Page 15 of Hunter's Game
“Hunter.” His name was a warning—to him or herself, she wasn’t sure.
“Eden.” He matched her tone, but there was heat underlying the mockery. “We’re already in this mess together. Might as well enjoy the ride.”
Before she could respond, her phone buzzed. They both froze at the interruption, and she used it as the escape she needed. Pulling the phone from her pocket, she looked at the screen. The number displayed made her blood run cold.
“Thompson,” she answered, putting it on speaker.
“Agent Mitchell.” Her DEA handler’s voice filled the room. “Care to explain why I’m getting reports of a shootout at the Devil’s Mark clubhouse? Our operation—”
“Was about to be compromised,” Eden cut him off, years of practice keeping her voice steady despite the screaming instincts that said something was wrong. “They were moving the entire collection tonight. If we hadn’t acted—”
“We?” Thompson’s voice sharpened. “Who’s we, Agent Mitchell?”
Eden met Hunter’s eyes across the room. He gave an almost imperceptible nod—whatever play she wanted to make, he’d back it.
“I had help from...an interested third party.”
“Jesus Christ.” Thompson exhaled heavily. “Tell me you didn’t blow your cover for nothing. Tell me you at least got something we can use.”
“Better.” Eden turned back to her laptop where the decryption program had finished running. The files that appeared made her breath catch. “I’ve got shipping manifests, buyer lists, account numbers—everything we need to prove the connection between the Devil’s Mark and at least six major museum heists.”
“Send it to me. Now.”
“Sir—”
“That’s an order, Agent Mitchell. I want everything you’ve collected on my desk in an hour.”
The call ended. Eden stared at her phone, unease crawling up her spine like ice water.
“Your contact always this warm and fuzzy?” Hunter’s voice was carefully neutral, but she caught the underlying tension.
“Something’s wrong.” Eden started typing, pulling up everything she had on Thompson, following that niggling sensation in her gut that had never steered her wrong. Years of paranoia had led her to maintain separate files on everyone connected to the operation—including her own point of contact at the DEA. “That call felt off.”
“How so?”
“He didn’t ask about casualties. Didn’t request my location. Didn’t follow any of the standard protocols for a compromised operation.” She dug deeper into Thompson’s file, looking for anything suspicious. “And how did he know about theshootout so fast? It happened less than an hour ago.”
Hunter moved to look over her shoulder at the screen. His proximity was distracting, but she forced herself to focus. The warmth of him at her back felt dangerous and reassuring all at once.
“There.” He pointed to a series of deposits in Thompson’s financial records. “Regular payments from a shell corporation. Same company that keeps showing up in your father’s books.”
“Are you sure?”
That muscle in his jaw ticked again. “Positive.”
“Son of a bitch.” Eden sat back, pieces falling into place with sickening clarity. “He’s been working for my father this whole time? Feeding him information about the investigation, manipulating evidence...”
“That’s sure what it looks like to me. Which means everything you’ve collected is compromised.” Hunter’s hand settled on her shoulder, warm and steady. “Your whole operation could be blown.”
“No.” Eden stood abruptly, needing to move. Three years of her life, countless sacrifices, all the lies and compromises—she wouldn’t let it be for nothing. “Three years of work. Everything I’ve sacrificed. I won’t let them take this from me.”
“Eden.” His voice stopped her pacing. “You’re not alone in this anymore.”
Something in his tone captured her attention. She turned to face him, really looking at him for the first time since they’d arrived at the safe house.
The moonlight streaming through the window sculpted Hunter’s features into harsh planes and shadows—emphasizing the scar that ran along his jaw, the slight crook in his nose from an old break, the intensity in his blue eyes. Without his leather cut, in just a simple black T-shirt, the elaborate tattoos covering his arms were fully visible—military insignia intertwined with Blind Jacks symbolism, telling the story of his divided loyalties she figured. Eden found herself wondering what other marks his body carried, what other stories were written on his skin.
He’d shed his leather jacket, and fresh bruises were blooming along his jaw from the fight. But it was the look in his eyes that made her breath catch—fierce protectiveness mixed with something darker, hungrier.
