Say Goodbye (Romantic Suspense #25) by Karen Rose

            “If not many artists would do the tattoo,” Mercy said, “do you know who would?”

            “I have a few ideas,” was all Croft would say as she put her sketchbook into her briefcase and locked it. “Agent Hunter, let’s make sure Miss Barkley made it home all right, and then you can drop me off at the field office so I can get my car.”

            Mercy frowned and Tom wanted to sigh. This was an example of information civilians didn’t need to have, so Croft was right not to share. He also knew Mercy would be looking before he and Croft had left the Sokolovs’ driveway.

            It wasn’t Mercy that was bothering him, though. It was Rafe. He looked like he wanted to say something but was holding his tongue. Maybe because Croft was there. Or Rodriguez.

            Or even me. Tom would ask him later. Once he knew that Liza was all right, he’d call Rafe. And then he’d get to work doing what he did best—hacking. He still had Cameron Cook’s e-mail to trace.

            Karl followed them to the door, tugging on Tom’s sleeve to hold him back when Croft jogged to the Bureau’s SUV.

            “Talk to her, Tom,” Karl said quietly.

            “I talk to Agent Croft all the time,” Tom said lightly, but he knew what Karl meant.

            Karl looked disappointed with him. “Liza’s become important to us. Her happiness is important. It should be to you, too.”

            Tom sighed. “Of course it is. Something’s been bothering her for a while now, but I’ve let her be. I figured she’d tell me when she was ready, but I’ll push harder.”

            Karl shook his head. “See that you do.”





SIX



YUBA CITY, CALIFORNIA

            WEDNESDAY, MAY 24, 12:55 P.M.





DJ pulled the truck around the back of his house, into the detached garage. He wanted a hot shower, a decent meal, and a nap, in that order.

            Forcing himself to climb from the cab, he retrieved the guitar case that held his rifle from the floorboard, then removed the electrician signs from the doors and the license plate from the holder and stuck them in his backpack. Pulling the garage door down, he made sure it was locked.

            His regular printer would be fine to make a new magnetic sign, but he’d use his 3D printer to produce a license plate that could fool cops with even the sharpest eyes. His 3D printer had been dirt cheap, and even if it hadn’t been, he considered it a necessary business expense. Staying one step in front of the cops really was too easy with the right technology.

            Again, Kowalski had taught him well, guiding him to buy the best tech for the best price. Printing his boss’s fake plates had been one of his first jobs when he’d joined up with Kowalski’s crew. Now he could do it for himself practically in his sleep.

            But first he had to actually get some sleep. He’d thought he was mostly recovered from getting shot, but taking the stairs up to that roof and down again had left him fatigued.

            “Johnny!” a trembly voice called out.

            DJ bit back a curse. Damn meddling woman. He wished he’d bought a house farther out in the country. That woman next door was the nosiest gossip.

            He glanced at her over the fence between their properties. “Mrs. Ellis.”

            Minnie Ellis was about seventy-five years old and resembled a prune. She was a pain in his ass, but she made amazing pies and she liked to bake for him, so he made nice.

            “It’s been a while since we’ve seen you,” she said, concerned. “I was worried.”

            He’d been away for more than a month, courtesy of Mercy Callahan’s friends. “I had a family thing. I’m so sorry. I should have told you. But everything’s fine now.”

            Like hell he would have told her anything.

            “Your grass is getting high,” she noted. “You want my grandson to mow it for you?”

            “Maybe when I go out of town again.” Mrs. Ellis thought he was a traveling electronics salesman and that the boxes she’d seen him bringing into his house were filled with inventory.

            In reality, the boxes in his basement were filled with vacuum-packed weed, none from Eden. DJ had learned to diversify. He rented the house next door and a third house in the next neighborhood, both converted into grow houses. Tons of dirt covered the old 1970s linoleum and he’d added another set of fuses on both houses to carry the current for the grow lamps inside.