Page 1 of Shadow Secrets
CHAPTER ONE
Sebastian
The compound smelled like coffee and gun oil, and Sebastian felt a sense of relief at the familiar scent as he dropped his go-bag onto a bench in the equipment room and began breaking down his kit.
Sidearm cleaned, checked, locked in the safe. Comms equipment powered down and returned to the charging station. Vest inspected and hung.
Each step was a ritual, each ritual a way to keep his hands busy while his brain downshifted from operational awareness to something resembling normal.
Whatever normal meant these days.
He could hear some of the others in the common area—Mack’s low laugh, the scrape of a chair, CB’s voice too big for any room it occupied. The new guy, Reid Huntley, whistling.
The smell of whatever Ian had thrown together on the stove drifted down the hall. The man cooked with an attention to detail that made you wonder what he’d been like before the teams.
Sebastian finished stowing his gear and headed for the briefing room instead of the kitchen.
Garrett was at the long table, laptop open, reading glasses perched on his nose in a way that would’ve earned him merciless ribbing from the team if any of them had a death wish. He glanced up when Sebastian appeared in the doorway and quickly removed them. “Client’s secure?”
“Delivered to the Bozeman field office at fourteen-thirty. Marshals took custody. No issues.”
Garrett nodded, closed the laptop. “Clean run.”
“Clean run.” Sebastian leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. “What’s next?”
Garrett returned the glasses to the end of his nose and pecked at his keyboard with a gentleness that could make you forget he was a large man who could put you through a wall. He glanced up and gave Sebastian a hard look. Sebastian had seen that look directed at clients, at threats, at the team when they were being stupid. “Next, you take the rest of the day off.”
“I’m good. If there’s another detail?—”
“There isn’t.”
“Then I can run the south perimeter assessment. Jasper flagged the camera angles on sector?—”
“Sebastian.” Garrett’s voice was quiet enough to stop him mid-sentence. “You’ve been on for eleven days straight. Go home. Eat something that didn’t come out of a tactical pouch. Take a shower that lasts longer than three minutes. Do something that has nothing to do with this building.”
Sebastian opened his mouth to argue, then read the set of Garrett’s jaw and closed it again. There was a rank structure at SPS that didn’t appear on any org chart, and Garrett Cross—callsign Wolf—sat at the top of it for reasons that had nothing to do with his name on the paperwork. When Wolf said go, you went.
He kept his face neutral even as he clenched his teeth. “Copy that.”
He passed the kitchen on his way out. CB was leaning against the counter with a plate balanced on one big hand, fork in the other, telling a story that involved hand gestures ambitious enough to endanger the food. Ian stood at the stove, spatula in hand, shaking his head at whatever CB was selling. The scene was warm and easy and familiar—the kind of moment Sebastian always watched from the outside, like a man pressing his face to a window in winter.
“Lynx.” CB spotted him. He liked to use their callsigns, even when they were here at the compound. “Ian made that chicken thing. Grab a plate.”
“Heading out. Garrett’s orders.”
“Same here, but he wouldn’t deny us a meal.” CB grinned. He was every bit the Grizzly that his own callsign suggested. “Stay. Eat. Be a human person for twenty minutes.”
Sebastian almost said yes. The impulse surprised him enough that he shoved it down before it could take root. “Next time.”
CB pointed the fork at him. “You always say that.”
“And one of these days I’ll mean it.”
He grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door and walked out into the late afternoon, Montana stretching wide in every direction.
The mountains didn’t care about his service record or his face or the fact that he was famous for the worst thirty seconds of his life. He’d moved here for that anonymity. Some days it almost felt like enough.
His truck was parked at the far end of the lot, a deliberate choice—always facing the exit, always with a clear line to the road. Habits from the Secret Service that he’d stopped pretending he’d outgrow. He climbed in, sat with his hands on the wheel, and stared at the dashboard.
