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available weapons, he selected a 9 mm semiautomatic and a .22 revolver as backup, along with ammunition. Frankie shied away from all of them.
    â€œNo?” How was it possible an American with her background didn’t carry a gun?
    She shook her head, her pretty eyes clouded with something he couldn’t quite label. “I prefer knives.”
    Knives? Was that some strange holdover from her navy days? “You brought knives? We’re flying commercial.”
    â€œIt’ll be okay,” she replied confidently. “I flew commercial to get here.”
    â€œCan I see them?”
    She arched one dark eyebrow before consenting to rest her backpack on the table. “If you can find them.” She stepped back, crossed her arms and waited.
    He searched the main compartments, but other than her laptop, phone and a variety of other personal items, he found only her multipurpose tool and a digital camera no bigger than his palm. He patted every inch of the material, searching for a blade in a hidden pocket, until he finally admitted defeat.
    With a shake of her head, she unzipped the main pocket once more and reached to the bottom. Then he heard the distinctive tear of a hook-and-loop pouch opening. A moment later, she revealed a black clip point, fixed-blade knife.
    â€œThat doesn’t look like standard navy issue,” he said.
    She shrugged, a gleam of pride shining in her eyes. “It’s what I carried when we deployed.”
    Any doubts he’d had about her military pedigree evaporated. “Won’t do you much good in a gunfight,” he pointed out.
    With another hitch of her shoulders, she tucked it out of sight. “Haven’t you heard? I’m not heading to a gunfight. I’m heading for a happy reunion with my mom.”
    She didn’t sound the least bit happy.
    â€œWhy do you prefer a knife over a gun?” Aidan asked.
    â€œIt’s easier to get through airport security. Easier to conceal no matter what I’m wearing. And I don’t need a permit.”
    Considering the lethal-looking blade, he wasn’t so sure he could agree with any of her reasons. “How did you get it through security?”
    â€œThe pocket is a double layer of ballistic fabric. Unless they know where to look and how to open it, it’s invisible to a security scan.”
    â€œNice trick,” he admitted.
    â€œHow do you get the guns through?”
    â€œRegistrations and permits in checked baggage. The private investigator license helps, too,” he added as he gathered up the gear. “How do you think your mom will react when you’re on her doorstep?”
    â€œI’m not sure.” Frankie looked at a small button camera on the end of a pen. “At least we have gadgets and tools on our side. It feels like a spy movie set in here.”
    He laughed. He’d thought the same thing when he first arrived. “Victoria keeps us well equipped. She has a reputation as the best.”
    â€œThat she does,” Frankie said quietly. “You knew of it even at Interpol?”
    â€œYes.” He could practically see the wheels turning inside her head. She’d been more than uncomfortable at the end of the meeting, pushing against Victoria’s control of the investigation. He should’ve seen it earlier. Frankie had felt cornered and outnumbered, possibly even betrayed. She’d done what was necessary to get through it and out of the office, retreating but not relinquishing anything just yet. It made her a hazard—to both of them.
    â€œYou can trust her,” he said, knowing he’d hit the mark when her gaze snapped to his. “And me, by extension.”
    â€œSure.” She looked around, studying everything but him. “Are we done here?”
    â€œPretty much.” He checked his phone. “Flight reservations are booked. We’re on a midmorning flight.”
    â€œNot the early one?” She reached for