“Shut up,” Angus said, surprised his voice didn’t slur. He’d started the morning with his fishing pole and two bottles of Jack. Now it was getting dark, he had no fish, and the bottles were empty. The forest swirled around him, the trees dark and silent. He glared at his German shepherd. “Be nice or I won’t feed you.”

The dog didn’t pause in his explorations. His ears didn’t even twitch.

Angus sighed. “I should’ve left you with the FBI.” Of course, the dog had a slight problem with authority and probably would’ve been put down at some point. Angus brightened. They had that in common. “All right. I guess I’ll feed you.”

Roscoe stopped suddenly.

Angus nearly ran into him, swerving at the last second and slipping on the leaves. “What the hell?”

The fur on Roscoe’s back stood up, and he stared straight ahead down the trail. He went deadly silent, his focus absolute.

Angus dropped his pole and the sack containing the bottles. Damn it. He hadn’t brought a gun. Of course, he’d been more concerned about having enough alcohol to get through the day.

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. Soon he approached his lone cabin from the side, so he could see front and back.

Nothing.

Roscoe stayed at his side, his ears perked, his 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 in front of the cabin. So his visitor wasn’t trying to remain hidden.

Angus’s 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 man who’d already seen too much.

The younger guy was a climber. Even when he stood still it was clear he was on his way to the top and had no problem stepping on bodies to get there. His shoes were expensive and his 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.