“No.” Force downed another shot, and the dog whined from the corner. “Roscoe, knock it off. No more booze for you.” The dog barked once and then snorted, obviously not happy at being left out of the drinking.

The elevator door dinged, and Wolfe instantly drew out his weapon.

“Jesus.” Force wiped his eyes. “Put your gun away. Nobody even knows we have this crappy office.”

Wolfe didn’t move.

Raider’s blood pressure rose slightly. Not enough to move his body, but the tension was there, nonetheless. Why was Wolfe always so on edge? Force and Wolfe definitely suffered from PTSD, and Raider guessed West did as well. Hell. Sometimes his nightmares made him wonder if he shouldn’t be seeing Nari for real. She was a specialist in many disorders, including PTSD.

The door opened, and Malcolm West loped inside with a platter of cookies in his hands. “Lose the gun, Wolfe.”

Wolfe calmly placed the gun to the side of the bottle. “Figured it was you.”

West set the platter down on the desk. “I don’t want to know your plan in case it wasn’t me.”

True enough. Raider took an oatmeal cookie and bit in, nearly humming at the pure taste. Delicious. He chewed, his mood lifting, but they had to get back to work soon. The idea of missing girls from Thailand was keeping him up at night. He wanted to tell Brigid about that part of the case, but Angus had been dead set against it, at least until they had some proof that Coonan was trafficking in humans. Raider chewed again, forcing himself to enjoy the calm moments. “How is Pippa?”

“Good.” West pulled out the chair at his desk, which abutted and faced Raider’s. “She’s baking and has a lot of work to do for several of her Internet clients. Something about tax time. I think she and Nari have lunch plans later in the week, if she’s ready to venture out into the world again. If not, they can talk on the phone. Whatever she needs works for me.” He looked at Force. “What’s my job on this op?”

“Backup for now,” Force said, munching contentedly on a sugar cookie. “Raider and Brigid will go undercover, and the rest of us will be ready if we have to go in.” He watched as Wolfe downed a third cookie. “You should weigh a thousand pounds.”

Wolfe patted his flat stomach. “Good genes, baby.” He took another cookie.

Force shook his head. “I need you to keep an eye on your reporter. Her records, which she was nice enough to share with you since you saved her ass last night, are good. Her research and contacts are impressive, but we need her out of the way for this. Is she angry I had somebody tip her off about the story?”