Oh, God. Poor Molly. Laurel hugged her niece closer. How could she explain to a five-year-old about bad people who killed families?
Laurel leaned against the concrete wall, her lungs burning with effort. She wished she didn’t understand. She wished she could be like Molly. But this wasn’t a child’s cartoon where everyone survived even the most horrendous attacks. Reality meant no one had a second chance.
Laurel had to get away from the men who had shot at her, who had killed her sister and her family.
But Laurel didn’t know what to believe. Except her sister’s final words.
Which left her with one option. One man to trust.
Garrett Galloway.
Now all she had to do was find him.
Normally Trouble, Texas, wasn’t much trouble, and that was the way Sheriff Garrett Galloway liked it. No problems to speak of, save the town drunk, a few rambunctious kids and a mayor who drove too nice a car with no obvious supplemental income.
Garrett adjusted his Stetson and shoved his hands into the pockets of his bomber jacket to ward off the December chill. He’d hidden out in Trouble too long. When he’d arrived a year ago, body broken and soul bleeding, he’d trusted that the tiny West Texas town would be the perfect place to get lost and stay lost for a few months. After all, the world thought he was dead. And Garrett needed it to stay that way.
Just until he could identify who had destroyed everyone he loved and make them pay. He’d never imagined he’d stay this long.
But the latest status call he’d counted on hadn’t occurred. Not to mention his last conversation with his mentor and ex-partner, James McCallister, had been much too...optimistic. That, combined with a missed contact, usually meant the operation had gone to hell.
Garrett’s right shoulder blade hiked, settling under the feel of his holster. He never left home without his weapon or his badge. He liked to know he had a gun within reach. Always. The townsfolk liked to know their sheriff walked the streets.
He eyed the garland-and tinsel-laden but otherwise empty Main Street and stepped onto the pavement, his boots silent, no sound echoing, no warning to anyone that he might be making his nightly nine o’clock rounds.
James McCallister’s disappearance had thrown Garrett. His mentor had spent the past few months using every connection he’d made over his nearly thirty-year career, trying to ferret out the traitor.
Big risks, but after a year of nothing, a few intel tidbits had fallen their way: some compromised top secret documents identifying overseas operatives and operations, some missing state-of-the-art weapons. The door had cracked open, but not enough to step through.
Garrett didn’t like the radio silence. Either James was breaking open the case or he was dead. Neither option boded well. If it was the first, Garrett contacting him would blow the whole mission; if the second, Garrett was on his own and would have to come back from the dead.
Or he could end up in federal prison, where his life wouldn’t be worth a spare .22 bullet.
With his no-win options circling his mind, Garrett strode past another block. After a few more houses, he spied an unfamiliar dark car slowly making its way down the street.
No one drove that slowly. Not in Texas. Not unless they were up to no good. And no one visited Trouble without good reason. It wasn’t a town folks passed through by chance.
His instincts firing warning signals, Garrett turned the corner and disappeared behind a hedge.
The car slowed, then drove past. Interesting.
Could be a relative from out of town, but Garrett didn’t like changes. Or the unexpected. He headed across a dead-end street, his entire body poised and tense, watching for the car. He reached the edge of town and peered through the deserted night.
Nearby, he heard a small crack, as if a piece of wood snapped.
No one should be out this way, not at this time of night. Could be a coyote—human, not the animal variety. Garrett hadn’t made friends with either one during the past year.
He slid his Beretta 92 from his shoulder holster and gripped the butt of the gun. Making a show of a cowboy searching the stars, he gazed up at the black expanse of the night sky and pushed his Stetson back.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a cloaked figure ducking behind a fence: average height, slight, but the movements careful, strategic, trained. Someone he might have faced in his previous life. Definitely. Not your average coyote or even criminal up to no good. James McCallister was the only person who knew Garrett was in Trouble, and James was AWOL.
The night went still.
Garrett kicked the dirt and dusted off his hat.
His muscles twitchy, he kept his gun at the ready, not wanting to use it. This could be unrelated to his past, but he needed information, not a dead body on the outskirts of his town. What happened in Trouble stayed in Trouble, unless the body count started climbing. Then he wouldn’t be able to keep the state or the feds out.
He didn’t need the attention.
He could feel someone watching him, studying him. He veered off his route, heading slightly toward the hidden figure. His plan? Saunter past the guy hiding in the shadows and then take him out.
He hit his mark and, with a quick turn on his heel, shifted, launching himself into a tackle. A few quick moves and Garrett pushed the guy to the ground, slid the SIG P229 out of reach and forced his forearm against the vulnerable section of throat.
“What do you want?” he growled, shoving aside his pinned assailant’s hood.
The grunts coming from his victim weren’t what he’d expected. With years of experience subduing the worst human element, he wrestled free his flashlight and clicked it on.
Blue eyes full of fear peered up at him. A woman. He pressed harder. A woman could kill just as dead. Could play the victim, all the while coldheartedly planning his demise. He wasn’t about to let go.
The light hit her face. He blinked back his surprise. He knew those eyes. Knew that nose.
Oh, hell.
“Laurel McCallister,” he said. His gut sank. Only one thing would bring her to Trouble.
His past had found him. And that meant one thing. James McCallister was six feet under, and the men who wanted Garrett dead wouldn’t be far behind.
* * *
THE PAVEMENT DUG into Laurel’s back, but she didn’t move, not with two hundred pounds holding her down. He’d taken her SIG too easily, and the man lying on top of her knew how to kill. The pressure against her throat proved it.
Worse than that, the sheriff—badge and all—knew her name. So much for using surprise as an advantage.
She lay still and silent, her body jarred from his attack. She could feel every inch of skin and muscle that had struck the ground. She’d be bruised later.
Laurel had thought watching him for a while would be a good idea. Maybe not so much. Ivy might have told her to trust Garrett Galloway, Sheriff of Trouble, Texas, but Laurel had to be cautious.
The car door opened and the thud of tiny feet pounded to them. “Let her go!” Molly pummeled Garrett’s back, her raised voice screeching through the night in that high-pitched kid squeal that raked across Laurel’s nerves.
He winced and turned to the girl.
Now!
Laurel kicked out, her foot coming in contact with his shin. He grunted, but didn’t budge. She squirmed underneath the heavy body and pushed