ONE

      Adjusting his tie, Jordan Harris checked his reflection in the mirrored glass window of the coffee shop. His civilian haircut camouflaged the crescent scar looping around his left ear, and the extra volume of his suit jacket concealed his weapon. Satisfied his appearance was squared away, he pushed open the door.

      The comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee enveloped him in a soothing air-conditioned cloud. A half-dozen people were scattered throughout the colorful airy space. Four females, one toddler and three males. Soft perimeter. No credible threats. These days, no place was entirely safe. Not even Omaha, Nebraska.

      A woman with white-blond hair sat with her back to the door. A soft breeze ruffled the wavy chin-length strands, revealing vivid blue streaks hidden throughout the layers.

       Lucy Sutton.

      He stared, mesmerized for a moment, before returning to his senses. Trained in masking his emotions, Jordan worked for the National Security Agency. He was a modern-day spy in a digital world. He was good at his job, but there were times when he felt as though his life was comprised of nothing more than smoke and mirrors.

      Lucy turned, and he lifted his hand in greeting. They’d texted. He’d seen her picture plenty of times, and he assumed she’d looked him up on social media. Recognition softened her blue-gray eyes, and she waved him over.

      She wore a dark floral-print dress with an enveloping black sweater. By the time he maneuvered through the jumble of mismatched tables and chairs, she’d stood, the top of her head not quite clearing his shoulder. Her expressive storm-colored eyes took up most of the real estate on her pixie face.

      “Jordan Harris?” she asked, her voice slightly husky.

      “Lucy Sutton, right?” he replied, though he’d have recognized her anywhere.

      They exchanged the awkward, cursory greeting of two people who shared nothing beyond a mutual tragedy.

      “It’s good to finally meet you in person,” he said.

      A little over a year ago, he’d been assigned to an isolated intelligence recon mission overseas along with Lucy’s fiancé, Brandt Gallagher. During the endless hours of monotonous surveillance, Brandt had shared portions of Lucy’s emails to entertain them. Knowing they were far from home and missing the familiar, she’d transformed even the most mundane daily activities into amusing anecdotes.

      As the weeks passed, Jordan had looked forward to her witty observations and keen intelligence. Knowing that nothing would ever come of it, he’d even allowed himself to develop a harmless crush on her.

      “Nice to see you, too,” she said, her smile warm. “This must be quite a change of pace after being overseas.”

      “Not as much as you’d think.” He tucked his hands into his pockets. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about Brandt. I should have spoken to you earlier, but I couldn’t…”

      Lucy held up one hand, her eyes welling with tears. “Don’t apologize. They told me you’d been injured.” She studied his face, as though searching for any lingering signs of the explosion that had permanently altered his hairline. “They didn’t tell me how badly, though.”

      “Not bad.” He was heartily sick of the traumatic brain injury protocol, and he’d had enough neurological scans to map out his brain ten times over. “Fully recovered.”

      “Brandt promised me the job was rarely dangerous.”

      “Normally, it’s not. But we work in hostile places, and there’s always a risk.”

      “I miss him.” Her throat worked. “You knew him better than I ever did. You knew him longer. With his parents gone, they gave me his flag. It should have gone to—” Her voice broke.