Maybe he should have known better, since they’d spent so much time on his hand-to-hand combat and weapons training, but he truly hoped tonight’s fiasco was an outlier—or his time at the firm would be short lived. Where he landed after MINERVA was anyone’s guess. Devin wasn’t exactly a sought-after commodity in the industry, even if his dismissal from the FBI hadn’t been his fault. More of an unfortunate and irreversible technicality, compliments of his mother’s mental disintegration.

Being the son of a psychotically paranoid former CIA officer came with a few drawbacks. Losing his security clearance, a requirement to remain employed at the FBI, had turned out to be one of them. Going radioactive was another. A lot of good people at the bureau cashed in serious favors just to get him through the door for an interview. Quitting MINERVA this soon after joining would ensure he never worked in the counterintelligence industry again.

The best he could hope for was a corporate investigative security position on the other side of the country or private investigative work. If it came down to the latter, he’d go back to school and reinvent himself. Get a PhD in military history and teach at Annapolis. Or a law degree to specialize in representing foreign state clients accused of espionage. Really stick it to the FBI and Department of Justice.

He stifled a laugh, drawing a funny look from Chase. Who was he kidding? He wasn’t going anywhere.

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 4

Harvey Rudd fumbled for his phone, knocking it off the nightstand onto the hardwood floor, where it clattered and quickly came to rest, casting a dim glow on his side of the room. He’d just drifted asleep when it started buzzing. At least that was how it felt. Then again, as a tragically light sleeper, that was how it always felt.

Rudd woke several times a night for no explicable reason. Sometimes bolting upright in a panic. Most of the time just slowly opening his eyes, half expecting someone to be standing over him. He shrugged it off as a job hazard. His wife had suggested therapy. She was in the same line of work and slept like a baby.

He stretched an arm out to reach the phone on the floor, barely tapping it with the tips of his fingers. There was no way he’d be able to grab it without falling on his face. And he really needed to answer the call, or at the very least check the number.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, throwing the blankets off and sliding out of bed.

The call ended moments before Rudd could press “Accept.”

“Figures,” he said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed.