Maggie's hands trembled as she drove out of town, but for once, she couldn't blame arthritis. The two strangers were following her. She knew it. Her worst fear had come true: they had found her baby girl. Silent tears slipped down her face as she unwittingly led her daughter's potential doom straight to her doorstep.
Meanwhile, in the passenger seat of the truck behind her, Andrew Jacobes came to with all the grace of a man waking up to find himself in a horror movie. One moment, he was blissfully unconscious. The next, he was lurching forward, his forehead colliding violently with the dashboard.
"Son of a—" He groaned, pressing a hand to the growing lump. "What the hell—"
A low chuckle came from beside him.
Andrew turned, only to see the massive form of Special Agent Michael James sitting behind the wheel, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. And something about that grin made Andrew's stomach knot uncomfortably.
"You look excited," Andrew muttered warily, rubbing his forehead.
Michael's fingers flexed against the steering wheel. "You don't get it, do you? We found it."
Andrew frowned. "Found what?"
Michael didn't respond. He simply nodded toward the road ahead, where Maggie's truck was kicking up snow as it sped toward a small cabin nestled deep in the woods.
Andrew swallowed hard. He had a bad feeling about this.
Angel crouched low in the forest, her breath steady as she tracked her prey. Her golden eyes locked onto the deer through the trees. She pulled back her bowstring, exhaled slowly, and let the arrow fly.
The deer dropped instantly. Angel rose to her feet and approached, placing a clawed hand on its flank. "Thank you for your sacrifice," she murmured before lifting the animal effortlessly over her shoulder. She was already thinking about how much food it would provide when she heard the distant hum of an approaching engine.
Her smile faded.
Maggie pulled into the driveway, her truck's headlights illuminating the small cottage. Her pulse pounded. She scanned the treeline, hoping to spot Angel, to warn her. But there was no time.
Her grip on the steering wheel tightened. This was happening too fast. They weren't ready.
The truck behind her rumbled to a stop, and before Maggie could react, Andrew was already stepping out, rubbing his arms against the cold. He turned toward her, concern flickering in his eyes.
"Here, let me help," he said, offering his hand.
Maggie hesitated before placing her frail fingers in his palm. He was young and kind-eyed. He didn't belong in this mess. "Why, aren't you sweet? Thank you, dearie."
Behind them, Michael emerged from the truck, his gaze sweeping the cabin. His fingers hovered near his gun as he moved forward. Maggie didn't miss it. The man was coiled tight, ready to pounce.
A loud crash echoed from inside the house.
Maggie paled. Andrew jumped, his eyes wide. But Michael? He reacted instantly. In one fluid motion, he drew his pistol and aimed it toward the hallway, his entire body tensed with anticipation.
Michael's pulse hammered against his ribs. Three years of dead ends. Three years of watching his partners die. Now, finally, the trail had led him here. If this was another bust, he didn't know if he could take it. His fingers twitched over the trigger—no more mistakes.
Maggie's heart stuttered. If Angel walked out right now, Michael would shoot first and ask questions later. She had to do something.
"Oh, calm down, lad," she said quickly, forcing a chuckle. "Just the wind. This old house has creaky bones, much like myself."
Lies. The house was sturdy as ever. That wasn't the wind.
Michael hesitated, but his gaze remained locked on the hallway. Slowly—very slowly—he lowered his gun.
Andrew, ever the peacemaker, cleared his throat. "Uh… Miss Maggie? Could I trouble you for a glass of water?"
Maggie exhaled shakily. "Of course, dearie. Kitchen's just down the hall on the left."
Andrew nodded and disappeared into the hallway, his heavy footsteps betraying his complete lack of stealth.
The kitchen was cozy and rustic, filled with old wooden cabinets and a giant double-door fridge. Andrew stepped inside, ready to grab a glass, when he noticed something odd.
A denim-clad rear end was sticking out of the fridge.
His brain stalled.
Whoever it was, they were rummaging around, seemingly unaware of his presence. Andrew stared. Then, as if in slow motion, the figure started to back up.
Andrew panicked.
Okay. So. Let's review. I've been kidnapped and dragged to Alaska. Was almost, potentially murdered by a bar full of lumberjack assassins. And now I've fainted in front of a woman who looks like she could bench press me. Solid first impression, Andrew. Really great work.
Before he could react, his vision went black, the world tilting beneath him. He managed a strangled gasp before collapsing onto the floor like a sack of potatoes.
Angel blinked.
There was a man on her kitchen floor.
A scrawny, twig-like man with too-big glasses and a look of absolute unconsciousness plastered across his freckled face.
She nudged him with her boot. Nothing.
"Hey, Mama?" she called, still staring at the crumpled stranger. "We got us a stray."
Maggie's voice floated in from the living room. "Oh really? Why don't you bring him out here, baby girl?"
Angel sighed. Yeah, that's what she was afraid of.
Adjusting her grip, she hoisted Andrew up as if he weighed nothing. He was light. Too light. Poor thing probably spent way too much time playing video games or whatever nerdy things guys like him did.
One thought nagged at the back of Angel's mind as she carried Andrew toward the living room.
Who was this guy, and why was he in her house?
Michael's gaze locked onto her as she carried him into the living room. His pupils dilated, jaw tightening.
Michael had seen things. Things that didn't belong on Earth. But nothing quite like this. The way she moved and her golden eyes studied the room—she wasn't just different. She was the real deal. He had his proof.
And proof needed to be contained.