Page 6 of Mine to Protect

There was no one there.

While scanning from the dense forest to the wide stream, I offered up a quick prayer for Christina Brown that if she were, in fact, abducted, not lost or hadn’t ran off on her own, that she was already dead.

That was my gift to her.

2

Cas

The thick woodendoor trembled on its hinges beneath my pounding fist. In my periphery, several heads popped out from various offices along the short hallway in the U.S. Department of the Interior’s headquarters, staring with suspicion and a bit of fear in their gazes. It was apparent to everyone that I didn’t belong here. The admins and directors who milled about, still staring, were dressed in fancy-ass business suits or nice dresses, while I stood outside my boss’s boss’s boss’s office in full tactical assault gear.

Apparently it was unnerving, even though I was standing in the middle of the United States Park Police headquarters. Our particular division of the Department of Interior was the oldest uniformed federal law enforcement agency in the US. We held both federal and state jurisdiction across the country. We were highly trained, deadly—some more so than others—and tasked with protecting the national monuments, the president, and his visiting dignitaries when needed.

We were hot shit, and we knew it.

At the curt command to enter, I resituated the snug Kevlar vest across my chest and turned the doorknob. Once inside, I cataloged every detail of the spacious downtown DC office. The oversized leather chairs, large dark mahogany carved desk, and the man sitting behind it were exactly what I expected to find. The director of park services continued to type on his laptop. He looked the part with his buzzed silver hair, deep wrinkles along his forehead and cheeks—from years of playing the political game, no doubt—and tired, cunning eyes.

Those eyes cut from the screen and ran a quick, assessing gaze. Having zero idea as towhyI stood here, pulled this morning from the protection detail I’d been assigned, was unnerving.

What the hell did I do this time?

Fingers templed beneath his chin, he flicked a pointed look to the chairs, which I ignored.

“You wanted to see me, sir.” A shadow shifted at my back. All senses zeroed in on the threat while I maintained eye contact with the director.

“Have a seat, Sergeant Mathews.”

“I prefer to stay standing, sir.” Every muscle twitched, eager to face the person still hiding at my back. Instead I focused past the director to the windows behind him. Using the reflection, I monitored the blurry form until it shifted closer to where I stood in the middle of the room.

The man’s hand barely brushed my shoulder, snapping me into action. Jerking his wrist tightly against the middle of his back, I slammed his face against the closed door.

Heart racing, blood thundering in my ears, somehow his low chuckle flooded through.

I had him pinned, about to break his arm and dislocate his shoulder if I breathed too hard, and the man was fucking laughing.

“Damn, Mathews, still as quick as ever, you jackass. Good to see you haven’t gotten any slower in your old age.”

The voice tickled a memory. Slowly I released his wrist, then forced him to turn and shoved his back against the door.

“Peters?” I said, very confused.

What the hell? I hadn’t seen this jackass in years. We served two deployments together, but he was the type of person you wouldn’t forget. Smart as hell, calculating and dangerous—similar to me. Well, all marines, I guess. There had been an edge to him that I recognized, making us both immediately respect the other and form an instant bond. Chandler Peters was someone you could call at any time, even if it’d been years, and he’d come running guns blazing to your aid. It seemed he felt the same way, which must’ve been why he was in the damn office.

“Have a seat, Sergeant Mathews. I won’t ask again,” the director ordered.

Peters smiled as his brows rose high on his forehead, taunting me. Bastard. With a growl, I released his shoulder and stalked to one of the leather chairs to do as I was instructed.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here,” Peters said. At my subtle nod, his smile widened. “I almost don’t want to tell you, just to drive you fucking insane.”

The director cut in. “I do not have time for this, Agent Peters—”

“Agent?” My shock registered in my tone.

Peters nodded. “FBI. BSU—sorry, Behavioral Science Unit.”

“Couldn’t hack staying in action so you found a desk job. Nice,” I said with a smirk. “Not surprised. You always were a lazy ass.”

“Lazy ass, me? You’re the one who’s put on the pounds since the last time I saw you. Drinking too many carbs there, Mathews?”

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