Shadow hunt, p.1
Shadow Hunt, page 1
SHADOW HUNT
SHADOW POINT SECURITY ROMANTIC SUSPENSE SERIES
BOOK 1
MISTY EVANS
Shadow Hunt, Shadow Point Security Romantic Suspense Series, Book 1
©2026 Misty Evans
ISBN: 978-1-964028-39-2
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Copyright © 2026 by Misty Evans
Print ISBN: 978-1-964028-40-8
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CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
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CHAPTER ONE
Garrett
The Last Stand Bar & Grille
Blackridge, Montana
Navy SEAL Commander Garrett Cross was three whiskeys in when the person who was about to change his life forever sat on the barstool next to him.
He didn’t look up from the amber liquid he’d been nursing for the past twenty minutes. The Last Stand wasn’t the kind of place where strangers made conversation. It was where you came to be left alone with your demons and a bottle.
Garrett had plenty of demons.
The jukebox in the corner played something country and melancholic. A handful of locals occupied tables near the back, their voices a low murmur beneath the music. Jake, the bartender, knew better than to ask if Garrett wanted another. He’d pour when the glass was empty. Until then, he stayed on the other end of the bar, polishing glasses that didn’t need polishing.
The September evening had cooled after a warm day, the kind of temperature that reminded you fall was coming to Montana, whether you were ready or not. Through the window on his left, Garrett could see the sun setting behind the mountains, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple.
He didn’t give a shit about the sunset.
Eighteen months since the Navy had kicked him out. Eighteen months of wondering if the kill had been worth his career, his reputation, his entire life.
It had been. He’d do it again.
That’s why he was here, drinking cheap whiskey in a nowhere town, instead of leading his team on some op halfway around the world.
The door opened, letting in a gust of cool air that carried the scent of pine and approaching cold nights. Garrett’s old instincts fired before his brain caught up. In the mirror behind the bar, he catalogued the newcomer while appearing as if he didn’t care.
Female. Five-three, maybe five-four in the heels clicking across the worn wooden floor. Expensive perfume—something subtle that didn’t belong in a dive bar. Designer coat. East Coast money, judging by the way she carried herself.
And she was walking straight toward him.
Shit.
The woman slid onto the stool next to him without asking permission. Up close, she was mid-thirties with dark hair pulled back, intelligent brown eyes that assessed him the way he’d just evaluated her, and a wedding ring on her left hand.
Jake appeared, eyebrows raised. “What can I get you?”
“Water, please.” Her voice confirmed the East Coast thing. Cultured. Confident. “With lemon, if you have it.”
Jake nodded and disappeared to get her order. The woman settled into her seat, crossed her legs, and waited.
Garrett didn’t acknowledge her presence. If she wanted something, she could start the conversation. He felt the itch to move to a booth. To get away from her. But he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of causing him to so much as twitch. He went back to his whiskey.
Thirty seconds of silence. A full minute. Two.
Finally, “Garrett Cross?”
He didn’t answer. Took another drink instead.
“I’m Dr. Genevieve Montgomery.”
“Not interested.”
“You don’t even know what I’m offering.”
“I know I don’t want it.” He still hadn’t looked at her.
She made a soft sound that might have been amusement. From the corner of his eye, he watched her pull a folder from the leather bag she’d set on the floor. She placed it on the bar between them, her movements unhurried.
He didn’t look at it. She opened it anyway. The photograph on top made ice slide down his spine.
It showed the Colombian jungle. Tactical gear. Him.
The dead body of a serial killer.
Everything in him went utterly still. That photo shouldn’t exist. The mission had been off the books, the evidence scrubbed, the witnesses paid off. He’d covered his tracks so thoroughly that his own command couldn’t prove what he’d done.
But here it was. Proof.
His hand tightened on the glass. Every muscle in his body tensed, his internal threat assessment cranking into overdrive.
Who the hell is she? Who does she work for?
“Colombia,” she said, her tone conversational. “Eighteen months ago. You went off-mission for twelve hours.”
Garrett said nothing.
“Local women were disappearing from villages near your operational area. Turning up dead. Tortured.” She paused. “You tracked the killer to his compound in the jungle.”
His gut cramped. “You telling me or asking me?”
“I’m telling you I know what you did. And I know you left no evidence.”
Except that damned photo she had. He finally looked at her. Really looked. Those intelligent eyes were steady on his face, reading him the way a psychologist reads patients. No fear or judgment. Just calm assessment.
“Then you don’t know anything,” he said.
A small smile touched her lips. “I know you killed a predator the Colombian authorities couldn’t touch because of political connections. I know you saved lives that night. And I know your command suspected what you’d done but couldn’t prove it, so they branded you a rogue operative and cut you loose.” She leaned forward slightly. “I also know you’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
Garrett picked up his glass, finished the whiskey in one swallow. The burn down his throat was familiar. Comforting. “What do you want, Doc? I’m not interested in therapy.”
“Good, because I’m not offering it.” She slid another photograph toward him. “I’m offering you this.”
It was a professional headshot of a woman with the US flag behind her. FBI credentials visible. A woman with brunette hair pulled back, serious blue eyes, and the kind of beauty that came with competence and intelligence.
The eyes and the name on the badge stopped his heart.
Special Agent Claire Dawson.
Time stopped.
The bar faded. The music disappeared. Everything narrowed to that photograph and the name beneath it.
Claire Josephine Dawson. Lily’s best friend, CJ.
He couldn’t breathe for a second. His hand, still on the bar, had gone numb. Every nerve in his body fired at once—recognition, shock, and something that felt uncomfortably like panic.
He hadn’t seen her in fifteen years. Not since Lily’s funeral. Not since she’d looked at him with those guilt-stricken blue eyes and whispered ‘I’m sorry’ over and over until he’d had to walk away before he broke down in front of everyone.
She’d been fourteen. Skinny, with a broken arm in a cast, a concussion, and tears that wouldn’t stop. Just a kid who’d tried to save his sister and failed.
Now she was an FBI agent.
Jesus Christ.
“You know her.” Not a question. A statement.
Garrett forced himself to swallow. Forced his voice to work. “What about her?”
“She’s in trouble. The kind o f trouble the FBI can’t handle through official channels.”
He dragged his gaze from the photo to the woman beside him. “The Feds have more than enough resources.”
“Not the kind I have.” She paused. “Correction. Not like you and I both have.”
What the hell did she want from him? “I’m retired.”
“You’re thirty-three years old and drinking yourself to death in Montana.” Her voice was gentle but firm. “That’s not retirement. That’s surrender.”
The words hit harder than they should have. Garrett looked away, back to Claire’s photo. FBI agent—she’d made something of herself. Built a career hunting predators.
Just like he had. “Why are you showing me this?”
Dr. Montgomery pulled out more photographs. Crime scene photos. Three women, all brunette, all with similar features.
All dead.
“Claire is being stalked,” she said quietly. “The pattern matches these three victims. All were contacted by the stalker weeks before they were killed. All were taunted. All died within days after the final message.”
Garrett’s tactical mind engaged despite his resistance. He studied the photos, seeing what the psychologist wanted him to see. The similarities. The escalation. The methodical patience of a predator who planned every move.
These women looked like Claire. One of them could have been her.
His knuckles had gone white on the edge of the bar.
“FBI has behavioral analysts,” he said, his voice rougher than it should be. “Protective details.”
“They’re protecting her. Officially. By the book.” Dr. Montgomery tapped one of the crime scene photos. “This predator isn’t playing by that book. He’s organized, patient, and he’s been watching Claire for months. Maybe years.”
“What makes you think I can stop him?”
“Because you’ve done it before. Without permission. Without rules.” She tapped the Colombia photo. “You hunt monsters, Garrett. That’s what you’re good at.”
“I’m done hunting.”
“Are you?” She held his gaze. “Or are you just hiding?”
Jake set her water in front of her and disappeared again, sensing the tension radiating from Garrett. Smart man.
Claire’s serious blue eyes stared at him from the photo. She was professional. Composed. Nothing like the terrified fourteen-year-old he remembered.
But somewhere behind that FBI agent’s mask, she was still CJ. Still Lily’s best friend and the girl who’d fought a killer with a broken arm and survived.
“Tell me about Shadow Force International,” he said.
If Dr. Montgomery was surprised he knew the name, she didn’t show it. She did seem to choose her words carefully. “We handle private security and intelligence operations for clients who need discretion.”
“Private military.”
“That’s the public face.” She straightened slightly. “My branch, Shadow Point Security, is different. It’s a new unit within SFI. We specialize in domestic threats—predators that law enforcement can’t shut down fast enough. Serial killers. Stalkers. Traffickers. The monsters hiding in plain sight.”
“Vigilante justice.”
“Preemptive, you might say. Justice that gets results.” She met his eyes. “You believe in that. You proved it in Colombia.”
“And it cost me my career.”
“I’m offering you a new one. One where doing the right thing doesn’t get you court-martialed.” She pulled a white business card from her pocket and set it on top of Claire’s photo. “I need a tactical commander for Shadow Point. Someone who understands how predators think. Someone who won’t hesitate to cross lines when necessary.”
“Someone expendable if it all goes sideways.”
“Someone capable.” She stood, smoothing her coat. “Claire doesn’t have much time. Days, maybe. The stalker sent his first direct message three days ago. His previous victims were dead within a week of first contact.”
Garrett’s stomach went cold. Three days.
“The FBI knows she’s next,” she continued. “They’ve assigned a protective detail. They’re doing everything by the book. But this predator has already circumvented their security twice. Left messages for Claire where no one should have been able to reach her.”
She picked up her bag, left cash on the bar for the water she hadn’t touched.
“When you change your mind—and you will—call that number.” She nodded to the business card. “I have an official office front in town, a compound outside the city limits. I’ll be at the office tomorrow morning. Eight a.m.”
“I’m not coming.”
“Yes, you are.” She smiled, but there was something sad in it. “Because you can’t live with another failure. And if Claire Dawson ends up dead while you’re hiding in this bar, you’ll never forgive yourself.”
She stopped for a moment and patted his shoulder. “I did my research on you, Garrett. I know about Lily. I know Claire was her best friend. And I know that’s why you’ll show up tomorrow.”
She strode to the door. Another gust of cool September air rushed in, then disappeared.
Garrett sat frozen, staring at the photographs. The three dead women. The Colombia mission. Claire’s FBI badge.
I know about Lily.
His hands shook.
He grabbed the folder, shoved everything back inside. The white business card fell out, landing face-up next to his empty glass. No name or company logo. Just a phone number and address.
He should burn it. Should walk out of this bar, drive to his cabin, and forget Dr. Genevieve Montgomery and her Shadow Point Security team existed.
But Claire’s photo was staring up at him from inside the folder.
Those blue eyes that had been full of guilt at Lily’s funeral. That had silently asked Bobby for forgiveness. Bobby—the name she’d known him by—hadn’t been able to give it. That had haunted him every day for fifteen years.
“Hell,” Garrett muttered.
Jake materialized. “Another?”
Garrett looked at his empty glass. Looked at the folder. Looked at the door.
I can’t. I failed Lily. I can’t face CJ.
Bobby couldn’t save his sister. Garrett couldn’t save Claire.
But the memory came anyway. Always did, especially when the whiskey wasn’t working.
Lily at ten years old, making him promise. “If anything ever happens to me, Bobby, you’ll take care of CJ, right?”
“Nothing’s going to happen to you, Lil.”
“But if it does. Promise.”
“I promise.”
Eight years later, he’d broken that promise. Stood at his sister’s grave while CJ cried, apologized, and blamed herself for surviving.
He'd enlisted the next day. Became Garrett Cross—his father's surname, his first name. No more Bobby. He became someone strong enough, lethal enough, skilled enough that he'd never fail to protect someone who needed it again.
And now CJ needed protection.
“No thanks,” he told Jake. He threw money on the bar, grabbed his jacket and the folder, and headed for the door.
Outside, the evening had cooled further. The parking lot gravel crunched under his boots as he walked to his beat-up Ford. Above, stars were beginning to appear in the darkening sky. Montana stars, brilliant and endless without light pollution to dim them.
He got in the truck. Didn’t start it. Just sat there with the folder on the passenger seat and his hands on the steering wheel.
Through the bar window, he could see Jake collecting glasses. A couple at one of the back tables laughing at something. Normal people living normal lives.
Garrett hadn’t been normal since Lily died.
Dr. Montgomery’s words echoed in his head. You’re thirty-three years old and drinking yourself to death in Montana. That’s not retirement. That’s surrender.
She was right. He’d been surrendering for eighteen months. Hiding. Running from the ghosts that followed him from Colombia, from the Teams, from the life he’d built after Lily.
