. A fresh start.

Nah. Running wasn’t his style. Instead of bailing from his very exposed line of sight, he stood stock-still and eyed the SUV, still idling a quarter mile away.

He’d pushed through pain, through war, through prison. Had gotten back up every time someone knocked him down.

Even the goddamn president of the United States.

That’s what soldiers did.

There was no point in running. The prez would come for him again and again and again.

It was time to make a stand, even if it was his last.

* * *

Washington, DC

Savanna Jeffries Bunkett looked up from the notes on her lead story when a knock sounded on her dressing room door. She scowled at her reflection in the large mirror over her table. She needed her roots touched up.

Scribbling a reminder on the top sheet, she called out, “Yes?”

Lindsey Fey, the assistant to the assistant director at The Bunk Stops Here and Savanna’s studio-assigned assistant, poked her head in. The headphones she used to bark orders to the cameramen and crew lay around her neck. “You have a visitor.”

The word “visitor” held emphasis. Lindsey’s eyes danced and she was smiling.

Lindsey was always smiling. She ran her butt off, organizing everything from the scriptwriters to the coffee machine and her energy and aggressiveness had helped make TBSH an Emmy winner. She had Executive Producer in her sights and Savanna didn’t have the heart to tell her she was too young and lacked specific equipment between her legs to go that far with the news channel. She was related to one of the producers, however, and in the world of cable news, that would be Lindsey’s ticket to success.

Lindsey never took off her headphones while on set. Maybe not even when she was off set; Savanna couldn’t be sure, since she didn’t hang out with the staff and crew, was never invited out for drinks after filming or to the DC parties the rest of them always seemed to rush off to.

Lindsey’s smile, along with the word emphasis, made Savanna’s pulse speed up. “Is it Parker?” she asked.

Blonde eyebrows drew together and the smile flattened. “Your sister? No.” As Savanna’s hope died, Lindsey’s smile returned. She leaned in, stage-whispering, “Someone big.”

Big in television news or something else? From the excited countenance Lindsey was sporting, it could be Hollywood’s latest action star or the Dalai Lama. Hard to know. The girl was wowed by everyone.

When a recent spike in watchers made TBSH the largest cable investigative news show since Nancy Grace, Savanna’s popularity also skyrocketed. To her embarrassment, she’d become a regular face on E! News and grocery store tabloids as Americans criticized her hair and weight and wondered who she was dating since her breakup with Junior Senator Brady Garrison. Few seemed to appreciate her investigative skills and hard-hitting stories about corporate and political corruption.

Savanna looked back down at her notes. “Unless it’s the Pope”— or Parker. God, where are you? —“I don’t have time for a meeting. Whoever it is can wait until after the show.”

She heard a scuffle and, assuming Lindsey was ducking out, continued to review her notes on the latest political scandal she was about to blow the whistle on.

A moment later, however, the room behind her filled with an unmistakable presence and the scent of the man’s designer cologne. Sharp, musky, reminding her of old leather and fresh betrayal. “Not many people say no to me.”

Savanna’s stomach dropped. She clenched her fingers around the pen she’d been using, the typed words on the script in front of her blurring.

“What are you doing here?” she said without lifting her gaze. Her voice sounded steady even though she was shaking from head to toe.

A crystal vase plunked down on the dressing table next to her, overflowing with a lush mix of summer flowers. Roses, hydrangeas, sunflowers. He’d figured out all her favorites.

Damn him. She’d never be able to enjoy her favorite flowers again.

Linc Norman leaned over her shoulder, ran a finger along her hairline, and pushed a coiffured lock out of the way. “What is this I hear about you doing an exposé on Westmeyer?” His breath landed on the top of her ear and revulsion snaked through her. His Alabama drawl thickened. “Tread lightly, sweetheart. I need them come next November.”

Tread lightly?

Was he seriously throwing down a gauntlet?

Anger replaced her revulsion. He was drawing a line and daring her not to step over it.

We’ll see about that.

Savanna bit the inside of her cheek and stared holes into the paper in front of her. She’d never taken kindly to threats, and wasn’t about to now, even if the man threatening her was the president of the United States. “I told you, I won’t be your lackey. If one of your supporters is committing criminal acts or fleecing the American people in any way, I’m going after them.”

“Like you did your boyfriend?”

Low blow, but then, what did she expect?

“You’ve always been too focused on principles, Van.” Norman let his fingers travel under her chin, forcing it up. “Look at me.”

Savanna glued her eyes on the flowers, not willing to meet his eyes in the mirror.

He pinched her chin between his finger and thumb, forcing her to raise her gaze. “You don’t give me orders or deny me anything. Loosen up your journalistic ethics or I’ll burn you at the stake.”

Finally, Savanna locked eyes with him in the mirror. “I won’t abandon my principles. Ever. So let me get you a match.”

His eyes were several shades lighter than her deep blue ones, with gray streaks that mimicked the ones in his hair. He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling as if he were teasing her instead of threatening her.

But the threat was real, coming from the most powerful man in the world. “Where is my sister?” she whispered. “What have you done with her?”

The president’s smile turned tolerant, the smooth Southern charm now mixing with the perfect touch of pity. If he’d been a television emcee or talk show host, he would have been her toughest competition. “Parker works for National Intelligence. Who knows where she is or what she’s working on.”

Perhaps Parker was on assignment, but she was a cognitive scientist who’d found a niche studying the brains and behaviors of terrorists. Her work for NI was more analyst and profiler than anything else. Occasionally, she traveled out of the country, but she always texted or called Savanna beforehand to let her know she’d be quiet for a few days or weeks.

They were close; normally they talked every day. They made time for weekly lunches, and once a month, they met their parents for Sunday dinner.

Parker was dedicated and loved her job. While she never shared intelligence or sensitive information, she had been more secretive than usual for the past year and a half.

And now, she was gone.

“If you’ve hurt her…” Savanna let the threat hang in the air. Was she really doing this? Threatening the president of the United States? “If you made her disappear, I will find out, and when I do, I will let everyone know exactly who and what you are.”

A monster.

Releasing her chin, Linc Norman put his face next to hers, their reflections in the mirror looking like the Greek theatre faces of comedy and tragedy. He thought this was a joke—her fierce love and loyalty to her sister.

But the president wasn’t one to take a threat sitting down. He ran his hands over Savanna’s arms, his attention dropping to her cleavage. Holding the gaze a moment longer, purposely trying to make her uncomfortable. “You’ve pissed off a lot of high-powered people in your time at the news desk. Ruined a lot of lives and brought whole companies to their knees. Wouldn’t want any of them to retaliate, now, would you, Van?”

A master at intimidation, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, as if soaking in her scent before he leaned his forehead against her temple. “You and I both have a role to play in leading the American people and making them feel secure. Parker had one job and she blew it. Don’t follow in her footsteps, Van. Do what I tell you and everyone will be happy.”

Her hand now shook so hard, she had to lay down the pen. It was either that, or she’d stick the pen in his eye socket. “I want my sister back.”

“We don’t always get what we want.” He chuckled and rose to his full height, checking himself out in her mirror. He straightened his tie, brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. “Except me. I am, after all, the leader of the free world.”

Savanna held his gaze, refusing to kowtow regardless of the fact that he could ruin her career, her very life, with the snap of his fingers. She mentally cursed herself that she didn’t have a way to make the bastard come clean.

But that was her forte. Digging in and unearthing dirt that could bring anyone, no matter how much power they had, to their knees. She’d known this confrontation was a strong possibility and had already taken measures to start fighting back.

He didn’t see the fire in her eyes, or, knowing him, took it as compliance rather than defiance. Everyone gave him what he wanted when he turned on the charm.

“Remember, lay off Westmeyer.” He winked and patted her back. “And enjoy the flowers.”

Two Secret Service agents closed in around him as he left. At least, she thought they were SS. They could have been his thugs. Parker had once told her Norman used various tunnels under the White House to come and go covertly on a regular basis. Often his own chief of staff had no idea where he was or what he was doing.

“The White House bad boy,” the press had nicknamed him. Savanna knew his antics hid a much deeper, much more sinister side.

Trembling, she took the vase of flowers and smashed it against the wall.

Light reflected off something among the shattered heads of the hydrangeas. Savanna stepped gingerly though the broken glass in the designer heels the audience wouldn’t see behind her news desk. Bending down, she picked up a tiny, flexible, opaque disc.

Listening device? Camera?

Throwing it down, she ground her heel into it. Small satisfaction, but she imagined it was Norman’s face.

Back at her dressing table, she withdrew her cell phone from the top drawer. No calls or texts from Parker, but there was a text from a blocked caller.


A long time ago, Parker had given Savanna a number to text, a person who went by the moniker ON16. A person—man or a woman, she didn’t know—who could help Savanna if she couldn’t get hold of her sister. Extreme emergencies only, Parker had said.

Savanna had never needed it before.

ON16’s text was two lines: a name and a phone number.

Savanna stared at the name, bells going off in her head. Emit Petit. Where had she heard that name before?

Lindsey popped in without knocking. “What did the president say? Are you going to interview him? Please say he wants to do an interview at the White House!”

She was giddy until her attention dropped to the shards of glass and limp flowers on the floor. “Oh, my God. What happened? Are you okay?”

Savanna stood, dropping the cell phone back into her drawer. She smoothed the front of her jacket and grabbed her notes. “Let’s go,” she said, hustling Lindsey out of the room. “We have a show to do.”

And then I’m going to find my sister.



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The ghost from her past is about to get his cold-blooded revenge

Secrets can get you killed in this riveting story in the SCVC Taskforce romantic suspense series by USA TODAY Bestselling Author, Misty Evans.

He killed her best friend when they were only girls…but she got away.

Now he’s hunting her again.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ “Oh, wow, Deadly Secrets is GOOD! Fast-paced, action-filled, and scorching-hot-romance.” ~ Wiken, Goodreads reviewer


Three ambulances pulled away in quick succession as Roman drove up to the blocked off area near the church and parked. None of them had their lights on.


They were too late to save anyone.

Before they’d left the hotel, Roman had insisted Brooke change out of her dress and pick up shoes. He wasn’t taking her to a crime scene with nothing on her feet. She hadn’t said much on the drive over and he could see how deeply disturbed she was at the idea of checking out the multiple suicide-homicide with him.

Yes, the parishioners had all committed suicide, but it was the work of The Reverend who’d brainwashed them into doing it.

The Rev wasn’t the first cult leader to convince his followers to do so. Jim Jones was probably the most remembered, convincing over 900 people to commit “revolutionary suicide” and drink poison. Not many years ago, just outside of San Diego, the Heaven’s Gate members had killed themselves in order to enable their souls to jump on board a spaceship following the Hale-Bopp comet.

But Roman didn’t believe The Reverend was a true cult leader—he didn’t spend time gathering a flock and preaching to them or trying to take their money or possessions to amass his own. His targets had neither. He moved swiftly, from one group to the next, seeming to exact some kind of vengeance or justice. He was a serial killer, pure and simple, trying to rid the area of nonwhites, it seemed.

Polly, standing inside the barricades with her tablet in hand, waved him over. He flashed his badge at the police guard and guided Brooke past a group of law enforcement and crime scene techs.

Frizzy hair flying, Polly met them halfway. Roman made quick introductions, Brooke distractedly shaking Polly’s hand as the DTT’s crime scene expert smiled good-naturedly, not missing a beat that Roman had brought her and welcoming Brooke to the team. Brooke didn’t respond other than to ask if they were sure this was the work of The Reverend.

Behind Polly, the small church, once abandoned, looked shabby and rundown in the glare of the lights.

Polly handed Roman the tablet with the details laid out in bulleted points the way he liked. She recited the details out loud for Brooke’s benefit.

Death toll: 34 and rising.

Survivors: none.

Method used to kill victim(s): lethal dose of cyanide in the sacrament cups of grape juice served to each member present.

“Pastor Luke? That’s what they called him?” Several other points were listed, but Roman’s eyes skipped over them and he handed the tablet back to Polly. “Matthew, Mark, Luke. He’s using the apostles in the New Testament. We should have seen that correlation earlier. Put out an update to the team. We need to find any and all pastors that pop up along the coast with a disciple name.”

“First, middle, or last,” Brooke added. She stared at the front of the church where the double doors were propped open and crime scene techs were going in and out. “He may use the apostle name as any of them. John will be next, and I’m guessing there will be a lot of Pastor Johns to vet.”

Roman rubbed his knuckles across his beard. He needed a shave. “If he continues in biblical order.” After the last few days with only five hours of sleep in sum total, he could use an energy drink to offset the exhaustion humming in his veins. “He may not.”

“He will.” Brooke seemed certain. “But it will be a few weeks before he starts amassing his next group of displaced immigrants and nonwhite flock. You’ll have a hard time finding him because of that very type of population. They stay off the grid and, by virtue of their secrecy, so does he.”

“Right,” Polly said, lifting one covert brow at Roman. “Do you want to go inside?”

As her answer, Brooke marched toward the open doors. Roman fell into step beside her and Polly caught up, walking backward and typing on her tablet as she spoke. “Same scene as the previous two. There are sigils on every victim’s forehead, a burnt offering was made, and of course, it’s a full moon.”

They were at the doors; Brooke pulled up short, gaze going skyward. “Burnt offering? Full moon?”

“That’s part of The Rev’s MO.” Polly ushered her through the doors, pointing to a wall just inside the vestibule with a painting of the moon in its various phases. Blood cut a swath across it. “He follows the moon’s cycle and apparently smears someone’s blood over the painting before he leaves.”

Brooke studied the painting. “That’s new.”

The comment was so soft, Roman wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. “New? Both of the previous groups had the same painting. He convinces his parishioners that the Second Coming will arrive the night of a full moon and it’s God’s Will that they meet the angels coming to collect their souls.”

Brooke studied the picture. “That’s not biblical though. There are mentions of the moon in the Bible, but not exactly corresponding to sacrifices or the Rapture.”

“The sigils he carves on their foreheads aren’t biblical either.” Polly shot him a look and Roman conceded, “At least, we don’t think they are. That’s why we could use you to confirm it.”

“Are the bodies still here?”

Polly paled slightly. She was a CSI, and damn good at her job, but examining a mass suicide was a lot to stomach for anyone. “In the sanctuary. He delivered communion there.”

Brooke started toward the sanctuary, face a grim mask. “And once they’re dead, he mutilates their bodies and disappears.”

An official police CSI tech with a camera hanging from her neck strap brushed past them. She’d worked with the taskforce before and she called over her shoulder, “Sending the pictures to you, Polly, as soon as Detective Clyffe gives me the all-clear.”

“Thanks, Ferne!” Polly called back.

The green commercial carpeting led them to the sanctuary. Here, too, the doors were pinned open.

“Detective Clyffe?” Brooke asked Roman. “Why is San Diego PD handling the case? Where is the FBI?”

“The Reverend is our case.” He stopped, seeing Clyffe at the head of the main aisle speaking on his phone to someone. Around him were empty wooden pews, the back ones displaying laid out bodies covered with white sheets. “We’re stretched thin so the locals do the discovery work for us and help where they can.”

Brooke hmm’d under her breath and Roman heard the criticism in her tone, although he didn’t know why she cared.

Above the podium, Christ hung on the cross, staring down with sad eyes at the dead who’d died in His name.

“If you don’t need me,” Polly said, clutching her tablet, “I’ll hang out here and notify the rest of the team about the apostle thing.”

Roman nodded, then took Brooke’s elbow to escort her in while waving at Clyffe. “You sure you want to actually look at a body?”

Cooper Harris’s words about Brooke not being a field agent rang in his head. He’d inadvertently lured her here, but now wondered if this was a good idea. All he needed was his potential new expert to go lights out on him once she saw the body. “Polly can show you the pictures. Might be…you know.” Less graphic.

“I’ll be fine.” Brooke’s gaze was glued to the nearest white sheet. Her throat constricted as she swallowed hard. “I need to see what he did to them.”

Her tight voice told him there was something more, something personal here, and it hinted at the doctor already knowing more about this case than he did. Was that possible?

She started forward and he gently touched her arm to stop her. “Have you come across The Rev’s work before?”

“I…” Her hesitation was accompanied by a gray pallor that washed over her face. “I’m familiar with his ritualistic killings.”

Familiar, hell. She looked like she’d seen far too much of this bastard’s signature work. “You’ve worked on a case related to him? Was it for the FBI?”

“Not exactly.” Her throat constricted again. “Let’s just say, I’ve studied him to a certain degree.”

On one hand, Roman knew this was a score for him—finally, he had the expert he’d needed for the past year to complete his team and bring The Rev in.

On the other hand, there was no way he wanted to subject Brooke to the nightmares that accompanied the job he did. The things he’d seen that couldn’t be unseen. Until this moment, he hadn’t realized she might be in the field with him. He’d planned to keep her safe behind a desk, researching homegrown terrorists and those like The Reverend, who committed mass murder on American soil. The Reverend was no different than the Urban Warriors, a gang who blew up federal buildings, or the Outlaws motorcycle gang who killed cops up and down I-5. They all believed they were true Americans, and that those who weren’t should be exterminated.

He let his hand linger on her arm. “Studying him is different than seeing his handiwork up close and personal.”

She scrutinized his face for a moment, her eyes searching his. A ghost of emotion chased across her expression. “Thank you for trying to protect me. I assure you I will not lose it when I see the body under that sheet.”

Tough, controlled, determined. Yep, she was going to be one hell of an asset to his team.

If he didn’t scare her off.

Taking her hand seemed like a natural thing to do as he led her to the body she wanted to examine. At first her fingers stiffened, then she stepped forward with him, her hand cool in his much warmer one. He released her, as together they bent down, he at the victim’s head, and she next to the shoulder.

“Ready?” he asked, because he had to make sure. He knew what waited for them under the sheet.

She took a deep breath and seemed to hold it, giving him a nod.

With a silent prayer for the deceased, he crossed himself—his Irish catholic upbringing still in his blood. Then he peeled back the sheet slowly, revealing the woman underneath.

Dark hair and eyes, probably in her early forties. Blood had dried on the woman’s forehead, outlining the sigil that had been carved there. Her eyes, still open, had a bluish tinge to them and were rolled up into her head. Her mouth showed burns from the poison she’d consumed.

Brooke’s breath came out in a rush. “This poor woman.” She gently touched the woman’s shoulder, and Roman saw a hint of tears in her eyes as she studied the bloody sigil.

Detective Clyffe ended his call and headed their way. Abruptly, Brooke stood and whirled around, heading out of the sanctuary.

“Broo—Dr. Heaton,” Roman called, replacing the sheet and straightening as Clyffe caught up to him.

Brooke kept boogying, leaving him behind. “I’ll be in touch,” she called.

So much for not losing it.

And how exactly, did she think she was getting back to her hotel?

Clyffe shook his hand and started reeling off the facts Polly had already shared and Roman tried to give the man his full attention. His focus, however, kept going to the open doors, waiting for Brooke to come back.

She didn’t.

With a sigh, Roman keyed in on the tired, rumpled detective and got to work.

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He’ll risk everything to keep her safe from a serial kill

Secrets can get you killed in this riveting story in the SCVC Taskforce romantic suspense series by USA TODAY Bestselling Author, Misty Evans.

He killed her best friend when they were only girls…but she got away.

Now he’s hunting her again.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ “It was hot and sexy and real at the same time.” ~ Amy, So Many Reads book blogger

Nearing midnight, Brooke sat in his Jeep as Roman covertly finished signing off with the locals, Feds, and Cooper Harris. Harris’s taskforce had been working on a budding crime syndicate from Guatemala that had teamed up with MS-13 and he’d called Roman to see if he still had contacts inside the vicious Mexican gang. Not only did he still have a CI inside, he knew exactly which one wanted out of MS-13 and would flip on them.

He just hadn’t realized Cornell and his biker gang had expanded their territory until he’d seen the man and his goons enter the bar.

In the end, however, Roman had saved Augie and taken down Cornell, who was still alive but not going back to his gang anytime soon. Both men would receive medical care, and Augie would get off with a light sentence if he helped Harris and his team with info on the Guatemalan gang.

“Thanks, man.” Harris slapped Roman on the shoulder. They stood out of sight of the cop cars and bystanders. Since Roman couldn’t publicly take credit for Cornell without blowing his undercover identity, Harris would get the credit.

Works for me. “Augie’s not a bad kid, just mixed up in this crap because it’s been part of his family for generations. Try not to get him killed.”

Harris tilted his chin in Heaton’s direction. Roman’s Jeep was in the corner of the parking lot, away from prying eyes. “Sure she’s okay?”

One of Harris’s taskforce members, Ronni Punto, was in the Jeep talking to Brooke. They’d worked together, Dr. Heaton consulting on several SCVC Taskforce cases involving violent crimes and religious terrorists. Roman was just a little jealous. “I offered to have her checked out and she refused. Claims she’s fine and just wants to go back to her hotel.”

Which sounded perfect to him, even though he had a snowball’s chance in hell of getting himself invited to her room.

“If she were working a case for me,” Harris said, “I’d require a psych eval. The good doctor is a tough cookie, but she’s not a field agent. Being shot at is not in her usual line of duty.”

“That’s just it, she’s not on the DTT. I can’t require her to do anything.”

Harris frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. “She wasn’t working with you tonight? And here, I thought you’d stolen her from me, which by the way, sort of pissed me off.”

Roman shook his head. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Harris. She’s doing a lecture circuit at SDSU. Apparently, she came out with some of her nerd friends tonight and bam. Right time, wrong place.”

“Didn’t you try recruiting her?”

“Tried, yes. I need her on The Reverend case, but she won’t take my calls.”

“Huh.” Harris grinned good-naturedly. “She always takes mine.”

The jealousy in Roman’s stomach amped up a notch. “She doesn’t seem to like me, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.”

“You saved her life, tonight.” Harris winked. “My guess? She’ll be more than happy to take your calls now.”

Roman’s mood lifted as he gazed at the car. “You think?”

Harris chuckled. “I sense that you’d like Dr. Heaton to do more than consult on your taskforce.”

Boy, would he. “If my Bruce Willis act tonight didn’t seal the deal, nothing else will.”

“Take it from me, she’s more of an Indiana Jones kind of gal. You might try that instead.”

Indiana Jones, huh? Roman stuck out his hand. “Thanks for the tip.”

Harris shook it. “Good luck, man, but I’d be lying if I said I was happy about sharing her.”

As Harris walked away, Agent Punto emerged from the car and headed toward Roman. She slowed as she neared him, but didn’t stop. “She’s totally lying about being okay.”

“Is she hurt?”

“She’s freaked.” Punto stopped a few feet away, watching two Feds talking near the crime scene tape. “You need to put her to work.”

“Contrary to popular opinion, she’s not on my taskforce.”

“Then get her on it,” Punto said. “She needs a case to get her mind off what happened here tonight, and we don’t have any that require her expertise at the moment. If she sits in her hotel room and stews, she’ll never feel safe helping any of us again.”

She shot him one searing look and went to join Harris.

Roman turned back to his vehicle and saw Brooke in the front seat, staring at him. Her hair had come loose from the bun and curly strands grazed her shoulders. She looked shell-shocked. Or was that her pissed expression?

What choice did he have? One way or another, he was going to get Dr. Brooke Heaton into bed with him.

Figuratively speaking, of course.


Roman Walsh had just saved her life.

Brooke’s head swam, her ears still ringing from the gunshots inside the bar. Ronni—sweetheart that she was—thought Brooke’s brain fog was the result of hitting her head, or maybe shock.

Shock was a possibility, but she had not hit her head. Dr. Walsh had made sure of that, his strong, capable hands cradling her skull after he’d jerked her off her feet.

All of her SDSU compatriots were safe. Scared, but not injured, outside of a few cuts and bruises from the mass exodus.

As Roman headed to the car, she saw the normal swagger in his step was off ever so slightly. The flashing lights from patrol cars and two ambulances silhouetted his lean but muscled frame. He glanced at her through the windshield as he approached, then his gaze darted away and he scanned the area around them.

The memory of his body against hers, his lips murmuring in her ear, sent a shiver down Brooke’s spine.

Have mercy.

She’d never dreamed she would be held in those strong arms of his, much less hugging him tight and curling a leg around him, but that’s exactly what had happened. She’d lost her ever-loving mind, her body betraying her as bullets rained down, and her nice, comfortable world had become one she didn’t recognize.

“I don’t know whether to thank you for saving my life,” she said as Roman climbed into the driver’s seat, “or be appalled at the way you yanked me off my feet in there.”

“Too Cro-Magnon for you?” He grinned with all the nerve of a confident, egotistical shark.

“Neanderthal perhaps.”

“I caught you, didn’t I?” He started the car, the rumble of the Jeep dropping into a solid purr. “And I did warn you to exit the premises before the shooting began.”

“Yes, I had all of three seconds to do so. Thank you so much.”

His face glowed blue from the tricked out dashboard. “Are you seriously pissed at me right now?”

She held up her lone shoe. “You owe me a new pair of Steve Maddens. My other one is still in the bar.”

“I’ll take you shopping tomorrow. What time do the stores open? We can grab breakfast on the way.” He put the car in drive. “On one condition, of course.”

Oh, boy. Like she didn’t know what that was. “No.”

Seemed like that was one of the few words she didn’t have any trouble saying to him tonight.

His gaze swung her way. “Come work for me, Dr. Heaton. I need you—your expertise.”

And, oh that irritating grin was more than her heart could handle after the recent shock of the shooting.

I need you. The words sent her pulse skipping as erratically as when she’d been shot at.

A part of her wanted to smile back, maybe even grab him and kiss him to say thank you. The other part—the sane good girl, professional academic—wanted to whack him a couple times with her shoe. “I’ll send you the bill for the new pair of shoes I pick out. On my own.”

The grin fell. He shook his head and sighed, pulling out of his space. “Why won’t you consult for the West Coast DTT?”

Because you scare the hell out of me. “I’m about to leave for a dig.” The excuse came easy. “Besides, you have plenty of experts on your team.”

He drove them out of the parking lot and away from the pulsating red and blue lights, quiet for several blocks. “Are you really that vain?”

Vain? “Are you really that rude? Why would you say such a thing?”

“You won’t consider working for me because I have other experts on my taskforce? Your ego needs the spotlight that bad?”

Brooke squeezed the shoe in her hand so tightly her fingers cramped. “Rejecting your offer has nothing to do with my ego. I’m more than happy to work with the caliber of experts on your taskforce. Your ego, however, could be one of the reasons I’ve repeatedly declined your offer in the nicest way possible. Since that has been completely ineffective, let me state my refusal more clearly: no way in hell will I work for you.”

“With me,” he corrected. “You wouldn’t work for me, Dr. Heaton, only with me.”

“Your ego can’t handle it.”

He chuckled. “My ego can handle anything you dish out, sweetheart. I welcome the challenge.”

The look he flashed her confirmed his statement, his eyes made even more intently blue in the dashboard light. The shoe clenched in her fingers didn’t get a reprieve, but her solid grip was for an entirely new reason.

The devil on her shoulder liked this cat-and-mouse game. Liked how Roman was as at ease trading banter with her as he was saving her from a rain of bullets.

I need you.

How long had she waited to hear those words? From anyone?

Plus, she was actually talking to him while in the close confines of his car where she could smell the not intolerable scent of coffee and male sweat under the alcohol he must have splashed onto his shirt to convince his contacts that he was drunk. Maybe if she kept him on his toes and their dialogue laced with her honest irritation at him, she could stop feeling like a ridiculous teenage girl.

“You may enjoy a verbal sparring match, Dr. Walsh, but I find most of them to be tedious and unnecessary.”

“Is that so, Dr. Heaton?”

He was just as mouthwateringly gorgeous in profile as he was full on. The right side of his mouth quirked as if he were holding back another insouciant grin. He may have been reining in the smile, but his voice was full of mocking humor.

All right. Walsh wasn’t the only one who liked a good challenge. She was known for her stubbornness. “Look, Dr. Wa—”

“Call me Roman. I did, after all, save your life less than an hour ago.”

He wasn’t going to let her forget that she owed him. The tiniest bit of guilt sizzled in her belly.

I do owe him.

She dropped her head back against the headrest. She’d love to call him by his first name, but that evoked a level of friendship, an intimacy, they didn’t share, regardless of his heroic act in the bar. “Even if my current work schedule wasn’t already maxed, providing consulting services to the DTT would present a challenge for me. I’m already consulting with the SCVC Taskforce when needed. There could be a…conflict of interest.”

“Conflict of interest?” He snorted. “Cooper Harris and I are on the same page. Our cases often overlap and we share resources, just like tonight. Thomas Mann’s CI inside the MS-13 group recently went missing so I stepped in and used mine. Yes, Harris and I report to different directors, but we’re all on the same side.”

Arguing with him was getting her nowhere and they were nearly to her hotel. “Why me?”

The question seemed to catch him off guard, which was exactly what she’d intended. “Why not you?”

“No, I mean it. Why me specifically? Why are you so determined to get me on your team?”

She wasn’t sure what she expected to hear, and she watched his expression intently to see if he had to comb through the reasons.

He didn’t. As he pulled into the hotel lot, he put the Jeep in park and turned to her. “You’re the best on the West Coast, Dr. Heaton, in all areas of your expertise. Maybe in the entire country.” He gave her that irritating grin once more and took the Madden from her hand as he leaned in close. “And I only ever allow the very best on my team.”

Before she could respond—she was once more speechless anyway—his phone rang.

The Jeep’s in-dash nav system was linked to his cell by Bluetooth. The sexy nav voice told him the incoming call was from Polly. Did he want to answer?

Polly, of course. Probably his girlfriend. Brooke reached for door latch. “Thanks for the ride.”

She started to get out, but the door was locked. A hand landed on her arm as he answered the phone.

“What’s up, P?”

The woman’s voice sounded young, a little anxious. “You okay, boss? We heard about the gunfight with Merton.”

“All limbs intact, although I’m on the hook for a pair of shoes by some guy named Steve Madden.”

“O-kay. I can help you with that if you need it.” Her confusion vanished and she went into business mode once more. “We’ve had another incident, looks like the work of The Rev.”

“Shit.” Roman shook his head, his hand on the steering wheel balling into a fist. “What happened?”

As Polly, obviously from the DTT, relayed the details of a massacre at a small church just outside the city limits, Roman put the Jeep back in gear, his face grim.

“At least thirty dead, half of them children.” Polly said softly. “All were undocumented. One of the victims left a suicide video on his phone, detailing what they were doing. He referred to The Reverend as Pastor Luke.”

Brooke’s stomach churned. Roman punched the steering wheel. “Send the address to me. I’m on my way.”

He disconnected, then turned to Brooke. In the depths of his eyes, she saw the distress at the deaths of thirty-some people, including children, underlined with determination to find their killer. “Have you heard of The Reverend?”

She’d heard of him all right. He was a serial killer targeting those in the area whom he considered ‘unclean.’

Twenty years ago, she’d gotten up close and personal with the same sort of man.

“Just drive,” she said. Whether she wanted to or not, she was about to help the DTT tonight. “I’m going with you.”


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Your hot weekend read… Deadly Secrets

Secrets can get you killed in this riveting story in the SCVC Taskforce romantic suspense series by USA TODAY Bestselling Author, Misty Evans.

He killed her best friend when they were only girls…but she got away.

Now he’s hunting her again.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ “Roman is hot, sexy and a genuine hero…”  ~ Elisa, Goodreads reviewer

Raindrops plunked loudly on the bar’s metal roof as if a giant were dropping pebbles on it.

Nursing an iced tea, Brooke Heaton wished fervently she’d declined the invitation from the San Diego State University religious studies academics and headed back to her hotel room. After three days of lecturing at the university, she was ready to get back to the real world.

She discreetly checked her phone under the bar overhang for the umpteenth time, hoping for a text or call of any kind to give her an excuse to bug out. But there were no missed calls, no messages. Maybe she could pretend differently and tell her hosts that she needed to go back to her room.

But what kind of anthropological emergency would require her to beg off the company she was with?

Bars just weren’t her thing—especially since at this particular one, it seemed to be prime time for Stephen Colbert-wannabes who thought their standup comedy routines were a stepping stone from San Diego to L.A. Her companions laughed at the latest joke from the young man on stage, who just happened to be a grad student from their department. Brooke smiled obligingly. For a religious studies major, the guy sure knew a variety of interesting ways to work the word “fuck” into his routine.

She’d been hungry for companionship and had erroneously thought her academic colleagues meant for their night out to include a decent meal and in-depth discussion about religious symbols of the Mayan culture. Boy, had she been wrong.

Maybe I’m just getting old. She’d much rather be in the king size bed at the hotel, eating horrible room service food and reading her latest Journal of Forensic Anthropology, than here listening to jokes about bathroom habits and the current administration in the White House.

Although, the two subjects did have some things in common these days.

Oh, who was she kidding? She wanted to get back to reread her favorite romance novel.

She checked her watch and blew out a sigh. Making sure no one noticed, she pulled out her cell from under the bar overhang to text a cab service.

Now all she had to do was come up with a polite excuse to bail.

There was always the universal go-to—I have a headache. At the rate she was going, she would indeed have one soon.

If only she didn’t have yet another morning of lectures at the university the next day, she could pretend she had an early flight back to L.A.

But no, three departments had banded together to pay her speaker fee. Plus, the university had generously comped her hotel room and loaded her down with Fighting Aztec everything. No way could she carry all of it on the plane; she’d have to ship most of it home or find someone to donate it to. There was at least five pounds of shirts, scarves, coffee cups, and paperweights with the school’s mascot on them to haul back.

Did anyone actually use paperweights anymore?

It was nice to be wanted, but she’d left the world of academia for a reason—she wanted to marry the past with the present. To show modern-day men and women how instrumental learning about their ancestors could be. The university bubble was comfortable and safe, and for years, it had been the perfect hideaway for her. She’d thought she could do exactly what she wanted—turn young minds onto her love of anthropology. Unfortunately, it hadn’t been quite what she’d expected, and most of her students had simply taken her classes as an elective, thinking they could use religious studies and anthro class to nab an easy A.

Eventually, she’d had to break free and do something. Writing a book about famous fossils, and a high-profile media tour several years ago, had made her an anthropological star for about three months. A well-known Hollywood producer had taken a chapter from her book and made a web series based on the famous Lucy find of fossils from a 3.2 billion year old hominin species Australopithecus afarensis.

Anthropology meet pop culture.

Social media had given her another popularity boost for a few months. She’d loved seeing fossils and past cultures getting some notoriety, but it had been a strain on her personally. She’d determined she wasn’t cut out for the spotlight.

An unexpected bonus had come from her brief dance with fame. She’d never dreamed she’d end up consulting for law enforcement, but with her forensic anthropology experience, research into various religions stretching back to the Sumerians, and her criminal justice degree, she’d ended up helping out Cooper Harris and his SCVC Taskforce.

There’d only been a couple of cases so far, but they’d fit into her schedule nicely and provided extra funds for her travels.

Speaking of travel… Tomorrow, after her last lecture, she’d be off to Utah and an area so remote it could only be reached by donkey. Ten miles on an ass to the dig site would be no picnic, but at the moment, it sounded like absolute heaven. Plus, it was a highly prized dig, headed by Dr. Borgman of the Smithsonian Institute. The whole situation was very exclusive and required kid gloves due to the fact the bones and artifacts were ancestors of a Native American tribe, maybe two.

From behind her, she heard loud male laughter that was out of sync with the comedian on stage. Glancing over her shoulder, she skimmed the three men making all the noise. Her gaze came back to one boldly staring at her and her stomach dropped.

Oh, no. Not him. What is he doing here?

The licorice black hair and searing blue eyes weren’t to be denied. Neither was the cocky smirk on his face as he looked her up and down.

The trimmed beard was new. So was the longish hair pulled up into a man-bun. The tight T-shirt, showing off his tattoos, revealed his muscled arms and chest. He looked downright criminal.

Or the ideal model for the cover of Muscle & Fitness.

Roman Walsh. Dr. Roman Walsh. The criminal justice PhD and Homeland agent was either slumming or undercover.

Or he’s stalking me.


She might have a use for that paperweight after all.

For six months, he’d been calling and emailing her, wanting to “talk shop.” Last month, on a panel about domestic religious terrorism, she’d switched their seating arrangements so she was at the opposite end of the long table the panel sat at. It hadn’t stopped him from openly seeking her out during the social event later that night and flirting with her. He’d told her he wanted her to consult for his taskforce.

He certainly couldn’t be interested in her as a woman—a man like Roman Walsh dated models and actresses, not frumpy workaholic analysts who loved dank old libraries, dig sites, and hundred-year-old churches. But there was something beneath his invitation—both the verbal and nonverbal. She just couldn’t put her finger on it.

Why do you keep turning him down? the devil on her shoulder complained. Why don’t you give him a chance?

From across the way, his attention returned to his friends and she saw him flip one of his thumbs over his shoulder in her direction. The other men in the group looked over at her, two sets of hard eyes sizing her up.

Brooke quickly refocused on the comedian on stage, heat lacing up her neck.

I’ve got to get out of here.

This was why she’d refused to answer his emails or sit next to him on a panel. Working with his West Coast Domestic Terrorism Taskforce might be right up her alley; the experts on his team were top of the line. They analyzed bad guys and figured out ways to put criminals in jail and save US citizens, just like the SCVC Taskforce.

Unfortunately, there was no way in Hades she could be on his team. He made her a nervous wreck. His voice alone made her panties wet, not to mention that killer smile of his.

No man should be that mouthwateringly gorgeous. No man should be that…perfect.

Perfect men like Roman Walsh didn’t flirt with women like her. She was a good girl, a professional academic who buried her head in ancient civilizations and religious rituals. Outside of her brief brush with fame over her book, she was a nobody.

Roman Walsh was a hero. High IQ, a body ancient Greeks would envy, and an arrest rate of criminals that wowed her. If he knew how to handle a trowel, I might actually ask for his autograph.

Behind that sexy smile and Superman complex, however, there had to be a volcano full of secrets. One that would erupt all over her and leave her heart fossilized.

And that was what scared her right down to her toes.

There weren’t many men in her fields of study that actually made her drool. Most were older, balding, or at the very least, too pompous for her to tolerate. There were plenty of young, attractive co-eds who hit on her every time she visited a campus, but at thirty, she wasn’t interested in stroking their egos by playing the cougar. With three failed relationships under her belt, she might just be done with men altogether.

Plus, she liked a man to be more than his looks, and while a few of the grad students who’d hit on her recently certainly had the brains, they were still a bit too young and idealistic for her taste. They believed they could save the world through studying about it.

Roman, on the other hand, was actually doing just that. He seemed determined to protect his country and her citizens with every breath he took.

A real, honest-to-God hero.

Just not my hero.

Because every time she even thought of saying something to him—her throat completely locked up. His intense blue eyes would lock on her and bam…it was like she’d been hit with a stun gun.

Her, a highly-educated, award-winning anthropologist and published author, who regularly spoke to auditoriums filled with students across the US, as well as to fellow anthropologists and religious leaders, struck dumb by a man?

Go figure.

It just made no sense that she couldn’t handle a simple conversation with Dr. Walsh.

But there it was. She was too wise, and had been through too much in her life, not to at least be honest with herself.

Drool-worthy or not, men with secrets were a no-go. Her life had already been turned upside down by them and she wasn’t about to offer her heart up to another person who would betray her.

A fresh roar of laughter went up from Roman and his pals. She told herself not to look, but the devil on her shoulder made her turn anyway.

He was eyeing her again with a fiendish look on his face. Was he drunk?

Her phone lit up, a text letting her know that a cab was on the way. Estimated pickup time: five minutes.

Good. She needed out of this place and fast. It had become entirely too hot in here.

She slipped off the bar stool and began making her excuses to the professors with her. They balked good-naturedly, and she feigned exhaustion and explained she needed to go over her notes before tomorrow’s lecture.

Mission complete, she turned to go when a hard body smelling of whiskey stopped her.

“Hello, gorgeous.” Roman invaded her personal space, pushing her up against the bar. “Damn, but you clean up nice.”

He topped six foot easily and, even in her heels, she had to look up to meet his gaze. She opened her mouth to say, “What the hell are you doing?” but as per normal, her lips moved and nothing came out.

The gazes of her companions were on her and her cheeks flamed as if on fire. Say something! “No.”


Brilliant, Brooke.

“I believe the appropriate response to hello,” Roman said, placing his hands on either side of the bar, blocking her in, “is a return greeting.”

He was so close. All that masculine energy. Those sharp, intense eyes. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Wha…?” Oh, lord. Get it together! “What…what are you doing?”

The words came out soft and breathy, but Roman apparently had no trouble hearing them. “My buddies over there bet me I couldn’t get you to kiss me.”

Holy cow! He was definitely drunk. “Ki…kiss you?”

His gaze dropped to her lips and he grinned like she was a medium-rare steak and he was one hungry man. “Yeah, kiss me, gorgeous. What do you say? Help a guy out so he doesn’t lose a hundred bucks?”

He’d bet a hundred dollars that he could get her to kiss him? The nerve!

Laughter over something the comedian said erupted around them. Roman leaned in, putting his lips next to her ear, “Play along, Brooke.”

Goosebumps skittered down the back of her spine. She grabbed one of his arms and pushed. It was warm and very firm. “No.”

He didn’t budge.

One of his hands slid behind her neck, gently grasping her by the nape as he looked deep into her eyes. The laughter and clapping in the bar receded and she saw a flicker of concern. “Things are about to get dangerous,” he murmured, his lips so close to hers, she could smell his breath. It smelled like ginger and mint—not whiskey. “You need to get the hell out of here.”

And then, without warning, he brought his lips crashing down on hers.

It was brutal and heavenly at the same time. Her brain raged for half a second before shutting down completely.

Her eyes closed, the devil on her shoulder hooting as her bones went molten. Roman’s demanding tongue had no trouble parting her lips and slipping inside.

His muscled body pressed against hers, holding her to the bar. Against the wishes of the few brain cells still firing in her cerebellum, Brooke grasped his shoulders and pulled him closer.

And then he broke away, but his lips barely moved from hers.

“I’m serious,” he said so low she almost missed it in her lust-induced haze. “Get out of here, now.”

He released her as fast as he’d pinned her there, and she had to grab the edge of the bar to keep her weak knees from giving out.

As Roman returned to his friends and raised his hands in a Rocky gesture of conquest, they cheered. Still staggered from the kiss, Brooke could only watch as both men at the table slapped money into Roman’s hand as he returned to his seat.

He wasn’t kidding. They’d bet he couldn’t get her to kiss him.

Technically, he kissed me.

The devil on her shoulder snickered.

From his chair, Roman sent her a hard look.

Get out of here, now.

Right. Something was about to go down. The kiss had meant nothing to him, just a way to warn her and not blow his cover.

Wow, some warning. Her knees shook again with something akin to disappointment.

What is wrong with me?

Brooke scanned the patrons, most watching the comedian or talking with their companions. The scandalized professors on either side of her made concerned noises and offered her another drink. She ignored them.

One guy wasn’t watching the comedian or talking to his companions. The burly, bald-headed man wore a leather jacket with a local motorcycle club emblem on it. His focus was solely on Roman.

Oh crud.

Brooke turned to her companions from SDSU. “Why don’t you guys share my cab? If you want, we can hit another club on the way…”

Before she could finish the sentence, the MC member stood and pulled out a nasty-looking weapon.

He fired into the crowd.


Bam, bam, bam, bullets poured out of an Uzi, peppering the place.

Roman was no stranger to the report of gunfire, the way it reverberated inside his chest as if someone were ringing a bell between his ribs. The way his mind cleared of all thoughts except duck and cover.

After discovering this bar was in Merton Cornell’s territory, Roman had been expecting the gang leader to raise some hell. Only a couple of months ago, the bar had been neutral territory, but things had definitely changed since his last undercover op in San Diego. The thing that hadn’t was the fact Cornell didn’t like trespassers like the two MS-13 gang members Roman was sitting with.

Had been sitting with. At the moment, under the blaze of gunfire, he was crawling his ass as fast as possible across the floor to the bar.

Because even though he’d told her to get the hell out, Dr. Brooke Heaton was still here.

Standing at the bar, no less, with a look of sheer terror on her face. A deer caught in headlights.

Glass broke, wood splintered, people screamed. Instead of ducking, Heaton threw herself in front of one of her companions as bullets cut through the air around her.

Stupid woman.

Beautiful, brainy, accomplished woman, but obviously not one with enough common sense when it came to her own safety.

Her sexy ankles were in sight as he shimmied under the cover of a table toward her, other people’s feet making haste in the opposite direction. Even under fire, the slender feet in the heels just high enough to emphasis her calves made him salivate. The conservative skirt that hit below her knees did nothing to dampen his very vivid imagination of what the rest of her legs looked like.

In his fantasies, they were just as shapely and toned as her calves. She spent long days in the field, digging up bones and other old shit, and the job kept her body in great shape.

A window broke. More screaming ensued. It was almost a shame he was going to have to grab those sexy ankles and drag her down.


He reached for the leg closest to him, stretching to grasp it. His fingers skimmed her calf and, the next thing he knew, she kicked him, the heel of her shoe digging into his palm.

“Ow!” He jerked his hand out from under the dagger, reached another inch, and wrapped his hand around her narrow ankle. “Get the fuck down!”

She bent slightly to look at who was grabbing her, covering her ears and shutting her eyes as more shots rang out. The long, narrow skirt helped his cause as he yanked her foot out from under her. Like a tight rubber band, it kept her legs together and jerked the other out from under her as well.

“Ack!” she yelled over the commotion as she fell into his waiting arms. “Help!”

He cushioned her fall, her ass barely hitting the floor before he slid her toward him, moving them both back under the table. Her companion—the one she’d been shielding—ran for the exit at the back of the bar.

She gasped for air, kicking at him without realizing who he was, feet flailing and her hands smacking him. “Let me go!”

He was on the receiving end of several of those kicks, one coming dangerously close to his balls under the cover of the wooden table.

“Brooke.” He shook her a bit as he locked eyes with her. “It’s me.”

Her rigid body went soft as they lay facing each other, her chest heaving as those beautiful turquoise eyes of hers grew rounder. “What are you doing?”

God, her lips were perfect, so pink and ripe for kissing. Her honey-colored skin invited the touch, a sprinkle of freckles across her nose and cheeks. “Saving your incredible backside, sweetheart. Now stay down.”

Most of the people had evacuated and the gunfire had died down, but Cornell had one of the MS-13 gang members pinned against a wall. Augie already had a bullet in him, as indicated by the blood running down his right arm, and Cornell had relieved him of his weapon. Augie’s compatriot was bleeding out on the floor near the kid’s feet.

Cornell pointed the Uzi at Augie’s chest and started in with his customary rhetoric about whose territory it was, and what were a couple of “no-good wetbacks from MS-13” doing here, etc., etc.

Roman slipped the handgun from his ankle holster and placed a finger to his lips when Brooke gasped.

Tugging her closer with his other hand, he aimed at Cornell’s broad back.

Understanding what was about to go down, Brooke wrapped her arms around Roman’s chest, clinging for dear life. Her breasts smashed against his ribcage, one shoeless foot wrapping around his leg. The act was so intimate, his vision went fuzzy for a second. How many times had he fantasized about the two of them being in this exact position?

Minus the gang members and the flying bullets, of course, but what was life without a little excitement?

Her lips brushed the lobe of his ear, making his cock dance. “Don’t miss,” she whispered. Her hair smelled like coconuts and fresh lemons. “Take him down.”

Adrenaline buzzed in Roman’s system, a thousand happy bees. He touched her hair, bringing his mouth close to her ear and breathing in her clean scent. Just like she had when he’d kissed her minutes ago, her body melted into his. “My pleasure, Dr. Heaton.”

Roman fired.

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She’ll hunt down the man who betrayed her, and put her heart on the line to save him.

★★★★★ “…great read…” ~ Lynn, Goodreads reviewer

Man Hunt, SEALs of Shadow Force, Spy Division, Book 1

© 2018 Misty Evans

Hazardous operating environment

Jaeger licked a red popsicle at the small table in the kitchen. At his feet, the dog—Mite—made quick work of an orange one.

Sweat trickled down Mia’s hairline behind her ear. At least she’d called that right. What kid didn’t love a popsicle in ninety degree weather? She was ready to take the remaining ones and rub them all over her body.

The SEALs were outside guarding the cabin, but she needed to get Ryker moving. Regardless of the fact other people were looking for him and could show up any minute, Kaiser would only be in Monte Carlo for another day or two according to Beatrice’s intel. That was the perfect spot for their little undercover operation to take place, she just had to convince the man sitting across from her that it was time for Gaspard Manafort to rise from the dead.

Ryker tousled Jaeger’s hair as he finished his popsicle. Ryker’s gun sat on the tabletop to his side, out of the boy’s line of sight, but still visible for Mia’s benefit. A Self-Destructive Behavior Club T-shirt outlined his generous pec muscles and seemed to be a statement as much as clothing. “Hit the bathroom and wash your face, Jaeg. Then it’s up to your room to finish packing for the trip.”

The five-year-old licked his lips and smiled at Mia. “We’re going on a walkabout!” He glanced down at the dog, whose ears we’re perked. “But Mite can’t come. Do you think I could leave him the rest of the popsicles?”

The kid was cute and pulled her heartstrings. She remembered when Chloe had been that age. “They’re yours to do whatever you wish.”

Jaeger hopped down, patting the dog’s head. “Did you hear that, Mite? The rest are yours!”

As the boy ran from the room, Mite took off after him, a game. Mia covered her nose, the dog’s odor wafting over her as he scampered out of the room.

A tense silence descended and Mia looked back at Ryker. His eyes were deep pools of something she couldn’t quite fathom. He was good at hiding emotion, but it wasn’t hard to guess what his flat gaze was covering—anger being at the top of the list. “You never saw the final report about our mission that night. I know you have questions, and I probably don’t have all the answers, but I’ll tell you what I do know. Everything.” She leaned forward and tapped a finger on top of the table. The wood was stained and scarred. “But it would be best if we had this conversation once we’re out of here. Beatrice was able to find you quickly because of some very high tech software and her instincts. It may take longer for Kaiser to get his hands on the same intel and track you down, we need to be long gone before that happens. We need to get ahead of this, and I have a plan we can discuss in detail once were in the air.”

He seemed unfazed by the threat. “Before I put my life, and the kid’s, in your hands, I need to know who tried to kill me that night. Was it the Agency?”

Mia sat back. “Why would they want to kill you?”

“Been asking myself the same thing the past nine months. They thought I went off the reservation, that I was in love with Petra and had blown my cover with her. I became a liability.”

Mia scanned her memory. “I don’t remember anything being said about that.” She eyed him more closely. “Were you? Did she know you were CIA?”

“No and no. Her husband was the worst of the lowlifes, still is, and she wanted out, but there was no way he’d let her walk away, especially with the kid. He beat her on a regular basis, threatened to kill her if she even thought of cheating or leaving him. The kid was caught in the middle and Petra wanted to escape, but more than that, she wanted to save Jaeger and get him away from his father. I was trying to make that happen—save them both. Petra was an asset to the CIA—she had oodles of intelligence on Karl. My handler agreed to cut a deal for her, get them out in exchange for the intelligence she had on Kaiser’s organization and network. People, shell companies, his black market dealings—she knew about all of it. Can you imagine what a coup it would be to not only wipe him out, but all of his business partners?”

One of those was Senator Hinch. Not on paper, of course, but under the table the two helped each other on a regular basis. Mia had gone digging on Hinch after that night with Chloe. It hadn’t been all that hard to find the trail that led to Karl. Hinch made sure the Department of Defense gave Kaiser contracts for arms in two out of three bidding wars, while Kaiser donated money to the senator’s campaigns through various legal organizations every four years.

“Are you suggesting the CIA didn’t want Karl and his cronies wiped out? That they would kill one of their own to keep that from happening?”

Ryker looked at her as if she were dense. “You have to admit things are fishy when it comes to that mission. My handler turns up dead, the exfil for Petra is denied, and the next thing I know, the explosion and fire happen that night at the party. If I’d arrived on time, I would’ve been dead. In the confusion, I was able to rescue Jaeger and get him out of there.”

The final report had listed the cause as a gas leak. A note had been made that perhaps one of Kaiser’s enemies had orchestrated it, but no evidence pointing to that had turned up.

From what she’d learned coming in late to the mission, it was not out of the question Kaiser had created the explosion himself. At that time, Ryker’s previous handler noted multiple times the man was unstable and controlling with his wife. If Kaiser had any hint she was leaving him, and he wanted to eliminate that chance, it was possible he’d stop her by any means necessary.

Kind of stupid if you asked her. Mia had wondered why a man would destroy his home. If he wanted to kill his wife, surely there were easier ways. This new theory by Ryker warranted consideration. “So, you think in order to keep damaging information about, say, a US senator from surfacing, the CIA not only refused to pull Petra and Jaeger out of Berlin, but they actually staged the explosion and subsequent fire that killed her and might have you as well?”

“A senator?” He cocked his head. “You do know more than you’re telling me. Who is he?”

She’d acted like she was speculating but he’d grabbed that nugget of information like a dog with a bone.

Before she could figure out a way to answer, he leaned forward. His voice was demanding. “Who is it?”

She wasn’t ready to share that yet, but pieces of the puzzle were tumbling around in her brain. “I was using that as an example. For all I know, Karl might have damning information about the president or another high-ranking official. My point is, why would the Agency send you undercover to get the goods then pull the plug and try to kill you when you got them?”

“They didn’t know all of the things I’d find out. I was sent in to befriend the man and get intel on a new buyer out of North Africa unloading black market ammunitions. Some sheik. What I found was a lot more.”

She knew the directive of the mission. Remembered the buyer Ryker had been looking for. “There could be some truth to your suspicions, but at this point, we can’t prove anything. They may very well be part of the reason Beatrice didn’t hand the information about your whereabouts over to the CIA. What we can do is go after Kaiser again. Raise Gaspard Manafort from his grave and get him back in touch with Karl. Make him believe you had nothing to do with Jaeger’s disappearance and you’re back in the arms market. Advanced weaponry he’ll see the profit in.”

“Dream on. He thinks I’m dead, that I was there the night of the explosion.”

“There were multiple bodies that were never identified. All you have to do is convince him you weren’t on site, you never showed up. You only heard about it later. I have the perfect backstop story for you.”

“Why does Bianca—Beatrice—want Kaiser so bad?”

“I’m not privileged to that information, but it’s not hard to guess. She doesn’t do anything that isn’t for a good reason, and eliminating Kaiser would benefit the world at large, don’t you think? Our new boss is in touch with the big picture—one we can’t even imagine, nor do I care to delve into it.”

He was silent, unmoving for a long moment. Still as a cat about to jump on his prey. Why did Mia feel like she was the prey?

“What’s in this for you?” he finally asked.

“Beatrice claims she can get my job back at the Agency.” There was no reason to tell him the specifics, so she didn’t. “I need that position.”

He shook his head but stayed quiet a moment. Then, “I can’t do it. I owe her but…I can’t leave the boy alone or risk either of our lives. If I get caught, end up dead or in prison? There’s no one to raise Jaeger.”

“We can protect him—Beatrice can, anyway. She has a kid of her own now, and fights pretty damn hard for the underdog from what I can see. She won’t let Jaeger end up with his father.”

“Papa?” Jaeger’s voice floated down the rough wooden stairs. “I’m all done!”

Ryker stood, slipping his gun into his waistband. He pointed a finger at her. “Whatever’s in this for you, I’m sorry, I can’t help. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I know you can show yourself to the door.”

After he left the room, she rolled her eyes, then checked the new phone Rory had given her. No messages, although there was a clock on the screen counting down the minutes.

Perfect. No pressure there.

I can’t give up. I have to make this work. She wondered how the three men outside were doing, what orders they had if she couldn’t get Ryker to willingly come along. They all had codenames and looked like some of the meanest, baddest guys she’d ever ran into. Ryker fit right in with them.

But they all had soft spots—everyone did. Would the SEALs help her kidnap the boy, force Ryker to help her?

Do not threaten Jaeger, she heard the little voice inside her head say. That’s the one thing that’ll make Ryker kill you instead of help you.

She smelled the dog before she heard Ryker’s stealthy footsteps behind her. He had a duffel in one hand, a rolled up sleeping bag in the other. Jaeger followed dutifully behind. “You’re still here.”

Pointing at the duffel, she felt hope rise. “You changed your mind? You’re going to help?”

“Hell, no, but now we definitely have to move.”

“But where will you go?”

“None of your concern.” He motioned to the door. “Out.”

Her phone, still in her hand, buzzed. Beatrice. Staring Ryker down, she almost ignored it, but she was out of options. The man was as stubborn as a mule. “Yes?” she asked, answering her boss’s call.

“Get out, now! There’s incoming!”

Incoming? Mia’s blood froze. Instinct had her pick up the boy. “Move! Get out!” she yelled as she sprinted for the door.

“What the—?”


The afternoon heat hit her like a wall and things went into slow motion. Jaeger yelled for his papa, the dog jetted past her toward the Jeep, barking as if this were a game. SEALs appeared from every direction, and she sensed Ryker coming up fast behind her.

Strong arms grabbed her and Jaeger at the entrance to the nearby forest, and she was thrown down, air whooshing out of her lungs. Heavy weights landed on top of her, her face smashed into the ground, the laden scents of earth and dry undergrowth filling her nostrils.

Before she could catch her breath, the world behind her exploded.

★★★★★ “Evans writes spies so incredibly well.” ~ Reader review

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Hot SEAL, sexy spy, no limits.

★★★★★ “…the perfect mix of romance and suspense…” ~ Reader review

Man Hunt, SEALs of Shadow Force, Spy Division, Book 1

© 2018 Misty Evans

Defense mapping

Australian outback, Twenty-four hours later

Jaeger was sick. Ryker checked the Jeep’s oil, the itch under his breastbone now a full blown burn. He’d already delayed their departure to look for a new place to live long enough, but it wasn’t fair to the boy to make him travel when he was running a fever and throwing up. Their pace would be slow because of that anyway, and they could end up in a worse situation than if they stayed.

But staying could be dangerous as well. Just that morning, in the early dawn light, Ryker had heard the sounds of a helicopter overhead. The blades beating the air had made him sit upright from his makeshift bed on the floor of Jaeger’s room. He’d barely gotten any sleep as he tended to the boy, and at the sound of the helo he’d panicked, grabbing Jaeger and hauling him out to the Jeep. It was a knee-jerk reaction, his fears of being discovered keeping constant tension below the surface, ready to explode at the slightest threat.

The helo had disappeared to the east, probably one of the local companies taking a tourist on a safari. Occasionally they did fly over this area. If he hadn’t already been nervous about the length of their stay, he probably wouldn’t have given it more than a brief thought.

Poor Jaeger had cried at the rough handling and then thrown up, leaving Ryker feeling guilty and having to clean up the Jeep once he had the boy tucked back into his bed.

Now in the bright light of day, his instincts were on high alert, the warning bells in his head going off with fervor. There was a cave ten miles west. He could load up and get them there in no time, create a temporary place for Jaeger to get better, and allow them to get out of here.

Ten miles wasn’t much; if someone came looking for them and knew the territory, the cave would be the first place they checked after discovering the empty house. Even if he took precautions to remove their fingerprints and DNA, a skilled tracker would know someone had been living there recently. Ryker had explored the cave several months before and left a small cache of supplies, including cash, energy bars, water, survival gear, two guns, and some ammunition in case he and Jaeger ever needed to bug out fast. It was more of a hunker down site, rather than a safe one.

He checked the spark plugs, needing something to do, and took his frustration out on the truck. Jaeger was sleeping, but Ryker would check on him again in a minute to see if his fever had broken. Up until now, the boy had shown remarkable resilience, never falling sick, and it was a bloody good thing, since Ryker sucked at being a nurse.

After that he’d load the Jeep. Hopefully by morning they could take off and get to the cave at least. From there he wanted to head toward Staaten River, maybe eventually hop over to the Wellesley Islands.

Mite watched him from a patch of grass near the cabin, panting in the late afternoon heat. His eyes were sleepy, hooded, as he sunned his bones. There seemed to be more gray around his face today, his ribs showing more than usual as his chest rose and fell.

Damn dog wasn’t helping. Ryker didn’t need extra guilt for leaving the mutt behind, and yet, he knew there was no easy way to ditch him. Jaeger would be stoic about it, never shedding a tear in front of Ryker, but the kid would never forgive him. Another thing to feel guilty about.

He slammed the hood shut and Mite’s head came up. Nap time was over and he now kept a wary eye on Ryker as he headed for the back of the cabin to grab some extra cans of oil from the nearby shed.

Beat it to fit, paint it to match. The ideology his former SEAL commander had insisted they live by. You did the best you could with whatever you had.

Inside, he grabbed a machete for clearing brush, a tactical vest, the pockets filled with miscellaneous first aid items and an extra pocketknife. The Jeep had one spare tire on the back and room for a tent and camping gear. After he packed all of that, he threw in the duffels filled with food, extra clothing, and a few of Jaeger’s personal items. The boy didn’t have traditional toys, or any particular creature comforts outside of his blanket and a couple of wooden soldiers Ryker had carved for him.

Grabbing a plastic gas can to strap on to the Jeep, Ryker scanned the rest of the tools hanging on the shed’s wall. Determining which to take, what possible situations they might encounter, kept his mind off Jaeger’s illness, but he needed to get inside and check on the boy.

With his stash of supplies, he climbed back out of the shed into the daylight. Mite was on his feet, pacing the cabin, his ears pricked. “Shit.” Ryker sprinted past the dog, dropped the gas can next to the Jeep, and half tossed the oil cans into the open backseat. He was three feet from the porch swing when the front door opened.

Jaeger stood in the doorway, his hair a crumbled mess, his tan cheeks no longer a bright pink with fever. He squinted at Ryker. “Papa, I’m hungry.”

Relief swamped him and he grinned. “That’s good. What do you fancy? Some tea and toast or maybe a biscuit?”

“The lady brought popsicles.” He rubbed the sleep from one eye with his fist. “I’d like an orange and a red.”

“The lady…?” Was the boy hallucinating? “It was just a dream, mate. Which is a shame, because it sounds like a good one, but that’s all it was. Let’s get you that toast.”

“Wasn’t a dream, Papa.” Jaeger looked over his shoulder into the cabin.

In the same instant, Mite growled.

The hair on the back of Ryker’s neck stood up, the warning bells clanging so loudly he felt like he was inside a bell tower. With one hand he motioned for the boy to come to him. With the other, he drew his weapon from his waistband. “Jaeger, come to me. Quick now.”

Get him! His pulse hammered in his ears, his highly trained mind playing out a dozen possible scenarios. A woman, popsicles.

The helicopter.

Goddamn it.

Jaeger saw the gun but did as instructed, leaving the porch and coming down to Ryker. He pulled the boy behind him, his gun trained on the doorway. “Get to the Jeep. Go.”

“But the lady said— “

“Go now!”

There had been no sound of a vehicle, no alarm raised. Even as Jaeger walked away, Ryker stalked to the cabin. A tiny part of him prayed the boy was simply confused, that his fever had created a very vivid dream of a woman with popsicles.

But what were the odds it was real? That somehow a woman had gotten inside without him knowing it? She would’ve had to pass through three layers of his security warning system, past the dog even. And before that, trekked through miles and miles of National Park wilderness. There was no actual road here, only a rough, rugged trail through dense forest and craggy outcroppings.

There’s no way. Only a diehard survivalist or one of the aborigines who knew the land like the back of his hand could make it there on foot.

The interior of the cabin was a few degrees cooler than outside and deep in shadows, thanks to the trees surrounding it that blocked the hot afternoon sun. The main floor was less than one thousand square feet, but on first inspection, Ryker couldn’t see anyone inside.

What he did see was a small red and white cooler in the center of the kitchen table.

He quietly cocked the gun and scanned the areas he could see once more. The rooms were small; he had a direct line of sight into the living room, the couch where he slept, the central piece of furniture.

He saw no one.

Staying to the right, he slowly made his way past the table to the living room. There he pulled up short.

In the corner shadows blanketed a rocking chair near the fireplace, a woman dressed in khakis, a single dark braid falling over her shoulder, raised both hands in a show of surrender. “Hello, Ryker.”

Maybe he’d been in the Outback too long, too many days and nights alone, because instead of shooting her where she sat, he caught his breath and took in her beautiful porcelain skin and big green eyes.

The warning bells in his head gave way to a chastising voice. You hesitated. Hesitation will get you killed.

“Who the hell are you and how did you get into my home?”

She rocked forward, coming to her feet, but froze when he aimed the gun at her forehead. Straightening slowly, she studied him with the same scrutiny he was giving her. “As I live and breathe, it really is you.”

That voice. I know that voice, but…

His grip tightened. “Whoever you are, you made a dangerous mistake coming here.”

“Really wasn’t my first choice either, you know. I don’t do”—she waved one hand around the general area of the cabin— “hiking, camping, bugs, snakes.” She gave a hard shudder. “I guess the military training you had before you joined the CIA really paid off.”

His brain was still trying to connect the dots. She was American from the sound of her voice, knew about his past, and had to be CIA, but he knew he’d never seen her before. “You need to leave. Now. And forget you ever found me.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, the green orbs darkening. “You have the balls to stand there, point a gun at me, and threaten me after I’ve lived for the past nine months believing you were dead?” She took a step toward him, jabbing her chest with a thumb. “I thought I killed you. I lost my job over you. I can’t sleep at night because of the nightmares. Before you toss me out, you owe it to me to listen to my proposition. Barring that, you at least owe me an apology, Gaspard.”

His breath caught again, and a flood of memories came rushing back. Her sexy voice over the phone, strained, begging him to leave Petra and the boy and get out before Kaiser killed him. Arguing, haunting him like his nightmares. “You…”

Her hands went to her hips, defiant. Her full lips pursed. “We never officially met face-to-face. Thought it was about time.”

“Mia Shaine. How the hell did you find me?”

“You weren’t even on my radar until yesterday. Or two days ago. The time zone change has me all mixed up.”

If she had found him, others would too. “I don’t want to kill you, Mia, but I will if I have to. If you came here to force me back to Langley, you wasted your time.”

“The last thing I would do is take you back to the Agency. They can go screw themselves for all I care, although dammit, I miss my job and will get it back and kick some ass when I do. We have bigger things to worry about at the moment, and better people to work for. A friend of yours sent me. She said to tell you she was calling in her marker. Something about her saving your ass in Tel Aviv ten years ago?”

Christ Almighty. His grip on the gun eased. He felt like he’d been hit by a train. “Bianca?”

“She changed her name to Beatrice. Long story. I’ll bring you up to speed once we’re in the air. We’re kind of on a tight schedule.”

Tel Aviv? Man, that was light-years away. It should’ve been an easy mission—get in, grab the target, get out—but a long-time asset on the ground suddenly turned double agent and he’d ended up in an off-the-books prison, his cover blown, and looking at a slow, torturous death in the desert. And people thought Israel was an ally to the United States. Not always.

Bianca had saved him. Somehow, someway, the NSA agent had walked right into that prison, presented papers for his release, and took him out of there like she owned the place. The papers were bogus, of course, but there was something about her that made them cooperate without checking. She had that ability, intelligence, and total confidence. It was almost as if she could hypnotize people into doing what she wanted. “Is she all right?”

“Beatrice?” Mia flapped a dismissive hand. “She’s got it made. New name, running her own business—that’s how I got here, by the way. A team of former SEALs who work for her brought me, we hiked through what I can only describe as hell, and they got me past all your security measures.” She smiled cockily and it lit up her face. A beautiful face, for sure. “Even they were impressed with all the Indiana Jones Temple of Doom shit you put around this cabin.”

SEALs. Great. Brothers-in-arms, only those days were long behind him. Some of his former teammates considered him a traitor to the cause, leaving the teams and joining the CIA.

He should’ve known she hadn’t come alone. “Tell Bianca I’m sorry, I can’t do…whatever it is she sent you here to get me to do. I’m out of the game and not going back. No matter what.”

Mia turned serious. “It’s Kaiser, Ryker. He’s back and more dangerous than ever. He’s been on a tear since Petra and his son—the one I’m guessing is in the Jeep—were supposedly killed. He has a new enterprise and he’s not dealing solely in black market arms any more. He’s dealing in black market kids. Babies. He’s made a lot of contacts in illegal adoptions and child trafficking. Beatrice believes it’s his way of searching for Jaeger in case the boy is still alive. We have to stop him.”

A sick sensation crawled in his gut. He didn’t want to know the details—he really didn’t, but if the bastard was back and now going after kids… damn it. “You stop him. My job is to protect Jaeger. I made a promise to his mother and I can’t go back on it. I won’t. She was trying to leave Kaiser because she didn’t want Jaeger growing up in that environment, becoming a man like his father.”

Mia nodded, seeming to understand. “If you work with me to destroy him and his empire, you won’t have to run from him anymore, and Beatrice has the means and resources to build you and Jaeger completely new identities. Or you can use any of her safe houses—they’re scattered all over the world, many completely off-grid.” She put a pleading hand out. “This is your get-out-of-jail-free card, Ryker. You can keep Jaeger safe and build a new life for both of you.”

Ryker lowered the gun. His mind and heart warring with each other. Destroying Kaiser, giving Jaeger a chance to be a normal kid, fulfilling his promise to Petra…

And wiping his ledger clean with Beatrice.

Could it all work out so perfectly?

Hell no. But did he have a better alternative?

Ditto on the hell no.

Running around here wasn’t the worst life for a kid, but it wasn’t the best either. Being on guard all the time, picking up on Ryker’s paranoia. Never having a decent holiday or birthday.

He motioned Mia back into the chair. “Let me grab Jaeger.” He started for the front door. “Then we’ll talk.”

★★★★★ “Evans knows how to pull at a reader’s heartstrings, even when she writes big bad spies and SEALs. Just add in an adorable little boy and a dog who wants to be loved.” ~ Reader review

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Navy SEAL-turned-spy takes a new agent on her first undercover mission

★★★★★ “On a scale of 5 stars, I give this book a 10 star rating.” ~ Sue, Kindle reader 

Man Hunt, SEALs of Shadow Force, Spy Division, Book 1

© 2018 Misty Evans

Moscow Rules: Don’t harass the opposition

Washington, D.C., evening

It could be worse. Mia raised the tray of martinis above her head, maneuvering between two groups of young and upcoming lawyers. Lawyers, politicians, those who worked for both—all of them intense, watching the others in the bar, especially the more important people, those higher up on the food chain they could not so casually bump into and start a conversation with.

Even with her compression brace, the tendinitis in her wrist and elbow was killing her. Too many trays, too many drinks, too many damn nights in this loud D.C. bar.

“Thanks a lot, Ryker, you bastard,” she murmured under her breath. If it wasn’t for him and that last shitty CIA mission, she’d be undercover in Paris right now seducing some high value target instead of fending off groping hands and serving drinks to competitive assholes intent on moving up the ladder.

Everyone is potentially under opposition control.

Her IQ, experience, and general commonsense were not necessarily better than anyone else in the bar and yet she didn’t belong here anymore than the tall blonde sitting in the corner booth who’d been scanning the bar but always circling back to Mia. Former spook. Has to be.

But not one she knew. Before or after my time?

She was almost to the table when she felt a sharp pinch on her ass. She’d been so focused on figuring out who the woman was, she lost her concentration on the crowd. The pinch hurt and made her jump, two of the martinis tipping and falling, sending their contents over a woman’s head.

She screamed and bolted out of the way, knocking into the ass grabber, who started laughing. Someone shoved someone else and the next thing Mia knew, the rest of the martinis danced and fell, crashing to the floor and sending glass and olives everywhere.

Guess things can get worse.

She bent over to start cleaning and felt the ass-grabbing idiot go in for another cheap pinch.

Pick the time and place for action.

Before he could pull away this time, she grabbed his wrist, fast as lightning, bending his hand back until he dropped to his knees and cried out.

“What the fuck?” he screamed.

His buddies stopped laughing and so did everyone around them. All eyes were on Mia and she hissed into his face, “You seem to think you own this piece of ass, so let me set you straight. You don’t, and you’re nothing but a pig. If you ever touch me again, I’ll cut off your hand and maybe something else a little lower along with it. In fact, if you ever touch any of the waitresses in this bar, you’ll be walking funny from then on out. Do I make myself clear?”

His eyes were wide with fear and pain, the spilled martinis soaking into the knees of his dress pants. “You…bitch,” he snarled. “Do you know who my father is?”

“I do,” she bluffed, not knowing precisely, but figuring Daddy had to be another of the bigwigs in D.C. What was there to know? She’d burned so many bridges in this town already, what was one more? “And frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn. If you’re going to play grab-ass with me, you better be worried about who I am and what kind of torture techniques I know.”

That shut him up, whether it was due to his inebriated brain needing to think the threat through, or some good sense finally kicking in. Either way, Mia gave his wrist one last little tweak before she shoved him away.

She pulled a bar rag from her apron to mop up the liquid, wondering if she’d have a job come closing. Moscow Rules said go with the flow, blend in. She’d certainly blown that tonight.

And wouldn’t that suck if she lost this position too? She was already two months behind on rent, and tuition for the private schooling of her younger sister was due next week. Chloe suffered from borderline autism and didn’t function well in public schools. With their parents dead, Mia was the sole provider.

Great job with that, Mia.

Not only had she lost a good paying job with the CIA, she’d burned her reputation with all the alphabet agencies in this town. No one would hire her now, and she could thank Ryker Baptiste for that.

“No need to worry about that,” a voice said from behind her. Mia looked up to see the woman from the corner booth standing over her. She motioned at the bartender. “Daniel will clean up the mess.”

Most everyone had moved off, once again caught up in their own lives. Mia wiped her hands, realizing it did no good since the towel was soaked. The ass-grabber shot her a damning look from under thick eyelashes a few feet away, where he conversed with friends. She gave him a cocky smile before answering the woman. “It’s my mess, I’ll clean it up.”

Daniel appeared at her side, handing her a dry bar rag. “No worries, Mia.” His eyes flicked to the woman, back to Mia. “It’s time for your break anyway.”

Daniel had been nice to her at one time, and she’d enjoyed it. She hadn’t had any real relationships since joining the CIA. Everything about her job had been top-secret, making them extremely difficult, even those with her parents, God rest their souls. But she soon realized Daniel only wanted to sleep with her, nothing else. She’d turned him down and now he made her shifts as difficult as possible.

To see him nervously bend down and finish cleaning made her reevaluate the person in front of her. Out of everyone in the bar, Mia had the feeling this woman actually had power.

Assume nothing. “Who are you?”

The blonde smiled, motioning to the corner booth. “Let’s chat.”

Mia was torn. Her gut told her to just walk away. Don’t go down the rabbit hole.

Moscow Rule number one: never go against your gut.

But her feet seemed to have a different agenda and she found herself sliding into the booth.

“What would you like?” Blondie asked.

“I don’t drink with strangers, so let’s start with your name and why you’ve been watching me all night. If this”—she motioned at Daniel, finishing the floor cleaning— “is some kind of come on, you should know I don’t play for your team.”

Although it had been so long since she’d even had a nibble of sex, maybe she should reconsider her boundaries.

The corner of the blonde’s mouth tweaked, as if she were fighting a grin. “I’m here to offer you a job.”

“I’m not looking for one.”

Her blue eyes jumped over to the disaster scene. “You should be.”

Mia bit the inside of her bottom lip, refusing to take the bait.

Blondie’s gaze came back to her. “You want to take this, trust me. It will solve a lot of problems for you.”

“How do you know what problems I have?”

The woman only stared at her, confident.

Under the table, Mia gripped the booth hard. This is total bullshit. But something told her the woman wasn’t lying.

She glanced toward the bar and saw Daniel quickly look away.

“I suppose anyone who can get that asshole off my back deserves a few minutes of my time. Let’s start over, shall we? What’s your name and who do you work for?”

“I work for a legend in this business. She’s tough but fair, and believes you deserve a second chance.”

Everything inside Mia went very still. Knew it! “You’re CIA?”

A tiny shrug. “The job offer doesn’t come from them.”

Not the Agency. That still left plenty others—NSA, FBI, DIS, the list went on and on. “In case you haven’t heard, I’m persona non grata in that world.”

“What world would that be?”

“Can we quit playing games? Just tell me what you want, I’ll turn you down, and then I can get back to work.”

“Do you want to return to the Agency?”

Mia swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. Becoming a spy had meant everything to her at one point. “No.”

The corner of the woman’s mouth twitched, another suppressed smile. “How many lie detector tests did you fool during your time inside?”

Seven, but who’s counting?

Mia rose. “Look, this has been fun—not—but tell your legend no thanks, I don’t need the job.”

“Aren’t you even going to ask who she is? Who I work for?”

“Nope.” She caught Daniel staring again, his eyes on the blonde. “Let me guess, you’re going to tell me anyway.”

The woman slid an envelope across the table. “She thought you might require convincing.”

Mia bit the inside of her lip, her fingers itching to see what was inside, her gut telling her to  not even go there.

Keep your options open.

She’d never played it safe, why start now?

Snatching it up, she held her breath. There were two items inside, one a check made out to her for more money than she’d made in a year at the Agency as a handler.

The second, however, was the one that sealed the deal.

It was a note. A note from the legend Blondie claimed to work for.

She lifted her gaze and sat down hard. “Are you kidding me?”

Blondie stared back, unfazed. Spy face.

“What did you say your name was again?”

“I didn’t.” She pointed at the envelope. “My employer goes by Beatrice. Had to change her name because the CIA sent an assassin after her a few years back. She runs a covert Agency called Shadow Force, and I’m in charge of her new spy group, Nemesis. You don’t have to join permanently; the choice is yours. But we have a mission that calls for your expertise, and if you perform to our standards and it is successful, Beatrice will get your job back for you at the CIA, if that’s what you truly want. You really have nothing to lose and everything to gain. You can pay off your parent’s funeral costs, keep your sister in her school, and get your backside out of debt. All we need is your complete cooperation for seventy-two hours, give or take.”

There were five zeros on that check. Enough money, even in D.C., to keep her afloat for the rest of the year. She’d promised her parents over and over again if anything happened to them she’d take care of Chloe.

The Universe was making her keep that promise.

Something had happened, and she’d screwed up with Chloe, putting her in danger, and then again with Ryker. While she blamed him for what had happened in Berlin, she knew deep down it was partially her fault too.

Maybe all my fault.

Just like Chloe.

She’d been responsible for both of them, and she’d failed with both.

Failed her parents.

Failed her little sister.

Failed the biggest mission of her life.

Don’t harass the opposition. The check seemed to burn her fingers. With that kind of money, she could at least keep her promise.

This is insane. Good insane, but still…

“Why would Bianca—Beatrice—trust me?”

“She doesn’t, but that big analytical brain of hers believes you’re the best option she has.”

“Well, there’s a vote of confidence. What exactly is the mission?”

“You can handle it, and let me add, we’re the good guys. Beatrice saved my sister and I not long ago, and that’s why I work for her.”

Sister. Bingo. “I knew you looked familiar. Your sister is that hotshot TV investigator who got herself into a mess with the president a while back.”

Spy face, round two. “Beatrice is not the touchy-feely sort, but she does believe in family. I assume by the fact you’re still sitting here listening you want to be part of that family.”

“You didn’t answer my question. What exactly is the mission?”

The woman held out her hand. “My name is Parker and I’ll be your handler. Your codename in Nemesis is Artemis.”

Mia left Parker’s hand hanging in the air. “Like the goddess?”

“The huntress, yes.”

“Dare I ask what I’m hunting?”

“Not what,” Parker said, pulling up a picture on her phone. She tipped the screen so Mia could see it. “Who.”

Fuck a duck. The handsome face staring back at her haunted her dreams. The gray eyes, the square jaw. The absolute danger that radiated from every pore. “You can’t be serious.”

“Have I misled you about anything tonight?”

Mia leaned forward, pushing the phone away. “He’s dead.”

That earned her a full-blown smile. “Are you sure about that?”

God, she was so cocky, so self-confident. “His star is on the wall at headquarters.”

“Well, if that’s true,” Parker said, sliding out of the booth and motioning for Mia to follow, “then you’re going to make a hell of a lot of money finding a dead man.”

★★★★★ “Misty Evans kicks off her new spin-off series with a fast-paced, action-packed story that has both the romance and suspense that I have come to expect from her. With lives at stake and perhaps a bit of payback to deliver, Ryker and Mia proved to be great partners – both professionally and personally!” ~ Reader review

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Ryker Baptiste is one dangerous man. He’s also dead…

★★★★★ “…this is one that belongs on every TBR shelf!” ~ Margaret, Goodreads reviewer

Man Hunt, SEALs of Shadow Force, Spy Division, Book 1

© 2018 Misty Evans

Research gives you the edge

Shadow Force International Headquarters

Beatrice tapped her Mont Blanc pen on her desktop. Parker had sent a text confirming she’d “successfully targeted and collected the item.”

Translation: Mia Shaine would be in the office momentarily for a face-to-face.

Convincing the former counterterrorism analyst to work for SFI wouldn’t be all that difficult since Beatrice’s profile on Mia showed clear triggers to push for motivation. Her sister, her parents, her guilt. Any of them provided sufficient leverage, the combination of all three guaranteed success.

She punched a button on her phone and waited for the woman on the other end to answer. “Do you have the contract for Shaine?”

“I’ll bring it right over,” Cassandra Donovan, Beatrice’s new Chief Operating Officer and legal counsel, replied.

Beatrice did not engage in missions where success was not guaranteed. Her army of ex-SEALs comprised SFI’s paramilitary group, and some had learned definitive undercover tactics like the CIA employed. They needed to be able to handle undercover operations in order to help those who had nowhere else to turn, fighting underhanded politicians, renegade terrorists, and other criminals preying on innocent people.

In the past year, several missions had required kid gloves and secrecy that went beyond keeping the men’s identities and pasts private. She needed a team of spies to work alongside the SEALs, and women who could handle delicate political situations, going where the men could not, and using their feminine assets to access people and information the badass men couldn’t.

While at the Agency, Mia had been an up-and-coming star, destined to rise high in the counterterrorism group. Sitting behind a desk analyzing terrorists had been her specialty, but she’d shown solid skills in covert ops training as well. Her superior had recommended advanced operative training, which Mia aced. She’d been on a list to transfer to Paris when her whole world turned around. First her parents had died in a car accident, then her sister had… what?

Details about Mia’s sister at a political fundraiser involving democratic Senator Warren Hinch were nil, and yet, something had happened. In Mia’s Agency file—thank you, Rory, for hacking the CIA again—there was an odd notation regarding an event that had transpired that night while Mia was doing human intel.

Senator Hinch had ties to German billionaire Karl Kaiser, a man who dabbled in legitimate military arms deals, as well as a host of illegal black market and Dark Web activities. Only Kaiser was listed as a target in Mia’s case mission folder, but most of the details had been blacked out. In a follow-up report, Chloe’s name was mentioned in conjunction with an “incident” with Senator Hinch.

A senator being groomed to make a run for president and a sixteen-year-old borderline autistic girl. Hmm…

There was a knock and Beatrice summoned Cassandra in. The woman wore her usual work uniform of a dark skirt and white shirt. Her dark rimmed glasses hid delicate features, and her hair was pulled up into a ponytail. “I have included each item we discussed, plus the usual language to protect the others involved in the mission, and the overall company.”

She placed the contract in front of Beatrice who tapped her pen harder. “Thank you. I’d like you to stay during my discussion with her, if you have time.”

Cassandra nodded. “Do you want me to tape the conversation?”

“Won’t be necessary.” I hope.

“I’ll just grab my tablet for note taking.” Cassandra disappeared.

Didn’t take much imagination to figure out what might’ve transpired between Senator Hinch and Chloe Shaine, and it made Beatrice’s stomach turn. The fact the Agency had buried it, not allowing Mia to press charges must’ve sent the analyst into a severe catch-22.

And then her last assignment had blown her career into tiny pieces. Self-sabotage? In a critical mission, there was no room for errors or mistakes of any kind, and Mia had made a fatal one—she’d gotten her undercover operative killed.

Or at least everyone believed Ryker Baptiste, posing as Gaspard Manafort, an international arms dealer, was dead. Beatrice knew differently, thanks to intel the current president, Helene Halliworth Gold, had provided.

President Gold didn’t know the repercussions her intel could—would—create. She didn’t know anything about Baptiste or Mia, but someone working some form of international security for her had stumbled across information suggesting he was alive and hiding in the Australian Outback with a child.

A male child about the same age as the missing Kaiser son, heir to his father’s fortune.

Another hmm

The events of the night in Berlin were fuzzy in all the reports, perhaps intentionally so. Hard to tell with the CIA. Baptiste had requested an exfil for Petra Kaiser and her son, Jaeger. The request had been denied. There’d been an explosion and fire at the mansion, Petra had died. Another body believed to be Baptiste’s had been recovered. The boy, however, had gone missing. No body, no witnesses to a kidnapping. No contact from a kidnapper or reports of the child turning up anywhere else.

Beatrice’s phone buzzed softly. “Yes?”

Connor, working the front desk tonight, gave her a head’s up. “Jett’s on her way up with the package.”

Jett being Parker’s codename. Everyone working for SFI had one.

“Thank you.” She clicked off and tossed her pen on the desk. Cassandra returned, quietly making herself scarce and sitting on the sofa at the back of the room.

The children in this goatfuck bothered Beatrice more than anything. As a mother, she felt a strong stirring to find out the truth for their sakes as much as Ryker and Mia’s. What had happened to Chloe with the senator? Was Jaeger Kaiser alive?

It was well past midnight and she was tired, ready to go home to her daughter, but time was of the essence for this new case. If Ryker was alive, and the information she had from President Gold leaked to anyone else, the secrets Baptiste was keeping would go to the grave with him.

And if he had kidnapped the boy…

Ryker, what have you done?

A knock interrupted her thoughts. Parker walked in, Mia following.

The former agent was curvy, her dark hair in a single braid hanging over her left shoulder and her waitress uniform neat and clean, even after five hours on the clock at the bar. Her eyes took in the whole room in a single sweep, noting Cassandra before her focus came to a stop on Beatrice.

Parker and Cassandra exchanged nods. Parker spoke to her charge. “Mia, this is your new boss—”

“Bianca Marx,” Mia interrupted, sounding a bit star-struck. Or pissed. Beatrice wasn’t sure which.

Ages since I’ve been called that. “It’s Beatrice Reese now.”

“Right.” Mia snapped her fingers. “Because of the assassin Parker told me about.”

“Rory. He works for me now.”

Mia’s eyes grew wide. “He tried to kill you, so you offered him a job?”

That wasn’t exactly how it happened, but the details didn’t matter. Rory was loyal to her, and that was all she cared about. “One of the tenets of operative training, as you may recall, is to never escalate a situation but always attempt to defuse it. I’ve found that guideline to be helpful when dealing with ugly situations, Rory’s last CIA assignment—killing me—notwithstanding.”

Mia laughed, seeming to be at a loss for words. She hiked the thumb over her shoulder. “And with that?”

Cassandra nodded from the couch. “Cassandra Donovan, legal counsel.”

Beatrice wasn’t one for formalities and didn’t proffer her hand. She motioned Parker and Mia into the chairs across from her and pinned her gaze on Mia. “Ryker Baptiste was a friend of mine. I’m only going to ask you once to tell me the truth about what happened that night in Berlin. I have no need to waste your time or mine, so let’s get down to it.”

Mia stayed standing, her lips thinning slightly before she answered. “I’m guessing from this setup” —she waved a hand around the office— “and the fact you sent your employee to bribe me, you already know.”

“I know what’s in the reports. I want your version, the nitty-gritty details, or my offer goes away and you’ll be putting your sister in public school. Neither of us wants that.”

Tense silence, then, “When I worked at the CIA, I saw your name on a lot of missions that crossed my desk, and I wondered why an NSA agent was directing SEAL teams and undercover CIA operations. Your security clearance was so high, I didn’t even know what it was. A little bird told me you have a photographic memory and an IQ that endears you to Mensa, so please, don’t sit there and pretend you care one iota about my sister. I’ll tell you what happened with the mission, but to my knowledge, Ryker Baptiste died that night, and everyone blames me. I’m not sure what it is you want me to disclose beyond that.”

Beatrice rocked in her chair. “You don’t take responsibility?”

“Of course I do. I blew it. His death is on me. If he’s actually dead, which there seems to be some dispute about all of a sudden.”

Beatrice tapped a manila folder on her desk, ignoring the questioning glare from Mia. “According to this, his original handler was found dead twenty-four hours before you took over the case.”

Mia found her way to the empty chair and dropped into it. “Before the mission was dumped in my lap, you mean. I didn’t have time to breathe, much less familiarize myself with all the ins and outs of the operation. Ryker was in deep and demanding an immediate exfiltration of Petra and Jaeger Kaiser. He insisted that his handler’s death was a murder and believed Petra was in imminent danger from her husband. She wouldn’t leave without the boy. I tried to expedite a solution, but my boss put the kibosh on it.”

“Then why do you blame yourself?”

The woman’s gaze dropped. “I should’ve pushed harder. At the same time, I tried to work around the order to not engage and get Ryker some help already in Berlin, but by the time I found an unscrupulous asset who would get Petra and Jaeger out of the country, it was too late.”

The country estate had suffered an explosion during a party, the subsequent fire taking several lives, including Petra’s. Officials had ruled it a gas leak, an accident. The CIA knew differently, and so did Beatrice.

“Guilt is a faulty human coping mechanism,” Beatrice said. “It mires us in the past, and much like regret, serves no purpose. I’ve found that most people forgive others easier than they do themselves. From my analysis, you were not the direct cause of the explosion or the fire, nor responsible for the failure of the mission. Guilt and regret are a waste of emotion and energy. If you want resolution, Miss Shaine, I suggest you help me find Ryker and stop Karl Kaiser from expanding his newest criminal enterprise.”

Mia’s attention came back to Beatrice’s face. “What new enterprise? Why isn’t the CIA handling this?”

Beatrice scooted the contract and an ink pen across the desktop. “The terms of the mission and your compensation are spelled out in detail in this agreement. If you want to work for me, sign your name and date it, and we’ll get down to business.”

Mia held her gaze. “You’ve never felt guilt or regret over any of the missions you sent undercover operatives and Special Forces teams on when someone didn’t come back alive?”

“Remorse over a lost life? Of course. But I’ve found it is more beneficial to seek justice for those lives, rather than wallow in guilt.”

A subtle shift happened in Mia’s body, as if she were releasing a small weight, shedding a layer of armor. Her face softened and she picked up the pen. Staring at the paper, she nodded to herself. Her voice came out muted. “That’s all I wanted. Justice. But the CIA needed a scapegoat, someone to blame for a dead operative, and they weren’t happy about the noise I’d raised earlier over an incident with a senator. But I let them railroad me into accepting that what happened to Petra and Ryker was my fault—and don’t get me wrong, I take responsibility for not going further up the chain of command and pushing harder. Maybe if I had, there would’ve been fewer casualties. All this time, I’ve believed Ryker Baptiste was dead.” Her eyes lifted once more, spearing Beatrice. “You’re sure he’s alive?”

Beatrice gave her a single nod. “This is your chance to wipe your ledger clean. All I’m asking for is seventy-two hours of your life, and in that time, you’ll have the opportunity to resolve your guilt and regrets.”

“Oh, I’m not doing it to relieve my guilt.” Mia scribbled her name at the bottom without reading it. “If Ryker is alive and let me suffer all this time believing I killed him, I’m going to kick his ass from here to eternity.”

★★★★★ “I laughed a lot, I yelled a few times, and I felt my heart speed up with action and suspense. In the end, I finished the story with so much hope and a full heart. I can’t wait to read another Spies of Shadow Force book!” ~ Reader review

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