centering his focus. Soon he approached his lone cabin from the side, so he could see front and back.
Nothing.
Roscoe stayed at his side, his ears perked, his 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 in front of the cabin. So his visitor wasn’t trying to remain hidden.
Angus’s 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 man who’d already seen too much.
The younger guy was a climber. Even when he stood still it was clear he was on his way to the top and had no problem stepping on bodies to get there. His shoes were expensive and his 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 and withdrew his wallet to flip 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, he’d obviously 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 gulley.” 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 Fielding.” 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 the Department 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.”
Agent Rutherford set his hands in his expensive pockets in an obvious effort to appear harmless. “We’d like a few minutes of your time.”
“Too bad.” Angus wanted another drink. They stood between him and his bottles. That was a bad place to be.
Agent Fielding had deep dark eyes that looked all but hangdog. He finally looked away from Roscoe and focused on Angus. “We know you’ve been contacting witnesses from the Henry Wayne Lassiter cases.”
Heat flushed down Angus’s spine. “The last person who said that name to me got a fist in the face and a broken nose.”
“We’re aware of that fact,” Rutherford said. “FBI Special Agent in Charge Denby still has a bump on that nose.”
Yeah, well, his former boss had known better. Angus shrugged.
Agent Fielding tried again, his gruff voice matching his weary eyes. “We just want to talk.”
“No,” Angus said softly. “You’re here to warn me off the case. I was just playing around.” If the agents hadn’t shown up, he probably would’ve chalked up his theory that Lassiter was still alive to an overactive imagination. But now that they were here, he was inspired. Finally. “I know something is up, and I’m not going to stop until I know what.” He’d been a damn good tracker for the Behavioral Science Unit until that case, and then he’d fucking lost everything. Maybe even his mind. “A source reached out and told me Lassiter isn’t really dead.” Yeah, he’d shot Lassiter, and blood had sprayed all over. But he’d been shot as well, and he’d passed out before he’d been able to check the body for a pulse. Apparently his recent