Money Shot

by Susan Sey

  Goose closed her eyes. “Come on, Peter. Have you read this guy’s file? He’s an ex–Navy SEAL sniper. I’m pretty sure he’s one of the good guys.”

  “SEALs don’t generally just resign,” Harris said. “Particularly not to become park rangers. They get that far into the game and they play until their knees give out or their luck does.”

  Goose frowned. The man she’d met today was alive and well—more than Goose would have liked, actually—so his luck had clearly held out. “Did I miss the part of his dossier that mentioned a medical discharge?”

  “Nope. Our boy went the less conventional third route.”

  “Which is?”

  “Resigning in disgust over his superiors’ actions, orders and opinions.”

  “Ah. I can see that, actually.”

  “Now put that together with the fact that a handful of supernotes have turned up at the Federal Reserve bank here in Minneapolis over the summer. Supernotes that were traced to a half-dozen casinos scattered along the North Shore of Superior.”

  “Interesting,” Goose said, and it was. Since the advent of cheap, good-quality color printers and scanners, Goose—along with nearly every other agent specializing in anticounterfeiting—had spent a lot of time busting enterprising teenagers trying to Photoshop fives and tens into fifties and hundreds. Supernotes, however, were a whole different beast. Supernotes were virtually indistinguishable from genuine currency, and producing them was no joke. It usually required the resources of an entire government—most recently that of North Korea—and the services of a virtuoso counterfeiter. The kind of counterfeiter an agent with any ambition would give her eyeteeth to bust.

  “Churning out supernotes takes lot of infrastructure,” she observed carefully. “Offset intaglio printing presses, reverse-engineered starch-free paper, constant upgrades to the security strips, the color-shifting ink, the microprinting. Nobody up here could keep that kind of operation a secret. This place is ridiculously tiny.”

  “We’re not looking at Mishkwa as the point of origin. We’re looking at it more as a point of entry. You have to admit it’s ideal. A remote, largely uncontrolled international border.”

  Goose didn’t like where this was going, but she didn’t hesitate to connect the dots. “So we have Ranger Guthrie, a guy with an established history of thinking and acting outside normal civilian parameters who might have good reason to want to screw his government.” She closed her eyes as she rolled into the inevitable conclusion. “Who also happens to live in a prime location to do so.”

  “Have I mentioned today that I value you as an employee?”

  “Why haven’t we moved on this before?” She opened her eyes to glare out the window at the fat white flakes dancing on the frigid wind. “Why couldn’t I have checked this out in, say, July?”

  “Because in July you weren’t going off on wet-behind-the-ears rookies with more testosterone than brains.”

  “I’m—” Fine. She’d planned to say “fine,” but she wasn’t. The leftover fury at Snow still choked her and the desire Rush had refused to help her slake this afternoon still burned with an inconvenient persistence. Her boss might have a point there. She cleared her throat in lieu of finishing her sentence.

  “Plus, in July this guy was a highly decorated military vet with a chestful of medals and the glowing praise of his ex–commanding officers. Now, however, he’s a crackpot who wants to stab the sitting governor with a flaming pitchfork.”

  “I don’t know if I can play the pitchfork angle as a credible threat,” Goose said carefully. “The guy strikes me as more of a double-tap-to-the-forehead man.”

  “The Secret Service doesn’t make assumptions about which threats are credible. We find out for sure.” Harris indulged in a significant pause. “You’ll want to be very thorough in your investigation, I imagine. Take your time. People with pitchforks are nothing to sneeze at. Remember what a truckload of fertilizer did in Oklahoma City.”

  “Right,” Goose said, resigned. As if she needed a reminder about how explosive her situation was. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  THE NEXT morning found Goose up with the sun. Which wasn’t so surprising, considering she hadn’t slept worth a damn. Her stupid, analytical brain wouldn’t let go of a number of things—supernotes, a wildly arousing kiss, the shocking rejection that had followed it.

  She’d finally given up on sleep around sunrise. She’d dressed as quietly as possible, thinking to sneak out before Rush woke. But upon tiptoeing into the tiny kitchenette, she’d found a note on the counter. Clearing deadfall from the ridge trail. Go back to sleep.

  She snorted out a laugh in spite of herself. Apparently her version of quiet and Rush’s version of quiet were several decibels apart. That was what she got for trying to sneak around an ex-SEAL. She took a moment to wonder if there was actually any such thing as ex when a guy had had the kind of training Rush had. Probably not. When she considered all the years he had to have spent perfecting his craft—

  She caught herself up short and pulled the thought out of her head with deliberate firmness. When Rush was in her head, she couldn’t think. She could only feel. Want. Crave.

  Damn it. She knuckled tired eyes. She wasn’t going there. She’d offered him a nice, civilized liaison, and he’d rejected it. Rejected her. End of story.

  Or it should have been. But while he had passed on her offer, he’d also made her a counteroffer. A surprising but very tempting counteroffer that she’d spent half the night considering, though she knew damn well she wouldn’t accept it. Couldn’t, even if she wanted to.

  First off, he was a suspect. Not that she believed for a minute that a guy as inherently honest as Rush was running supernotes. But with lust still sliding warm and sneaky into her blood at the memory of his wicked, no-holds-barred kiss, it was nice to have an official reason to say no. But even if she didn’t, her answer would still be the same. It had to be. Because he’d made it clear that he wasn’t after her body. Not only her body, anyway.

  He wanted her soul, too.

  But Goose’s soul was in no condition for sale or barter, so it didn’t matter what or how much she wanted. What he wanted she didn’t have. What she wanted, he wouldn’t give. And that was the end of the story, at least until she escaped this damn island.

  And the only way to do that was to finish her job here. Do it well, do it quickly and get back to reality before she did something irretrievably stupid. Like kiss him again.

  Coffee, she thought hastily when her brain veered into a high-def replay of yesterday’s kiss. A big, hot slap of caffeinated good-morning, that was what she needed. She rummaged around the tiny kitchen until the air went warm and promising with the smell of brewing coffee. Then she strapped on her snowshoes and headed for Lila’s to start doing her damn job.

  It occurred to her after about thirty minutes of hard hiking that the sun was barely up. She had no idea what she could do in South Harbor to kill the sizable gap between now and polite visiting hours, so she was relieved to see the “Open” sign aglow in the tea-shop window as she approached.

  Sleigh bells jangled as she entered the little shop. It was like walking face-first into a cloud of Christmas, she thought, all warm cinnamon, ground cloves and fresh nutmeg.

  She snorted. Like she had any idea what nutmeg smelled like, fresh or otherwise. She doubted she’d recognize a nutmeg if it skipped up and French-kissed her. Her own family had stopped celebrating anything the year she’d turned sixteen. Even before that, Goose hadn’t been at the heart of any tradition her mother deemed important. So even if genuine nutmeg had come into play somehow, Goose wouldn’t have known about it.

  “Agent di Guzman!” Lila came around the counter, wiping her hands on a crisp white apron. “How lovely to see you! Are you in the market for a cup of tea?”

  “Whatever you’ve got brewing would be great.” Goose’s stomach grumbled something about how coffee didn’t actually count as breakfast, and she glanced toward Yarrow. The gir
l was filling the glass case near the register with an assortment of baked goods that likely accounted for the Christmas-scented air. “I wouldn’t say no to one of those Danish-looking things, either.”

  Lila beamed. “Smart girl. I recommend the cherry cheese.”

  “I’ll take it. Can I get a minute of your time to go with it?”

  Lila gave her a sharp look but she nodded. “Have a seat at the counter. Yarrow will get you that Danish while I see to the tea. It’ll be just a minute while it steeps.”

  “Thanks.” Goose seated herself on a stool near the register while Lila disappeared into the kitchen. She watched Yarrow plop pastries onto big trays and knock them into the display case like she was racking pool balls.

  “So,” she said. “You’re Rush’s cousin?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You two close?”

  “Sure.” Yarrow rolled a bunch of glazed doughnut holes willy-nilly onto a tray. “We have sleepovers every other Saturday. We talk about boys, paint each other’s toenails, make prank calls. It’s a riot.”

  Goose gave herself a mental slap. Cripes, pay attention, she thought. She was usually better at this part of her job. Reading people, figuring out how they saw themselves and how they wanted her to see them. It was the key to a successful interview, and it was a particular strength of hers. Not that an impartial observer of the last, oh, say, twenty-four hours would know it.

  “It sucks that bad, huh?”

  Yarrow didn’t glance up, just shifted her less-than-tender mercies to some hapless bagels. “Yes.”

  Goose lifted a brow. “You don’t want to narrow it down at all? Specify what exactly I’m referring to before you agree that it sucks?”

  “Not unless you’re completely disoriented. Are you?”

  “Disoriented?”

  “Yes. As in unaware of your location in space and time?”

  “We’re on Mishkwa Island in Lake Superior,” Goose offered. “Maybe five miles from the Minnesota-Canada border? It’s December.”

  “Very good.” Yarrow shoved the bagels into the case with a thud. “Now add in the fact that I’m sentenced to at least two more years here, then ask yourself if there’s any portion of my life you think might not suck.” She gave Goose a scathing glance. “Or, I’m sorry, were you trying to open a discussion as to the level of suckage I’ve achieved in various arenas? Because I could talk for a while about that, if you want.”

  Goose suppressed a smile. This kid might grow on her. “Two years, huh? What happens in two years?”

  “I turn eighteen.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I’m officially an adult and can get the hell out of Dodge.”

  “But until then?”

  “Until then, I’m Grandma Lila’s hired help.”

  “And the only teenage girl on-island?”

  “You’re a sharp one, Agent Smiley Face. Is that why they pay you the big bucks?”

  She wants to be a victim, Goose thought. Has been, probably. Kids didn’t grow this kind of hard, cynical shell without help. But there was something else, too. A bleak echo of something more than mere anger tucked under that tough veneer. Something that tugged at her in spite of the smart mouth and the unrelenting snark.

  “Well, you know what they say.” Goose smiled easily. “If you want to get rich, work for the government.”

  Yarrow snorted but she reached behind her for a pretty china dish and plated up a doughnut. She dropped it on the counter in front of Goose.

  Goose arched a brow. “I thought I was getting the Danish.”

  “Cops like doughnuts.”

  “Do I look like a cop to you?”

  Yarrow gave her a narrow once-over, from her perfectly straightened hair to the Italian leather flats she’d carried along in her backpack for indoor use. “You have decent shoes, but otherwise? Yeah. You do. No Danish for you, po-po.”

  Goose was still debating whether to be offended or amused when the bells at the door jingled. A gust of icy wind sliced through the pie-scented air, and she turned to see Einar saunter into the shop, all wind-tossed curls and behold-me-ladies smirk.

  Chapter 7

  “WELL, IF this isn’t a vision of loveliness,” he said as he helped himself to the stool beside Goose’s. “Good morning, girls.”

  “Hey, Einar.” Yarrow went back to filling the display case with a studied offhandedness that had Goose looking sharply in her direction. The kid’s eyes might be elsewhere, but Goose felt her attention lock in on Einar like a lightning strike. She half expected to smell burned ozone. “You flying out this morning?”

  “Yep. Any chance I can get one of those Danishes before I go?”

  Yarrow plated up one of the beautifully gooey cheese Danishes Goose was starting to desire with an intensity second only to her craving for Rush. What was it about this place and her appetites? she wondered as Yarrow slid the pastry under Einar’s nose.

  “You,” he announced as he closed his eyes and inhaled buttery Danish fumes, “are an angel.”

  Yarrow’s mouth sneered but her eyes melted. “Boys.” She shook her head at Goose. “They’re such simple creatures.”

  Einar took a huge bite of Danish. Goose treated herself to a nibble of her perfectly adequate doughnut. “There’s something to be said for simplicity,” he mumbled happily while he chewed. Goose thought of Rush and envied Einar a desire so easily and safely sated.

  He flicked his amused gaze to Goose as he touched a napkin to his lips. “So, Agent di Guzman. I imagine it’s pretty clear what I’m doing here. But what brings you to the tea shop at this hour?”

  Goose looked at Yarrow, who looked back with lifted brows. “Nothing much. Just, you know, grilling your entire family about your cousin’s more criminal inclinations.”

  Einar shot a quick look at Yarrow. “I thought your parents got all the charges against you dropped.”

  “They did.” Yarrow held his gaze, steadfastly refusing to look at Goose, though her cheeks pinked and her lips flattened. “I think Agent Smiley Face here is talking about your other cousin.”

  Einar turned back to Goose while she made a mental note to have a look at little Yarrow’s record later. Underaged mules were a staple of the illegal import business, and just because Rush wasn’t playing reindeer games on Mishkwa didn’t mean nobody was.

  “You’re investigating Rush?” he asked, his eyes big and shocked.

  “That’s the one.” She gave him a confiding smile, the kind guys like Einar ate up. She made solid eye contact, really leaned into it. “Do you have any insight you’d like to share with the Secret Service regarding the likelihood that Ranger Guthrie might be planning to stab the sitting governor with a flaming pitchfork?”

  Einar was still lapping up the eye contact when Lila bustled back through the swinging door from the kitchen with a fat teapot in one hand and a cup-and-saucer combo in the other. She set the pot and the cup down on the counter and said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Rush is not going to stab anybody.”

  “I don’t know, Lila,” Einar said slowly, a wicked gleam dancing in his pretty blue eyes. “He is trained for that kind of thing.”

  “And all his jokes are about shooting people.” Yarrow tipped her head. “To be fair, though, when I say ‘all his jokes,’ I mean the one joke he’s told since I’ve been on-island.” She paused. “And I’m not sure he was entirely aware he was being funny, either.”

  “Plus, it wasn’t about pitchforks.” Lila swatted Yarrow’s shoulder and shifted her glare to encompass Einar, too. “This is nothing to laugh about, you two. Your cousin has made tremendous progress these past eighteen months or so.” She turned back to Goose. “Rush is no more dangerous than you or I.”

  “Except for the fact that he is.” Einar shrugged at Lila’s exasperated stare. “What? The guy walks around with a loaded handgun in his jacket pocket, Lila. He’s constitutionally incapable of sitting with his back to the door, and he draws down on anybody who happens to catch him
off guard.”

  “Which you delight in doing.”

  “Well. It’s a long winter. Everybody needs a hobby.” A smirk crawled across Einar’s handsome face that Goose understood was meant to be charming and mischievous. The strength of her urge to slap it all the way to the mainland was a sharp reminder that her self-control wasn’t what it used to be. Indulging her impulse to deliver impromptu etiquette lessons to handsome pricks was what had landed her in this pretty mess to begin with.

  “You’re just like your mother sometimes,” Lila told him. The laughter died out of Einar’s eyes with an abruptness that had Goose wondering about the accessibility of the Glock in her backpack. “A little empathy wouldn’t go amiss here, Einar.”

  Lila turned to Goose. “Rush is a soldier, Agent di Guzman, and as such has a certain facility with the uglier aspects of this world. If we’re safe enough to judge him for it, it’s only because he—and men like him—have battled back the darkness to the point that the rest of us can question its existence.”

  “He’s not a soldier anymore, though, is he?” Goose asked.

  “Not by profession, no. He left the military almost two years ago.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know what happened exactly, but there was an incident of some sort. He wasn’t physically hurt, but it damaged him all the same. He lost his way, and he came here to find it again. To heal.”

  Einar rolled his eyes. “Lila, please. Not the prodigal son thing again.”

  Lila shot him a speaking look. “He came home. And he’s getting better.” She turned to Goose. “He is better. Whatever you’re concerned he might have done, he didn’t.”

  “Home.” Einar gave a dismissive snort. “If Mishkwa meant crap to him, he wouldn’t have walked away from it when he was eighteen. He definitely wouldn’t have stayed away for the next twelve years without so much as the occasional postcard. He’s been back on-island for nearly two years, Lila, and you haven’t gotten him to one single service.” Einar shook his head. “Rush would be the first one to tell you you’re giving him too much credit here.”