Hidden Truth

Wary of each other’s secrets

Neither knows the other is undercover.

Rancher Trevor Martin has as many dangerous secrets as his housekeeper, Sabrina Parker. She’s undercover FBI, investigating whether Trevor is a gunrunning terrorist. She doesn’t know he’s CIA. But living under the same roof and in close proximity becomes a liability. Trust is uncertain, but attraction is undeniable. When they become embroiled in a series of grisly murders, will their secrets cost them their lives in the end?

DANICA WINTERS is a multiple award-winning, bestselling author who writes books that grip readers with their ability to drive emotion through suspense and occasionally a touch of magic. When she’s not working, she can be found in the wilds of Montana, testing her patience while she tries to hone her skills at various crafts—quilting, pottery and painting are not her areas of expertise. She believes the cup is neither half-full nor half-empty, but it better be filled with wine. Visit her website at danicawinters.net

Also by Danica Winters

Ms Calculation

Mr Serious

Mr Taken

Smoke and Ashes

Dust Up with the Detective

Wild Montana

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Hidden Truth

Danica Winters

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09463-4

HIDDEN TRUTH

© 2019 Danica Winters

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Note to Readers

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To Mac, thank you for teaching me the meaning

of true love.

Acknowledgements

This series wouldn’t have been possible without a great

team of people, including my #1k1hr friends, Jill

Marsal and the editors at Mills & Boon—thank you for

all your hard work.

Also, thank you to my readers. You keep me writing.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

About the Publisher

Prologue

She clicked open the tabs of the gun case, exposing the M24 sniper rifle. It was a thing of beauty. Even without firing a single round from this particular gun, Trish Martin could recall the precise feel of pulling the trigger, smelling the spent powder and watching as her enemies fell to their knees.

There was no greater feeling in the world than a justified kill. The men standing around her, those dealing in death, would be easy to strip from this earth.

She ran her fingers down the synthetic stock, taking in the slight imperfections on the newly manufactured gun. This one would be for a different kind of kill, a long-term tactical assault, rather than a one-and-done straight to the head.

Some people were only too happy to judge her and her family for the work they did, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care that she was out there protecting the ones who didn’t appreciate it right alongside the ones who did. She was a hunter, a predator, who fought for her territory and for life as she knew it.

The shroud of darkness wormed its way around her as she waited for the Bozkurtlar, or what some people called the Gray Wolves. To call them a Turkish crime syndicate was an understatement. No, they were so much more.

They were the reason she and her family were here in Adana, the reason she couldn’t sleep at night, and the reason there were so many unmarked graves scattered around the Turkish hillsides. Their name suited them. No matter where in the world they were, death and mayhem followed.

That would all end soon.

She heard the sound of footsteps on the concrete floor and the clink of the metal door closing behind the group. From the sound, there had to be at least ten men. If anything went wrong…

She looked around her. They had made a mistake in agreeing to meet them in this shell of a warehouse. There weren’t nearly enough hiding places or corners where she could find cover if she needed to. And there wasn’t anywhere for her brothers to hide within the building. Without a doubt, the group’s intention had been to isolate her and to strip her of any way to double-cross them.

“Ms. Stone,” a man with a thick Turkish accent said from behind her. “I hope you aren’t planning on brandishing that weapon. We’re here to buy new, not used.”

She stood up to face Fenrisulfr Bayural. He was nearly a foot shorter than her, but what he lacked in height, he made up for in his stance. When he stared at her, his golden-hued eyes took on the darkness that surrounded them, making her instinctively twitch for the gun at her side.

She stared down at him, forcing herself to act far more confident and self-assured than she felt in his presence. He couldn’t sense weakness in her. If he did, he and the bodyguards around him would certainly pounce. When it came to running guns, buyers tended to get skittish.

Two years ago, in Egypt, one of her team’s sting operations had ended with a shipment of American weapons falling into the wrong hands—and the men on her team being murdered. They were part of the reason she had ended up here—men, especially those with a Napoleon complex, tended to be more than happy to play nice with a hot brunette. But she’d be crazy to think her looks would keep this from becoming a firefight.

“We sell nothing but the best. You’d be a fool to think anything less,” she said.

“Good. But will you also be providing more advanced weaponry or just the ARs?”

He wanted the launchers. Of course he did. But rocket launchers weren’t something that they readily had on hand. Yet what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. For now, she just had to play along and make it out of this room alive.

“How many did you want?”

“Four thousand RPGs and ten thousand ARs. I need my men to have adequate coverage when they attack Ankara.”

As he spoke the name of the city, she felt the warmth of the mic strategically stitched into her jacket. They had their location and an estimated number of enemy combatants—admittedly, a number far greater than they had anticipated. But perhaps it was Bayural’s plan to inflate the numbers. In the event any of their dealings leaked, he would appear far more powerful than he and his group really were.

“What do you have available for us?” Bayural crossed his arms over his chest, covering his vital bits as he prepared to negotiate his price.

No matter how he tried to protect himself, once her brothers bore down there would be no protection great enough. His life would be theirs for the taking.

“The Type 91 Kai MANPAD rocket launcher will do everything from annihilating a door to wiping almost an entire city block clean with its shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles. They’re easy to carry, cheap and fast to reload. Everything you want.” She chuckled slightly as she realized how much she sounded like a used car salesman instead of a trained killer. Her mother would have been so proud.

Bayural squatted down and picked up the sniper rifle. He lifted it up as he stood and shifted the gun in his hands as though he was weighing it. “Hand me a round,” he said, turning toward the guard to his right.

The man pulled a round from his pocket. Bayural jacked the round into the chamber, smiling at the metallic click and slide sound the gun made.

No. He couldn’t be allowed to actually shoot the rifle. It would be too dangerous. They were here to keep the general public from falling into harm’s way, not to place them into greater danger. “The gun is solid. The shipment will be solid. Our team, Black Dragon, will get them to you by tomorrow.” She tried to sound nonchalant as she slipped in their fake name, the code word. Her team would be here any second to strike these bastards down.

Finally, they could cut off the wolf’s head.

“Tomorrow? I want them within the hour.” He lifted the rifle, pointing it directly at her center mass as he peered down the scope. “You can do that, can’t you?”

She glanced toward the far wall, hoping like hell that she would see the laser signal letting her know her brothers were in place, but there was nothing.

“When can we expect your shipment?” Bayural pressed.

“First, I want my ten million.”

Bayural smiled. “Ten is too much.”

“With everything happening in Syria, prices have gone up for your standard RPGs. You know as well as I do that the market is at least two Gs per RPG. As for the ARs, you are getting a screaming deal. That’s less than two hundred a gun. We could get five if we went somewhere else.”

He nodded slightly. “I’ll give you a G per RPG.”

She laughed. Even if she had really had the weapons, there would be no way she would go for such a ridiculous deal, but she had to keep up the negotiation until her brothers arrived.

“Or we will give you two if you can have our shipment to us within the hour.” Bayural’s pitch rose, like he was growing more nervous with each passing second.

His bodyguard leaned in and said something in his ear, something far too quiet for her to hear. Bayural’s eyes widened and his brow furrowed. Whatever he said, it wasn’t good news.

Her chest tightened, and her Kevlar vest suddenly seemed all too heavy.

Her brothers should have been here by now, at her side. “We can do the hour, but I’ll have to talk to my team. Your order is larger than we were anticipating.”

This was falling apart. Fast. She had to get out of there. She scanned the room for her planned exit point. The door to the alley was closed, barred from the inside. There was nothing to use as cover. It would take at least three seconds for her to get to the location, two to get the door open. Five seconds. Basically, a lifetime if they opened fire.

He clicked off the safety, the gun’s barrel steady as it pointed at her. “Is something wrong, maybe you have something you want to tell us?” His voice threatening.

“No,” she said, trying to appear relaxed as she took a step back. “But if you wish to have the deal go through, you need to lower that gun.”

Bayural lowered the weapon slightly and motioned toward her with his chin. His guard took a step closer.

“What are you doing?” she asked as the guard grabbed her wrist and pulled her arm behind her. Her shoulder pinched as he lifted her hand higher, forcing her to submit.

Her instinct was to struggle and pull free, to launch into an attack. To get the hell out of there. But no, she had to trust her team. If they were waiting, there had to be a reason. They were trying to get more information. They must have needed more. She had to believe in her family.

“Back off,” she growled at the guard. “Let go of my arm or the last thing you will see is me ripping it off and shoving it down your goddamned throat.”

He lifted her wrist higher, forcing her to lean forward from the pressure.

“Bayural, get your man—”

“To stand down?” Bayural said, finishing her sentence. “Hardly. Who the hell do you think you are to command me?” He dropped the rifle to the ground and looked to his guard. “Break the stock.”

She looked at the base where she had just run her fingers. The imperfection suddenly seemed so much larger.

The guard picked up the gun and smashed it against the floor again and again until cracks formed in the plastic. He batted it against the concrete one more time, sending the small GPS tracker her team had planted in the plastic skittering across the floor.

“You, your brothers, your sister, your team… You’re dead.”

“You may get me, but you’ll never get the rest of them. We’re survivors.”

“Even if I have to spend the rest of my days on this earth hunting every one of your family members down, I’ll do it. When I’m done, you and your kind won’t even be a memory. You will be nothing.”

There was a smatter of gunfire outside the corrugated steel building. A round pinged against the metal siding, the sound echoing through her.

With her free hand she reached down and pulled the knife from her boot. She jammed it deep into the guard’s foot. The man screamed, letting go of her arm in a panic to remove the blade.

She grabbed her sidearm, taking aim at Bayural and pulling the trigger. The round ripped from the barrel, striking the man in the chest. Buyural didn’t seem to notice the hit. He must have been wearing a vest.

The guards around him pulled their guns as she turned to find cover. Anything. Anywhere. She had to get the hell out of there. Now. She rushed toward the door as the sound of gunfire rained down upon her. The first round struck her in the thigh, ripping through her muscle with a searing heat, but there was no pain. Her ravaged thigh tripped her, the muscles failing to follow her brain’s command. Her body fell to the floor, but she pressed on, dragging her injured leg behind her as she crawled toward the back door.

The door flew open, and standing in the nearly blinding light was her brother. “Trevor!” she screamed. “Get the hell out.”

He ran toward her in what seemed like slow motion, but as he took two steps, the next round struck. Wetness. Warmth. Something had splattered her cheek.

She stopped struggling as she pressed her fingers to her face and traced the spatter to the gaping hole in her neck. No. This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. Not like this. Not now.

She sank to the floor as the blood poured from her.

The concrete was cold against her face as she watched the pool of red grow. The world narrowed to a pinpoint until all she saw was Trevor. His face. He’d always been so handsome. So dangerously handsome. She’d miss her brother.

She’d miss them all.

Breathe. All she had to do was breathe. But as she struggled to fill her lungs, there was only a strange gurgling sound.

She had been wrong to think this operation would be easy. Nothing in their lives had ever been simple. And now that misjudgment—and her desire to trust—would prove fatal.

Chapter One

There was a single question that Trevor Martin hated above all others: “Who do you think you are?” It only ever meant one of two things—he was about to get slapped by a woman or he was going to have to knock some sucker out.

It wasn’t the question that bothered him so much. On the surface it was just some retort people came up with when they didn’t know what else to say, but when he heard it, he heard it for what it really was—a question of who he was at his core. And when he thought about that, about what made him the man he was, he wasn’t sure that he liked the answer.

That self-hatred was one of the reasons he had taken a leave of absence from his contract work with the CIA. His entire family needed a break from the family business, so they bought the Widow Maker Ranch in Mystery, Montana. It was supposed to be an escape he so desperately needed from the thoughts of all he had done wrong in his life. Instead, it was as if the rural lifestyle and the quiet mountain mornings only made the self-denigration of his character that much louder.

He’d only been there a few days, but he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe he’d made a mistake in coming to this forsaken place where he was constantly shrouded in clouds and imprisoned by the brooding mountains. Everything about the ranch made him long to stretch and push the world and his thoughts away—if only it were that goddamned easy. No matter where he went or what he did, his memories of the days he’d spent in his family’s private security business, one they called STEALTH, constantly haunted him.

And here he was the bearer of bad news once again.

If he were being honest, pulling the trigger and tearing down an enemy combatant was a hell of a lot easier than what he was going to have to do. He spun the motorcycle around in the dirt, kicking up dust as he screwed around and tried to focus on something he loved instead of something he was going to hate.

After a few more doughnuts, he got off his Harley and pushed the kickstand into place with his foot. Taking off his helmet, he set it on the seat, though a part of him wondered if it wouldn’t have been better for him to wear it as some kind of shield from the battle that was likely to ensue.

Running his hand over his too-long locks, he pushed them out of his eyes and tucked them behind his ears.

There were times, just like this one, that he wished he were back in a war zone and had a staff of people under him who could handle this kind of thing.

All he had to do was say his piece, give them the letter, and he could get the hell out of there. He just had to go in and do his duty. The moment he and his brothers and his sister had purchased the land, they agreed that this would be a part of the work that would need to be done. Unfortunately, he had drawn the short straw.

He had never seen a picture of the house in question, but the shack in front of him was a squatter’s paradise and far from what he and his family had imagined. The roof was a collection of corrugated steel in a jumble of different colors, and the siding, what was left of it, had started to rot and several pieces were only half-attached. Even the front door was cockeyed, listing to the left so far that there was at least a two-inch gap at the top.

Whoever resided there must be hard up. Maybe they had been hoping they were far enough out of the way at the farthest reaches of the ranch that they would go completely unnoticed. Thanks to the neglect of his cousins, the Johansens, whoever was living in this place had pretty much free rein—and their plan for disappearing in plain sight had worked. And from the state of the house, it was clear it had been working for a long time.

The forest around the house was filled with junk, everything from antique wringer-style washing machines to the rusted-out shells of farming equipment. From the state of disrepair, it seemed likely that this had once been the dumping ground for the ranchers of years past.

He walked toward the door. Behind him a twig snapped and the sound was answered by the chatter of a pine squirrel high up in one of the trees.

He wasn’t alone.

If he turned around now, it would give away that he was aware he was being watched. For all he knew, the inhabitants of the shanty had taken to the woods at the sound of his bike as he’d made his way down the makeshift road that led up to this place. If he just kept walking, it would give him time.

He started again, looking for a window or something he could use to catch a glimpse of whoever was lurking in the shadows around him.

They couldn’t get the drop on him; he wouldn’t allow it. He’d made it through years of toeing the line between danger and death, and he wasn’t about to get tripped up and find himself on the losing side now. Not when he’d come here to make a real home and a real life for himself.

He stopped at the front door of the squatters’ shack and started to knock.

“They’re not home,” a woman said from somewhere in the distance, her voice echoing off the timber stands around them and making the source of the sound impossible to pinpoint. “And they would have been long gone regardless, thanks to your crappy driving.”

He turned in the direction the voice had come from and relaxed a bit. She probably wasn’t going to try to shoot him—if she had wanted, she already could have drawn on him—but some habits died hard, and he lowered his hand to the gun that was always strapped on his thigh.

Standing in the shadows at twelve o’clock, her back against the buckskin-colored pine, was a blonde. She was leaning back, her arms over her chest like she had been there for hours getting bored. Even feigning boredom, she was sexy as hell. She had the kind of curves he had spent more than one lonely night dreaming about. And the way her white T-shirt pulled tight over her leopard-print bra… His body quivered to life as he tried to repress the desire that welled within him.

“You know where they went?” he asked, trying to be a gentleman and look at anything besides the little polka dots that were almost pulsing beneath her shirt.

She smiled as though she could see the battle that was raging inside him between lust and professional distance. “Have you met the Cussler boys before?”

“How many are there?”

She pushed herself off the tree. “If you stop thumbing that SIG Sauer at your side, maybe we can talk about it. Men playing with their guns make me nervous.”