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was tall.
    He glanced at M.J., then back to Tara.
    “You’re here about Catie,” he said. “There’s been an ID?”
    “Nothing definite.” Tara paused, gauging his reaction. His eyes were still hidden behind mirrored shades. “Probably by tomorrow.”
    Something shifted in his posture, a subtle bunching of muscles. Almost as soon as she noticed it, he looked relaxed again.
    “Nice place you’ve got here,” M.J. said, stepping up beside Tara. “Is this your company headquarters or—”
    “That’s right.”
    M.J. smiled. “Mind if I look around while you two talk?”
    The sunglasses shifted to Tara.
    “I just have a few questions,” she explained. “It shouldn’t take long.”
    “Look around all you want,” he told M.J. “Jeremy can take you.”
    They turned to see a man standing behind them—six-three, two-thirty, brown hair, blue eyes. He wore Army green fatigues and heavy black boots that Tara had somehow failed to hear crunching on the gravel.
    M.J. thrust her hand out and introduced herself with a smile.
    “Jeremy Owen,” he said briefly, shaking hands with both of them and then giving Liam a look that seemed loaded with secret communication.
    Tara shot M.J. her own secret look. Are you okay with this? M.J. answered with a subtle nod before walking off with the big commando. He led her across the clearing to a corrugated metal building, where he held the door open as she stepped inside. A wooden sign above the doorway read SEMPER FI .
    Tara returned her attention to Liam Wolfe. “Like I said, I just have a few questions.”
    “And I have things to do. Hop in.”
    He turned away, and she stared at his back, startled. After gritting her teeth for a moment, she trekked over to the passenger side of his truck. The instant she pulled the door shut, he was moving.
    “So, Mr. Wolfe—”
    “Liam.”
    He glanced over, and she noticed he’d finally ditched the shades. His eyes were deep green, the color of the woods around him.
    “How did you hear about Catalina’s disappearance?” she asked.
    He steered his pickup over the gravel road. “David called me.”
    “David?”
    “Her husband.” He darted a look at her, probably wondering why she didn’t know this detail about the woman she was supposedly investigating.
    “He called you Wednesday night or . . . ?”
    “Yesterday morning. They notified him after her car turned up.”
    Her car. Interesting. Hadn’t David Reyes already known his wife was missing when she didn’t come home that night? Maybe he’d been away for some reason.
    Tara looked around the truck. No fancy stereo or expensive gadgets. It was toasty warm inside and smelled of wet earth. She glanced in back and saw muddy work boots on the floor. Size thirteens, if she had to guess.
    She looked outside. They were no longer on a road through the trees but simply in the trees, following a route he seemed to know well. Tara listened intently and then buzzed down her window.
    “Is that—”
    “Our firing range,” he said. “Straight west of here.”
    It wasn’t pistol fire she was hearing but rifles. “How long’s the range?” she asked.
    “A thousand yards.”
    She tried not to look impressed. “How many acres you have here?”
    “Twelve hundred.”
    “And people?”
    “Here, only a handful. I keep most of my guys in the field.”
    His guys. Again, she tried to mask her reaction. A twelve-hundred-acre facility, plus vehicles and employees. It was a large operation for a man who looked to be thirty-five, tops. Evidently, private security paid better than government work.
    She turned to study him. Athletic body, peak condition. Ripped, as M.J. had said. His wide shoulders seemed to fill up the spacious cab.
    He pulled over, and Tara’s window buzzed up as he pushed open his door.
    “Stay inside if you want,” he said. “It’s more comfortable.”
    Tara hadn’t come here to be comfortable. She got out and zipped her jacket against the cold. They were deep in the