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“Montana is dead.”

Gideon Bishop froze, his fingers stilling over the keys of his laptop. Every muscle locked, as if a tango had slipped up behind him and jammed the muzzle of a gun barrel against the back of his skull. He started to ask Malcolm to repeat himself, but knew he’d heard correctly.

He leaned back in his chair, the tremble in his left hand his only outward reaction to the news. “When?”

“Two days ago. A professional hit. Two taps to the chest, one to the head at close range.”

Gideon clenched and relaxed his fist, eliminating the evidence that mocked his instinct to remain unmoved by unexpected developments. Anything less than cool, clear thinking and one hell of a poker face left room for mistakes, and mistakes got people killed. People like Montana.

Christ.

“How did you hear?” And why hadn’t his boss gotten in touch with him in the last two days? Peter had run their team before they’d disbanded and would have been notified the second one of his agents was taken out on home turf. Unless Peter hadn’t wanted him getting involved. Seeing as Gideon still hadn’t been approved to return to the field, it wouldn’t have surprised him.

“We met up every once and a while. Grabbed a few beers. He never called back when I got into town or showed up for the first round he always insists I’m buying.”

Typical Montana. The man had a habit of letting everyone drink themselves under the table before his turn to buy the next round. Malcolm and Montana weren’t the only two operatives to stay in touch since their team had broken up—right after their last mission had turned into a fucking nightmare when they were ordered to breach a paramilitary camp in Columbia for two hostages who, as it turned out, had already been executed.

“So I went by his place,” Malcolm continued. “His neighbor found him the day before. No one saw or heard anything.”

The ache in Gideon’s chest intensified and he sucked in a sharp breath, wishing like hell he hadn’t brushed off Montana’s last offer to come out to the West Coast for some R&R. He’d been so goddamned determined to forget what their last mission had cost them he’d fallen into the habit of avoiding his team for months, except Penny.

“The number I have for Penny is out of commission,” Malcolm added. “But she’d probably want to hear this from you anyway.”

Not surprising, considering how often Malcolm and Penny had butted heads in the two-and-a-half years they’d worked together. Penny never had much patience for anyone who felt women, no matter how highly trained, were a liability in the field. The pair had only come to blows a handful of times, almost always after Malcolm shot his mouth off and Penny sought to put the ass in his place.

And she usually did.

“I’ll take care of it,” Gideon said, the pressure on his lungs increasing. It wouldn’t be the first time he had to tell her that they’d lost one of their own, or the first time he had to keep her from falling apart. “Any leads yet?”

“If Peter knows something, he’s keeping it to himself at the moment, but I’ve got a contact looking into it.”

Since Malcolm had contacts in just about every field imaginable, and in every corner of the world, Gideon would have been surprised if he didn’t have someone already on it. He might have been an operative longer, but the ex-Marine’s networking skills had always been an asset on assignment.

“I’ll be in touch if I hear anything else. Watch your back, Gid.”

“You too.” He disconnected and closed his eyes.

He’d been planning to get the hell out of dodge in two days and do nothing but drink cold beer and sail around on the twenty-five-foot rig waiting for him in Baja. The trip was as much a vacation as a way of proving to himself—and to Peter—he was dealing with what happened in Columbia.

Two damn days.

He stared at the laptop, then remembering the flashing icon on his cell phone, he checked the screen and found a text message from Penny. If she had heard about Montana she would have called, not sent a text message. He scanned the contents, and his heart started to pound for a whole new reason. The gist of the first line easily summed up in two words.

Set up.

That didn’t confuse him nearly as much as the two random strings of numbers that followed. A code? He read the message over again, disbelieving the coincidence of Montana’s death and Penny’s sudden suspicion that their Columbian mission had been intentionally sabotaged.

He quickly punched in the number he’d memorized weeks ago. Penny didn’t answer. Normally he’d assume that meant she was doing a kayak tour. She’d complained more than once that dependable reception could be a real bitch. He checked the time on text message and realized she’d sent it over an hour earlier.

Whatever she’d stumbled across, she was clearly in over her head. Why else would she send him some kind of code without a way to interpret or decrypt it? Unless she worried she wouldn’t be able to pass the information on at a later date.

Damn it. He’d promised to keep an eye on her. How many times had Christian made him swear to watch out for Penny, his friend’s fervent plea fading to a ragged whisper and then to agonizing silence?

Guilt chewed at him for letting the both of them down.

Gideon shoved to his feet, his mind on how long it would take him to get to Penny as he turned away from the hellish glow of the city skyline. With every step he took, he realized the mission he thought he’d been done with months ago might not be done with him.

*

Nobody’s home.

Tate Calder managed to bite back the words as she scowled at her front door. Paint dripped from the brush in her hand, splattering fat drops on her kitchen floor.

She cursed under her breath, stooping to wipe up the paint with a damp rag. Was it really too much to ask that she be allowed to enjoy her vacation in peace? Apparently, she thought, when another impatient knock forced her to her feet. She tossed the paintbrush in the tray on the floor, prepared to get rid of whichever family member had decided to drop by unannounced.

She might have needed a break from the pressure the Tribunal was putting on her, but that didn’t make her week off any less of a holiday. A work-free holiday. Easier said than done when her family’s private investigation firm made separating work from her personal life nearly impossible.

Maybe she really should have reconsidered indulging in some tropical sunshine.

The second the thought crossed her mind, she dismissed it. As determined as she was to avoid the Tribunal members bent on recruiting her, she wasn’t that desperate. Not when vacations down south left the door open for vacation flings, and vacation flings made people do stupid, stupid things. She’d rather hand over her amulet and have her magic bound than leave herself wide open to that kind of trouble again.

And nothing said trouble like a witch with a tendency to be too spontaneous for her own good.

Relief swept through her when she spotted Donnie through the peephole, and she opened the door. The shy teen might enjoy flirting with her a little too much, but he’d come bearing cans of paint. Home delivery of supplies was one more perk of living on a small island with its own family-owned hardware store instead of a big chain. She considered the long commute to the city, complete with a thirty-minute ferry ride, a small sacrifice to pay to live on a quiet island with a population just over a thousand and a stunning sunrise to look forward to every morning.

Between giving her laptop to Eden for some much needed fine-tuning and listening to her cousin Finn grumble about her pending vacation—her first in four years—she’d forgotten to pick up ceiling paint with her other supplies.

“Were you expecting someone else?” At Tate’s frown, Donnie added, “You almost looked happy to see me.” He wheeled his cart inside and began stacking the cans of paint on the floor, his boyish smile bordering on hopeful.

At eighteen the kid already knew how to lay on the charm, which according to her neighbor Penny meant the teen was either a womanizer in the making—or gay. Since his gaze drifted now and then to her breasts, Tate was inclined to go with the former.

“Just looking to keep a low profile for a few days.” The lower the better as far as she was concerned. Sleeping late, painting, and lounging on her balcony with a good book all fit the bill. Working on her supposed apprenticeship did not.

“Well, I’ve got some extra time on my hands this week if you could use any help with the painting.”

The offer probably stemmed from his need to earn extra money for college in the fall, but the intent expression on his face suggested otherwise. Suggested a little too much.

Definitely not gay.

“How’s the latest modeling project coming along?” A far safer topic, one she hoped reminded the teen she was eight years older than he was. Seeing as Donnie’s grandmother, who lived in the same apartment building, regularly bragged about her grandson someday changing the world of car design, the subject served to fill the awkward silence while Donnie stacked the last of the supplies next to her ladder.

A flash of movement behind Donnie caught her attention, and she glared at the man suddenly standing outside on her balcony.

Donnie shrugged, oblivious to the newcomer. “I’m almost finished.” Sounding a little annoyed at the reminder of his hobby, he gestured to the paint. “I really don’t mind giving you hand. You were my last delivery today.” The confident look in his eyes made her suspect he’d somehow planned it that way.

She steered him toward the door, shooting Alex Hastings a warning look over her shoulder. So much for the Tribunal’s promise to give her some space. But just because he chose to drop in unannounced didn’t mean she had to talk to him.

“I think I can handle it,” she said to Donnie, digging a few bills from her purse.

The second he dragged the handcart into the hall, she partly closed the door to hide Alex from view. She really wasn’t in the mood to lie about where the man had come from, a position Alex had put her in one too many times in the recent weeks. She may have spent years resisting the idea of becoming part of the council that kept the witches and warlocks of the Calder, Lancaster and Hastings families in line, but she at least possessed some common sense when it came to her own teleporting ability.

Unlike some people.

“Thanks, Donnie.” She thrust the tip into his hand.

He opened his mouth to add something, but she only waved and shut the door.

Alex stood in the same spot, his arms crossed expectantly. She waved her hand at the curtains that framed the sliding glass door. “Clausus.”

The fabric swished together, hiding Alex from view. If luck was really on her side, he’d take the hint and leave her to enjoy her holidays in peace. For the coming week, the less excitement the better as far as she was concerned.

When a few minutes passed and he didn’t appear inside, she let herself relax a little, surveying the progress she’d made so far with no small amount of satisfaction. She should have repainted her apartment months ago, like before the warmer weather hit, she thought wryly, rubbing the back of her wrist across her forehead.

The smear of wet paint across her skin made her cringe.

Leaving the painting until she was certain Alex had moved on to annoy someone else, she flipped through the mail she’d forgotten to look at last night. An envelope for her neighbor caught Tate’s eye and, after checking the clock, she decided to see if Penny was home. The mailman frequently mixed up their mail, which was how they’d first met. Since then, they’d made a habit of sitting on each other’s balconies, enjoying a cold beer after work together. And she definitely owed Penny a cold one for at least trying to get rid of the virus on her laptop.

She pulled open her front door, her eyes on the letter she carried, not expecting to walk straight into a wall between her and Penny’s place. A warm, T-shirt-covered wall with just enough give to bounce off of when she plowed into it.

Two hands gripped her upper arms to keep her upright when she stumbled backward.

“Sorry…”

The rest of the apology died on Tate’s lips as she lifted her head and stared straight into achingly familiar green eyes. Eyes she only dared to dream about when the nights felt long and just a little bit lonely.

Her mouth worked, but no sound emerged as she struggled to breathe around the tangle of emotions wedged in her throat. Her heart pounded, each vicious thump making her increasingly light-headed. She pushed against the solid frame in front of her to test its strength as much as to prove it was real.

That he was real.

“Gideon?”

The fingers wrapped around her arms tightened in response, answering without him needing to say a word. His grip faltered, a faint tremor passing from him to her, or the other way around. She couldn’t be sure of anything—anything but how hard it was to wrap her mind around his being here. Close enough to look at, to touch.

The man she’d fallen in love with when she’d been barely twenty-two. The man who’d given her the longest, hottest, most incredible nights of her life. The same man who’d married her and walked away two weeks later without a backward glance.

So much for a perfectly uneventful vacation.