Brigid gulped down panic, struggling to secure her seat belt. “I don’t understand. Why in the hell were we sent to that restaurant?”

Raider set the confiscated gun between them and maneuvered around traffic. “I have a feeling our mission went according to plan.” His hands were light on the steering wheel, but his voice held a tone she couldn’t identify. She scrutinized him. He looked as if he’d been out for a relaxing lunch with a friend and hadn’t probably just put two guys—two tough guys—in the hospital for a week.

Just who was Raider Tanaka?

* * *

After a silent plane ride back to DC, where Raider read a series of HDD reports and refused to answer any of Brigid’s questions, especially about the darn business card, they finally ended up at their headquarters just as night began to fall. As usual, the dilapidated elevator hitched at the bottom floor and then remained quiet.

“I hate this thing.” Raider smacked his palm against the door. “Open, darn it.”

The door shuddered open.

Amusement bubbled through the unease in Brigid. “You’re magic.”

He looked over his shoulder. “You have no idea, Irish.” Then he crossed into the small, dimly lit vestibule of the basement offices.

Had he just flirted with her? For Pete’s sake. She moved out of the claustrophobic space on wobbly legs. This day was overwhelming on way too many levels. Enough of that silliness. Reaching the wide-open room, she sighed. A coat of fresh paint had brightened the office a bit, but the myriad of desks were still old and scarred, and the overhead lights old, yellow, and buzzing. They’d arranged four desks in a pod belonging to Raider and his colleagues, Malcolm West and Clarence Wolfe. The fourth was empty so far.

Raider looked down at the cracked concrete floor and shook his head.

“We’re supposed to paint that next,” Brigid said, coming up on his side. Wasn’t that the plan? Though she probably wouldn’t be left in place that long. She shivered and tried to stay in the moment. “I think there’s art coming, or screens that show outside scenes.” The basement headquarters were a step down from depressing, even with the fresh paint. This evening, the big room was eerily silent.

Three doors in the far wall led to an office and two conference rooms, while one more door, a closet for the shrink, was situated to the west.

A German shepherd padded out of the far office, munching contentedly on something bright red. It coated his mouth and stained the light fur around his chin.

“Roscoe,” Brigid breathed, her entire body finally relaxing. Animals and computer code, she knew. It was people who threw her.