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“Of him. Of wanting him. Of letting him close enough to hurt me.”

Eden’s expression turned distant, and Elena knew she was remembering her own past—the partner who’d shot her three times and left her to die.

“Love is terrifying. It gives someone the power to destroy you. But Elena? It also gives you a reason to survive anything. To fight harder. To be braver than you knew you could be.” She met Elena’s eyes. “Brock Carter is one of the good ones. And he’s been waiting for you for a long time. Don’t make him wait forever.”

Across the street, they heard raised voices—Brock’s deep rumble cutting through the night air. Eden checked her watch. “I’d say Magnum’s being properly motivated.”

Elena smiled despite everything. “Think things have gotten violent yet?”

“Probably.” Eden grinned. “He does love his dramatic gestures.”

Chapter Seven

“Magnum, long time no see,” Brock greeted the husky Slovenian as they entered the private lounge.

The man sat at the end of a polished conference table, shoveling small sandwiches into his mouth with the efficiency of someone who rarely saw such luxury. He was shaped like a potato, his greasy hair slicked to one side in a futile attempt to hide the growing bald spot. The front of his wrinkled white shirt bore the evidence of his meal—crumbs and what looked like a generous dab of mustard.

“Zdravo, Lieutenant Carter. Who’s your friend?” Magnum’s eyes, small and dark in his doughy face, flicked to Nate with obvious wariness.

“I’m Nate Locke,” Nate said, his voice pleasant enough. But there was steel beneath the casual tone. “You know who I am?”

Magnum’s face paled slightly, the sandwich in his hand lowering to the table. “You’re the reason I’m under Atticus Cameron’s thumb. What happened to free enterprise?”

“There’s no such thing as free enterprise when you align yourself with terrorists,” Nate said, his smile turning cold. “At least we left you alive. We don’t get a thank you for that?”

Magnum muttered something in Slovenian that didn’t sound complimentary.

“Maybe if we have time later,” Nate said, standing a little taller. Magnum’s eyes widened and he pressed back in his chair, clearly remembering exactly who and what Nate Locke was capable of. “I suggest we move on. We have places to be.”

“You got the docs?” Brock asked, his patience already wearing thin.

Two slick-covered booklets slipped through Magnum’s fingers and slid across the polished surface. Each one was a United States passport. Brock snatched them up and flipped them open, examining the contents. The work was immaculate—excellent forgeries with their photos, the right stamps and visas.

Then he saw the names.

“Hilter?” Brock’s voice went dangerously quiet. “What is this? A joke?”

He threw the documents back at Magnum. They bounced off his barrel chest and flopped onto the floor.

“I thought the name Smith was…unimaginative.” Magnum’s smile was sly, and he briefly flashed a silver incisor as he bent to retrieve the passports. “Hilter has character.”

“I can’t use these.” Brock began to pace around the small but luxurious private lounge, his hands flexing at his sides. Tension radiated from him in waves, and even Nate took a step back, giving him room to move. “Our cover is already being built. How long will it take to fix them?”

“You’ll pay for these and new ones.” Magnum leaned back in his chair with infuriating smugness.

“How long?” Brock’s voice remained low, but anger simmered beneath the surface like magma waiting to erupt.

“Eight to ten hours.” Magnum smacked his lips in arrogance.

“Try again,” Nate said, his hand moving casually to rest on the knife at his boot.

“Not sure why you’re so upset,” Magnum said, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s Hilter, not Hitler. Don’t you see the difference? One little letter.”

Brock tossed the two passports back toward him. They skidded across the table. “You’ve got one hour to make this right.”

“Not going to happen. It’ll take me that long just to get onto the interstate and back to my workshop.” Magnum settled more comfortably in his chair, seeming to enjoy having the upper hand. “You want new ones, then you can wait until I get them done. Eight to ten hours. Take it or leave it.”

In one fluid motion, Brock slapped the complimentary tray of finger foods off the counter. Sandwiches and fruit scattered across the expensive carpet. He moved in fast, yanking Magnum out of his chair by the shirt collar and slamming him against the wall hard enough to rattle the framed artwork.