Page 9 of Meet Cute or Your Money Back

Not sure why the guy doesn’t just wear jeans and a henley in the office like the rest of us.

“She’s hiding something. Iknow it,” I reply, not taking my eyes off the screen. “People don’t just waltz into our lives, following me down an abandoned alley without a few skeletons tucked away in their closet.”

“You think this girl has skeletons? There’s a fucking pumpkin embroidered onto her damn sweater.” He gestures at the Instagram post from last October where she’s wearing a hideous knit sweater with a smiling pumpkin on it as she holds up what I can only assume is a pumpkin spice latte.

“Call it a hunch,” I say, scrolling back to the top of the page. When he doesn’t say anything, I lean back in my chair and face him.

Griffin chuckles, leaning down to examine her most recent Instagram posts. There’s a boomerang video of her clinking a champagne glass with someone at brunch. “Oh, you know what,” he says, his voice suddenly serious. His eyes lower in a scrutinizing way that I’ve seen a million times from him when he’s investigating.

“What?” I ask, scouring the image he’s got his eyes on.

“I think you’re right,” he whispers and points at her sternum in the image. “Those pearls she’s wearing are downright sinister.”

I grind my teeth, the muscles at my jaw popping with restrained frustration. Griffin, Hunter, and I are equal partners in the business. I may have been his boss when we were in uniform, overseas on mission. But here? We’re equals. And I can’t just bark orders at them, expecting them to follow blindly anymore. “You weren’t there yesterday. Something about Allie feels...off. Like she’s a puzzle missing a few too many pieces.”

He takes a slow sip of his coffee. “She’s merely another paycheck, Thatch. Not everyone’s out to play cloak and dagger.”

That’s easy for Griffin to say. Our adversaries didn’t come forhisfamily. My eyes flick to the framed photo on my desk. My late wife is standing lakeside, cradling her baby bump as her yellow sundress blows in the breeze. Black coiled hair is swept across her face, streaked with red as the setting sun hits it. She’s captured mid-laugh, face lit up in pure joy. If I close my eyes, I can almost hear her as though she’s still right here beside me.

“Or maybe you need a break, pal,” Griffin says, no doubt seeing where my gaze has locked onto. “You’ve been at this since the crack of dawn.” He sets his mug down, eyebrows raised in concern. “You might actually find yourself enjoying the daylight if you stepped outside.”

“Enjoyment is a luxury,” I quip, turning back to face the extensive background check I’d pulled on Allie this morning. “And right now, I can’t afford it. I’m meeting Allie in less than an hour and I need to know whether or not to sign her.”

Allison Larsen. Born in Asheville, North Carolina. The second daughter of Larry and Bonnie Larsen. Younger sister to Abigail Larsen—also unattached. Studied at the University of South Carolina, receiving a degree in English Literature and a minor in journalism. Two boyfriends in her history…one for three years in college. And one for less than a year that ended last Halloween after he got drunk at her sister’s Halloween party.

Griffin is right. There are no glaring red flags in this background check. Yet, I can’t help the niggling feeling in my gut.

“Look, I get it, you’ve got instincts sharper than a machete,” Griffin says with that lopsided grin that could disarm even the most hardened of souls. “But we’re running on fumes here, man. Allie’s money is as good asanybody else’s, and last time I checked, our secret side mission doesn’t pay the bills.”

I scowl at the papers strewn across my desk, the glow from the computer screen painting ghostly shadows on the wall. The truth in Griffin’s statement pierces worse than a hornet’s sting, but swallowing pride has never been my strong suit.

“Fine, I’ll ease up on the background check,” I concede, though the words taste like vinegar on my tongue. I click the X on top of her file and sigh. “But if she turns out to be some double agent here to take us down, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Fair enough.” He raises his hands in surrender, his grin lightening the mood like a crack of sunshine through storm clouds.

The sound of the door swinging open halts any further banter, and in strides Hunter, looking like he’s recently stepped off the set of a spy thriller. Black gear hugs his massive frame and a dangerous gleam sparks in his eyes. Despite being summer in Charleston, SC, the man is wearing a black ribbed sweater and black cargo pants tucked into steel-toed boots. The room seems to shrink in his presence, as if absorbing his silent intensity.

“Got something,” Hunter growls, his voice low and gravelly, like an avalanche warning. His gaze locks onto mine, and suddenly every cell in my body is standing to attention.

“Talk to me,” I demand, jumping to my feet. The previous conversation with Griffin vanishes like smoke in the wind.

“Surveillance paid off. The house we’ve been watching? I think it’s more than a drug den. I jammed their cellular tower from reaching inside the house and finally one of theguys took the bait, stepping outside to take a call. I overheard him use a name.”

I swallow and even Griffin doesn’t have a quip to lighten the mood right now. “What name?”

“??????. Drakon.”The Russian word forDragon.

“They’ve been careful, but months of watching this fucking house and I think we’ve got our first break,” Hunter says.

Ice fills my veins as Hunter slams a folder onto my desk, photos and documents spilling out like secrets.

“Are you sure?” Griffin asks, his usual levity replaced by a steeliness that only surfaces when things get real.

“Nothing’s ever sure in this game,” Hunter replies, “but it’s the first solid lead we’ve had in months.”

Unofficially, we’ve been searching for Drake “Drakon” Mikhailo secretly for years since retiring from our military careers. It’s why we specifically stationed ourselves here in Charleston based on some intelligence that suggested Drakon might have a network based in the area, but we hadn’t found concrete evidence of that being true. Until now.

“Then let’s not waste any more time,” I say, feeling the weight of both dread and determination settle over me. The hunt for answers, for justice, is back on, and this time, we might actually be closing in.

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