“Really? Let’s just shoot off a flare and tell the thugs we’re here. Maybe they can put out the bread and vodka, give us a hearty welcome.”

“Colt. Seriously. Look at this place.” She held out her hands to the towering aspens, the smell of pine and woods and . . . safety.

Okay, so maybe he was just listening to his overactive imagination. But the last thing he wanted was to walk into another ambush, get his people—namely Tae—killed.

“Could you just . . . stay put?”

She made a face, folded her arms. “Fine. Go . . . do your soldiery thing.” She waved him forward.

He rolled his eyes. And again, wished he had a handgun. But he walked up to the house, climbed up to the deck, and peered into the window, doing his soldiery thing.

Floor-to-ceiling windows faced the lake, a tall stacked stone fireplace was dry and unused. An immaculate kitchen betrayed no sign of life.

He walked on the porch around to the back of the house, to the deck facing the lake.

The place was beautiful. Secluded. The perfect hideout. A few nearby houses edged the lakeshore, with a scattering of forest between them. On the far edge of the lake, the mountains crept in to form a zigzag horizon.

A grill, fire table, and Adirondack chairs sat on the deck. He turned, listened, the breeze hushing in the trees.

Then he smelled it—the faintest scent of charcoal, or maybe fire, from a recently used grill.

He walked over to the grill on Dr. Bella’s deck. Opened the lid. Dirty, the scent of burgers laced into the grate.

Someone had recently cooked and—

“Colt?”

No— He turned, sprinted for the drive, that feeling in his chest firing.

No, no—

Yes. He bit back a word when he spotted Tae, standing with her hands up.

In front of her was a man holding a lever-action Henry shotgun. Lean, dressed in a pair of jeans and a button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up. Midsixties, he looked like an old-time cop, maybe, with gray hair and keen eyes fixed on Tae.

He didn’t look like a Russian assassin. Still. “Hey!” Colt yelled. “Don’t hurt her!”

The man’s gaze skittered to Colt. “Stay there, son.”

Colt skidded to a stop.

Maybe a local, thinking they were trespassing.

He put out his hands. “We don’t want any trouble here. We’re just looking for a friend.”

“What friend?” the man asked, his voice low.

“Her name is Zoey. She was my colleague back in Seattle. This place”—Tae gestured toward the cabin—“belongs to a mutual friend.”

Colt took a step off the porch, and the man turned his weapon on him. Good. “We need to find her. It’s—”

“A global emergency,” Tae said.