Page 8 of King

I realized I’d said it out loud when Stella’s head popped up, and she glowered at me. “What’s his name?”

“Cerberus.”

Her brow furrowed, and she glanced down at the teddy bear that used to be a terrifying guard dog.

“Like the three-headed dog that guards hell?”

I nodded.

“That’s not very nice.”

Rolling my eyes, I snapped a command at Cerberus that had him trotting back over to lie at my side.

Because I was trying hard to ignore my body’s visceral reaction to her, my voice came out a little harsher than I’d intended when I asked, “Why are you here?”

“That’s a very good question,” she retorted as she closed the distance between us. When she reached my desk, she pulled a letter from her purse and held it out.

“This is from my father, Joseph Ford.”

I stiffened at hearing the name. Joseph and I had worked together extremely closely while at the CIA and became good friends. But when I left The Company, he was still an active operative, so we’d had to limit contact because we suspected my cover might have been blown.

He was the only person I trusted with my life outside the Hounds of Hellfire. When shit had hit the fan, he’d been the one I told of my suspicions, and he’d helped me find the truth thatled to me walking away from the job I loved and had been damn good at.

If someone was saying his name to me, they likely uncovered my connection to him. Which meant there was a good chance I would have to kill the sexy-as-fuck woman standing in front of me.

“Your father?” I repeated skeptically. “Why should I believe you?”

Stella didn’t flinch at my question, a good sign.

“He warned me that you might not and told me to ask Guardian to read the letter.”

There was nothing,not one thing, that would have made me trust her other than calling me Guardian. It had been my code name during the most top secret missions. Even within the group of people running the op, they knew Guardian and they knew Connor, but only a handful of them knew they were the same person.

Joseph had been my point of contact.

Silently, I took the letter, blinking in surprise when our hands brushed and an electric current sizzled between us.

“Sit,” I ordered, gesturing to the couch. Without waiting to see if she obeyed, I opened the envelope and took out the letter. But before unfolding it, I spotted something inside. To most people, it would have looked like a simple thumb drive, but I knew the real purpose of the item. It was an electronic key—one of the most completely secure ways to store highly sensitive information. Pretty much the only way to take information off a skiff room server.

I set the device aside to give it to Wizard and turned my attention to the letter.

Guardian,

If you’re reading this letter, then my latest mission has gone sideways, and I’ve been burned.

“Fuck,” I whispered.

Who knows what story they’ve concocted to put me on an official most wanted list and an unofficial hit list, but with my real identity compromised, I’m in deep shit.

When the CIA issued a burn notice on someone, they sent an official statement to other agencies alerting them that the asset was unreliable for one or several reasons—often bullshit and lies—and must be officially disavowed. It was essentially a directive for the recipient to disregard or "burn" all information derived from that agent.

It wasn't like the movies and TV shows. They didn’t freeze your assets, destroy your credit, and basically wipe away any proof of your former life. However, there was definitely no record of your employment with any government agency.

And sometimes—I had a feeling this was one of them—the burn notice included an indirect kill order. Though the agencies would never admit it.

Knowing I needed all the information before I decided on an action, I kept reading.

I can’t trust anyone in The Company, and besides my daughter, there is no one in this world I trust more than you.

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