He gave a hand signal to the dog and veered off the trail, winding through a part of the forest he could navigate blindfolded. The scents of fresh pine and dead leaves commingled around him, centering his focus. He approached his solitary cabin from the side, where he could see front and back.

Roscoe kept at his side, his ears perked, fur still raised. The woods around them had gone silent, and a hint of anticipation threaded the breeze. Roscoe sat and stared at the cabin.

Yeah. Angus remained still. There was definitely somebody inside. He angled his head to study a black Range Rover parked on the south side of the cabin. They weren’t trying to stay hidden.

His shoulders relaxed and he waited.

Waiting was what he excelled at. Well, waiting and drinking. He’d become a master at downing a bottle of whiskey. Or several.

Ten minutes passed. Something rustled inside the cabin. Now he was just getting bored. So he gave Roscoe a hand signal.

Roscoe immediately barked three times.

The front door of the cabin opened, and two men strode out. Government men. Black suits, pressed shirts, polished shoes. The older one had a beard sprinkled with gray and the worn eyes of a guy who’d already seen too much.

The younger guy was a climber. One who stood like he was on his way to the top and had no problem stepping on bodies to get there. The shoes were expensive, the blue silk tie even more so.

Angus crossed his arms. “You’re trespassing, assholes.” Was it a bad sign he could sound and feel sober after the amount he’d imbibed all day? Yeah. Probably.

The older man watched the dog. The younger man kept his gaze on Angus.

The older guy was obviously the smarter of the two.

The younger guy smoothly reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew his wallet, and flipped it open. “Special Agent Thomas Rutherford of the HDD.” His voice was low and cultured. Confident. He was probably about Angus’s age—in his early thirties.

“You’re lost,” Angus returned evenly.

“No. We’re looking for you, FBI Special Agent Angus Force,” Rutherford said, his blue eyes cutting through the space between them.

“I’m retired.” A true statement, which had made nosing around lately a little difficult. However, obviously he’d shaken something loose, considering these guys were now standing on his front porch.

The older guy cocked his head. “That’s a tactical Czech German shepherd,” he said thoughtfully.

Angus lifted an eyebrow. “Nope. He’s a mutt. Found him last week in a gully.” Was he drunk, or did Roscoe send him an irritated canine look? Angus jerked his head at the older man. “You are?”

The guy also took out a wallet to flash an HDD badge. “HDD Special Agent Kurt Fields.” Rough, with an edge of the street—no culture there.