Irene glanced at the never-speaking agent, Marshal. “Do you think you could get me something for a headache? Aspirin is all that I require.”

The stalwart agent glanced at Harris, who gave him an affirming nod. He walked out, closing the door behind him, and Irene returned her attention to Harris, Mark’s shattered face already forgotten.

“So why are you asking me about Jenny Fairgrove?”

“We have intel she’s not quite who she says she is.”

Irene stared at Harris until he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Something wrong, Professor?”

“You’re of Scandinavian descent.”

“Uh . . . yes. I am.”

“Yes. I can tell from your bone structure.” Then she slammed her cast against his nose, angling it so she knocked him out but didn’t kill him.

Irene knelt beside his prone body and dug into his pants until she found his set of keys.

“Gotcha.”

“He said you were determined.”

With a sigh, Irene gripped the keys in her hand and glanced over her shoulder.

She didn’t know who this man was, but he didn’t seem friendly.

“Dr. Conridge?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He motioned to her. “Come on.” He held his hands out to her. “Let’s get you up.”

Really big hands took surprisingly gentle hold of her arms and pulled her to her feet.

“And you are?”

“All you need to know is I’m family.” He patted her on the head and she had the overwhelming desire to punch him in the testes. Which meant only one thing . . .

“You must be a Van Holtz.”

He grinned. “You can call me Uncle Edgar.” He pushed her toward the door. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner. I was in Bogotá.”

“Why?”

“Aren’t you cute” seemed to be his only answer. “Now, let’s get you back before that nephew of mine turns the whole Pack and the United States government against him.”

Irene sighed. “I really wish I’d known you were coming.”

Uncle Edgar, who was an inhumanly large man, stared down at her, his eyes narrowing. He looks exactly like Holtz. “Why?” Although he looked like he didn’t want to know the answer.

Unfortunately he received that answer anyway thirty seconds later, when the east side of the base blew.

Before he could say anything, Irene explained, “Don’t worry. I took out the part of the base they’d closed down. But it’ll still wipe out the”—the lights flickered and went off, leaving them in complete darkness—“electricity.”

“Good thing I can see in the dark then, huh?” He took hold of her arm. “Let’sgo.”

“What about Harris?”

“Don’t worry about him. He won’t be bothering you again.”

“Oh?” She didn’t need light to make herself crystal clear.

“No. No. I won’t kill him. Although I could. And your mate probably wants me to.” He led her into the pitch-black hall, and she let him because she really had no choice.

“You’re CIA, aren’t you?”

“Aren’t you cute,” he said again.

“Yes. I’m painfully adorable.” He led her outside, the airmen scrambling to put out the strategic fire she’d planned. “Is there ever a time that the Van Holtz men don’t sound pompous?” she asked, unable to stop herself from smiling.

“Not since before Christ.”

Van stormed into the Van Holtz house and he watched every Pack member but his parents disappear. Even his sister grabbed her mate’s arm and pulled him from the room.

“Well?” he snarled. “Any word from Edgar?”

“Nope,” his father replied calmly, turning the page of his Wall Street Journal. The old man’s wounds had completely healed, a six-month trip around Europe for him and his mate booked, and the disturbing noises coming from behind their bedroom door suggested Old Man Holtz was thoroughly enjoying his retirement.

“Then I’m done waiting.”

“And what will you do, my son?” his mother asked as she worked on her needlepoint.

“Something!” he roared. “Which is more than any of you are doing. My mate is gone and no one cares!”

“Of course we care,” his mother chastised gently.

Afraid he’d say something that would irrevocably damage his loving relationship with his parents, Van turned and walked up the stairs toward his room. Throwing open his door, he tore off his jacket and tossed it across the room, moving over to the phone. He picked up the receiver but stopped when he heard sounds he found annoying and exhilarating all at the same time.

Tapping and beeping.

Dropping the phone back in its cradle, Van walked out of his room and across the hall. He pushed the door open, ignoring how it snagged on the multitude of wires and cords.

And there she sat. At her computer, plugging away at something he never would or wanted to understand.

He heard her give a little curse, annoyed that the fingers of her right hand weren’t moving as fast as she’d like them to. And he sensed that they hurt a bit too, since she kept bending them and wincing.

Van gave himself a moment to enjoy seeing her there . . . safe. And where she belonged.

She cursed again and turned sideways in her chair, bending her fingers and frowning down at her defenseless cast.