Page 7 of The Tracker

He turned away and wiped his hands with a damp cloth, the scent of arousal still thick in the air. That’s when he saw Reed, standing at the edge of the dungeon in a black button-down, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Jesse was with him, lounging with that easy Texas charm that masked a mind as sharp as any blade.

Reed tilted his head once. “Come.”

Dawson rolled his neck and exhaled, the motion tight with irritation. He pulled on a black T-shirt from his bag near the wall, tugging it down over still-warm skin with more force than necessary. Reed knew damn well he was scheduled to disappear in two days—off-grid, no calls, no responsibilities. His annual escape into the wild was more than tradition; it was self-defense.

Last year, he'd spent three weeks alone in a ridgeline cabin so remote he had to snowshoe in the last mile. No phones. No chatter. Just him, a stack of old survival manuals, and a stubborn black bear that kept testing the perimeter like it wanted to spar. By the second day, his head had started to clear. By the tenth, he’d remembered how to breathe without the weight of responsibility tightening his chest.

He needed that solitude the way some men needed confession. No masks. No orders. Just the primal rhythm of existence. And now this—whatever this might turn out to be—was threatening to drag him back into the noise before he’d even had the chance to shut it off.

He strode across the dungeon floor, his boots silent but his jaw clenched, annoyance simmering just under the surface with every step.

“You need something or just here to critique my form?” Dawson asked as he approached.

Reed’s jaw flexed. “We’ve got a problem.”

Dawson folded his arms across his chest, already not liking the look in Reed’s eyes. “Unless that problem involves me leaving for the mountains in forty-eight hours, I’m not sure why 'we' includes me.”

Reed didn’t flinch. “Because you're the only one who can handle this."

Dawson snorted. Reed shrugged.

Jesse grinned. “We can promise it will be... entertaining.”

Dawson raised an eyebrow. “That usually means Keely.” Jesse was engaged to Keely, who was Reed's younger, pain-in-the-ass sister.

Reed nodded. “Keely and her plus-one.”

Dawson’s shoulders stiffened, and he let out a sigh that bordered on a growl. “Please tell me it’s not another bachelorette escape mission.”

He could already picture the glitter, the shrieking laughter, the over-perfumed cloud of chaos. The last time he’d been dragged into something like this, it was because a senator’s daughter had accidentally turned her private security detail into the entertainment for a bachelorette party. He’d spent the night wedged between two screeching bridesmaids who kept trying to lick his dog tags while the bride-to-be cried into her mojito about a cheating fiancé. By the time the limo pulled away at 3 a.m., he smelled like hairspray and regret and had sworn never again.

He'd done that circuit once—reluctantly—and it was enough to last him a lifetime. Fake sobs, mascara running like war paint, and some drunk socialite trying to crawl into his lap because he 'looked like a cowboy from a movie.' Jesus. He needed a drink just thinking about it. Or ten.

"I need tequila," muttered Dawson.

“It’ll be fun… really,” Jesse drawled. “This one involves two tails, a stolen flash drive, and someone took a shot at her through a window.”

Dawson’s frown deepened. “You led with fun and buried the part where someone tried to kill her.”

Reed cut in. “It’s serious. Evangeline Shaw—yes, that Evangeline—is upstairs. Someone planted a corporate spy in her company, who then turned it around and tried to lock her down with a ring. When she got too close to the truth, they moved to silence her.”

Dawson stared at him. “Who is they, and why did you bring her here?”

Reed’s gaze didn’t waver. “It was the closest secure location." Reed sometimes talked like he was still in the Navy.

"We needed the team ready to move fast.”

Jesse leaned in. “She’s not what you think, man.”

“I think she’s a rich girl who’s never had to follow orders in her life,” Dawson snapped. “And we all agreed after the last time; I don’t babysit debutantes.”

His voice sharpened with old irritation. "You remember Brielle LaSalle? The senator’s daughter? She thought her daddy’s checkbook gave her diplomatic immunity? I spent ten days shadowing her through Aspen while she flirted with cartel runners and dared paparazzi to catch her snorting coke off a yacht."

Dawson’s jaw tensed. "She played helpless until I put her on a no-fly list and marched her ass back to Texas with a well-spanked backside and a sealed record."

He looked between Reed and Jesse. "I don’t do spoiled and suicidal, and I sure as hell don’t do clean-up for people who think danger’s a punchline."

Reed’s voice dropped a register. “Evvy is in danger. Real danger. The kind that doesn’t care how polished her shoes are. You’re the one with the best experience here—CID, counterintelligence. You know the espionage game better than anyone.”