Page 19 of Risky Passion

He grabbed a tarp from his kit, and we spread it beside the grave. Following his detailed instructions, I helped transfer the body onto the tarp.

“All good?” I said, itching to get going.

“Yes. Go. Do what you do best." His expression softened, and for a moment I saw the kid who used to patch up my scraped knees after bike crashes. "Just keep me in the loop. I've got at least six hours of processing here before we can even think about transporting her back to Rosebud."

"That long?"

He gestured at the gravesite with his camera.

"Full photographic documentation. Soil samples. Evidence collection. Need to map the whole area, measure everything." He sighed. "And that's assuming nothing complicated turns up. Could stretch to eight, maybe ten hours."

"Maybe we should call in someone from?—"

"No, Jaxson." His voice hardened. "I'm sick of getting this close only to watch our cases collapse like houses of cards. This stays between us. You. Me. Parker. That's it."

I threw him a mock salute. "Yes, boss."

"I mean it." He crouched back down, changing his camera lens. "Whoever buried this woman is connected to this orphanage, and we both know those threads lead straight to Scorpion Industries. This forensic scene could blow a dozen cases wide open."

"That's a lot of weight to put on our Jane Doe."

"And I intend to process every inch of it by the book. Which means we keep this quiet."

"Okay. As soon as I find Tory . . ." The words stuck in my throat, neither of us wanting to voice the alternatives. "I'll be back to help."

"Good. Watch yourself out there." He held out his fist, the same gesture we'd been using since we were kids racing BMX bikes through Cedar Grove. Before Charlotte vanished into those same woods. Before we learned monsters wore clothes and smiled at charity galas. Twenty years later, we were still chasing her shadow and still searching for people who disappeared into the dark.

Only now we carried badges and guns instead of flashlights and walkie-talkies.

"You too." I bumped his fist, managing a tight smile. "If anyone but me or Parker shows up?—"

"I know. I'll skedaddle." Whitney chuckled. "At least I've got enough protein bars to last me through to dawn if I have to. Now get outta here, you paranoid bastard, before this gets even more complicated."

"Paranoia keeps you alive, brother," I said, turning away. "Onyx, come."

She fell into stride beside me, and I sprinted toward the crumbling outer wall of the main building. Massive gum trees, that were probably planted when this was still a working orphanage, stretched their gnarled limbs over the path, and their roots had erupted through the old walkway like giant knuckles, forcing us to weave between them.

Why the fuck did I go this way?

Every other time, I'd crossed through the building.

Onyx navigated the chaos effortlessly, her powerful shoulders brushing against my leg whenever the path narrowed. At least one of us knew what they were doing.

As I shoved through the last of the head-high weeds and sprinted toward my Jeep, Whitney's comments echoed in my head. Complicated didn't begin to cover what we were dealing with. This stretch of coast had been a smuggler's paradise since the rum-running days, and now it was cartel territory and hidden graveyards. Every hectare was tainted with blood money, and this godforsaken orphanage held secrets worth killing for.

God knew what else was buried in this area.

And now Tory was lost in a hellhole and fighting for her life.

If she wasn't already dead.

CHAPTER7

Tory

My sneakers slippedand skidded through the muck as I wove between gnarled trees with trunks only just big enough to give me cover. Angry voices cut through the dense vegetation in sharp staccato bursts of what I guessed was Filipino. Not that I was any good at recognizing languages. Although their words blended together, I didn’t miss the fury and frustration in their tones.

I wasn't like Whisper. She could drop men twice her size with a precise strike to the throat or put a bullet through their belly at fifty yards. I couldn't even hit a parked bus from across the street, and my idea of hand-to-hand combat was accidentally elbowing tourists along the marina pontoons. My talents lay in calmer arts, like sweet-talking a temperamental seaplane through a monsoon, at least it was, until I'd turned the poor girl into an expensive artificial reef. Or crafting the perfect G&T: three ice cubes, pink gin, a good splash of Fever Tree tonic, and two lime wedges crushed to death in the bottom of the glass. Give me a cocktail shaker over a gun any day.

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