Thunder bellowed a distant warning while the wind rustled dried leaves along the lake path. Angus Force stumbled over an exposed tree root and somehow righted himself before falling on his ass. Again. The mud on his jeans proved he’d slipped at least once.
Roscoe snorted and kept scouting ahead, his furry nose close to the rocky trail. His snort held derision.
“Shut up,” Angus said, surprised his voice didn’t slur. He’d started the morning with his fishing pole and two bottles of Jack. Several hours later, it was getting dark, he had no fish, and the bottles were empty. The forest swirled around him, the trees dark and silent. He glared at his German shepherd. “Be nice or I won’t feed you.”
The dog didn’t pause in his explorations. His ears didn’t even twitch.
Angus sighed. “I should’ve left you with the FBI.” Of course, the dog had a slight problem with authority and would’ve been put down at some point. Angus brightened. They had that in common. “All right. I guess I’ll feed you.”
Roscoe stopped suddenly.
Angus nearly ran into him, pausing at the last second and slipping on the leaves. “What the hell?”
The fur on Roscoe’s back ruffled, and he stared straight ahead down the trail. He went deadly silent, his focus absolute.
Angus dropped his pole and the sack containing the bottles. Damn it. He hadn’t brought a gun this morning. He’d been more concerned with having enough alcohol to get through the day.
He gave a hand signal to the dog and veered off the trail, winding through a part of the forest he could navigate blindfolded. The scents of fresh pine and dead leaves commingled around him, centering his focus. He approached his solitary cabin from the side, where he could see front and back.
Roscoe kept at his side, his ears perked, fur still raised. The woods around them had gone silent, and a hint of anticipation threaded the breeze. Roscoe sat and stared at the cabin.
Yeah. Angus remained still. There was definitely somebody inside. He angled his head to study a black Range Rover parked on the south side of the cabin. They weren’t trying to stay hidden.
His shoulders relaxed and he waited.
Waiting was what he excelled at. Well, waiting and drinking. He’d become a master at downing a bottle of whiskey. Or several.
Ten minutes passed. Something rustled inside the cabin. Now he was just getting bored. So he gave Roscoe a hand signal.
Roscoe immediately barked three times.
The front door of the cabin opened, and two men strode out. Government men. Black suits, pressed shirts, polished shoes. The older one had a beard sprinkled with gray and the worn eyes of a guy who’d already seen too much.
The younger guy was a climber. One who stood like he was on his way to the top and had no problem stepping on bodies to get there. The shoes were expensive, the blue silk tie even more so.
Angus crossed his arms. “You’re trespassing, assholes.” Was it a bad sign he could sound and feel sober after the amount he’d imbibed all day? Yeah. Probably.
The older man watched the dog. The younger man kept his gaze on Angus.
The older guy was obviously the smarter of the two.
The younger guy smoothly reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew his wallet, and flipped it open. “Special Agent Thomas Rutherford of the HDD.” His voice was low and cultured. Confident. He was probably about Angus’s age—in his early thirties.
“You’re lost,” Angus returned evenly.
“No. We’re looking for you, FBI Special Agent Angus Force,” Rutherford said, his blue eyes cutting through the space between them.
“I’m retired.” A true statement, which had made nosing around lately a little difficult. However, obviously he’d shaken something loose, considering these guys were now standing on his front porch.
The older guy cocked his head. “That’s a tactical Czech German shepherd,” he said thoughtfully.
Angus lifted an eyebrow. “Nope. He’s a mutt. Found him last week in a gully.” Was he drunk, or did Roscoe send him an irritated canine look? Angus jerked his head at the older man. “You are?”
The guy also took out a wallet to flash an HDD badge. “HDD Special Agent Kurt Fields.” Rough, with an edge of the street—no culture there.
Angus crossed his arms. “There is nothing the Homeland Defense Department could possibly want with me.” The agency was an offshoot of Homeland Security; one of the offshoots the public didn’t really know about. The name alone made it easy to divert funds. “Go away.”