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choice to walk away from that career.
    Not as though he’d had much of a decision. Sell your soul to the devil to catch a devil. It wasn’t a choice he could have made.
    He paced, checking the status of the warehouse through the electronic sensors he’d planted earlier. Four guards around the perimeter, two inside. No one was on alert. Business as usual.
    Even if Tess hadn’t called him about returning to L.A., he would have needed to call in the raid soon, anyway. The drugs were scheduled for transport tomorrow night—and his gut told him Pomera was not going to make an appearance.
    There was no way he could allow those drugs to end up on the streets of America. It was a small blow to the huge drug cartel, but a blow nonetheless. And if one kid didn’t die—it’d be worth it.
    If all went well, he’d be in Los Angeles in thirty-six hours.
     
     
    A quiet knock awakened Michael. Early-morning light streamed through the curtains. He jumped from bed, alert, not mindful that he wore only briefs. Rowan stood in the doorway.
    She averted her eyes. “I’m going for a run.”
    “I’ll come with you.”
    “You don’t have to do that.”
    “I’m going with you. Give me three minutes.”
    He hadn’t slept well, and it showed in his reflection. His dark whiskers made him appear even shabbier than he felt; his green eyes were bloodshot, making them seem brighter. He splashed water on his face, finger-combed his hair, and dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt.
    The smell of coffee lured him to the kitchen. Rowan stood at the sink drinking a tall glass of water, her long, straight blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail. She wore no makeup, yet Michael found her just as attractive this morning.
    “Let’s go,” he said, pushing aside his personal interest in Rowan. He wouldn’t let her distract him from the job he had to do. Not that she was doing it on purpose, he thought. If anything, she kept a wide physical and emotional distance from everyone.
    “It’s a three-mile run from here to the other end of the beach and back. I run it twice. Up for it?”
    “No problem,” he said. “Let me look around.” He noticed she had a gun in a holster at her back. Not the Glock; this one was a little Heckler & Koch, the “Rolls-Royce” of 9mm semiautos. “Nice piece,” he commented. “Writing must pay well. I’m sure you couldn’t afford that on a government salary.”
    She was beautiful when she smiled, he noted. “Yeah, it was a treat when I could walk into the gun store and pay cash for it. Maybe we should go to the range today, get in a little target practice. I’ll let you try it.”
    “Couldn’t hurt,” he said.
    After checking the deck and beach, he said, “In the future, you might want to consider driving somewhere else if you feel the need to run.”
    “Maybe.” She didn’t sound like she had any intention of taking him up on his suggestion, and she set off at a vigorous pace, preventing further conversation.
    Rowan was surprised at how comfortable she felt with Michael Flynn. If she didn’t think about him as a bodyguard, she could almost get used to the company. As long as she thought of him as merely backup, she could live with the lack of privacy. For now.
    She loved running on the beach, the packed, wet sand hard enough for traction but soft enough to cushion each step. It was early and cold, the air salty and thick, the churning water caressing the land, then pulling back, a never-ending cycle of tides in, tides out. The edge of the world, where the vast Pacific met land, humbled any human who appreciated its strength.
    Two laps later, she jogged up the steps to her deck. She was about to enter the house when Michael commanded, “Stop.” He brushed past her, unlocked the door, and looked around. When all was clear, he told her to come in.
    A reminder of who he was and why he was here.
     
     
    Rowan and Michael had no opportunity to go to the shooting range that day. She was needed at the