Ratings: Rated M for Mature content; mostly for language, mild violence, and later for sexual situations between consenting adults.

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and I make no profit from their use. Story does not reflect the book 'Gone Girl' by Gillian Flynn in any way except the title—It was the perfect title for this story and so catchy I couldn't resist borrowing it, no infringement intended!

Notes: Definitely a BABE story, probably not terrible to Joe but he's not much more than a minor character in this story so if you're looking for Cupcake fan-service you might want to search elsewhere! ; )

Chapter One

RPOV

He was exhausted. Not just in the physical sense, but mentally as well, spiritually—Hell however you wanted to coin it. Ricardo Carlos Manoso was ready to be done. One hundred and forty-three days on assignment. Almost five freaking months in that god-forsaken hell-hole. Rarely had he had an assignment run so long, this particular mission had required deep intel, and deep cover in one of the least friendly and accessible places on the planet he'd ever had the displeasure of visiting and he wondered if he'd ever get all the sand out of his boots. Fuck it. Ranger reasoned. He would just throw those fucking things out. He didn't need his 'lucky boots' anymore because he was done with this shit, thank god. No more missions for him, his contract was up; he wasn't signing again—he didn't care how hard his handler leaned on him. The fucking leach could lean all he wanted. He was done. End of story.

All he wanted was to go home to Trenton see his Babe Stephanie, God he'd missed her the last few months, and then he'd take some time in Miami so he could see his daughter Julie. He'd missed so much of her life before the whole Scrog incident, and now that his contract was finally up he'd promised himself he wouldn't miss any more.

He was going to work something out with Rachel, hopefully she'd let him take a bigger part in his daughters life—even if she didn't have to, legally. They'd always managed a pretty civil rapport, he'd just have to talk to her he reasoned, ask her to let him do more. He needed this, he needed her, well them; Julie and Stephanie both; they made him better. They made him feel like a real person—they made him feel like he could possibly be whole again. Amazing that just a few months before the Scrog fiasco he hadn't even realized just how broken he was. It was amazing what staring down the barrel of a gun and realizing you might lose the two most important people in your life could do to one's psyche.

He exited the plane onto the tarmac, the engines still idling at a dull roar behind him. His ass was numb, his lower back was killing him, the back of his throat and tongue still felt like he had half a desert in his mouth and the bullet wound that was still healing in his shoulder ached like a bitch. Fucking cargo planes, thank god he never had to spend another eleven hours in a jump seat ever again. The thought almost made him smile—almost.

Tank was waiting for him next to his usual debriefing welcome-wagon, which was unusual to say the least. Ranger felt his stomach tighten into a tense knot. Tank's face was grim, the other man's mouth set in a hard line, his eyes guarded. It was the face his friend of many years and service together usually wore at the start of a dangerous and difficult covert mission—not the face he wore when he came back alive and well.

The bag on his shoulder shifted and he grit his teeth against the flash of nauseating pain that washed over him. Well enough at least.

He didn't hesitate taking in his friends grim look, he was a soldier—and not just any soldier, one of the elite. He'd seen more than most men, been through more, he'd killed and almost been killed, he'd been threatened, tortured, and seen the same happen to those he served with—not on this mission thank god. Other than the bullet he'd taken during the final take-down of the mission the last five months had been so mind-numbingly boring he'd barely refrained from losing his mind. Too many hours in the day and night to think about home and all he'd left behind—everyone he'd left behind, or more specifically someone. The longing he felt to be done with that mess and back home was enough some nights to drive him to damn near jump-ship. But his past and his training had left him a hardened man, capable of dealing with any tactical situation he was thrown into, he had to in order to survive and assure mission success.

"Tank," Ranger greeted his brother in arms when he was close enough before the big man could speak first. Tank's mouth tightened once more but before he could speak the man next to him interrupted.

"Mr. Manoso," Ranger eyed the man from closer, cheap suit—not police detective cheap, but close. The man stood spine ram-rod straight, his hard eyes spoke of possible military service and the firm shake of his outstretched hand furthered the impression—but he didn't salute for which Ranger was grateful. He was so over that shit, right now he wanted to know what the Hell was going on not have his ass powdered by some cheap suit.

"My name is Greg Fuller Mr. Manoso, Welcome back. I hate to launch right into this but we've been trying to contact you for months—unfortunately due to the nature of your mission that was impossible."

Ranger felt his face harden, his eyes flicked to Tank's blank expression once more. What the hell was going on? Who the Hell was this guy?

"I work for the FBI Mr. Manoso," Fuller answered his question in the next second and Ranger felt his spine stiffen drawing himself back just a bit. The FBI? The Fuck was the FBI doing meeting him on the runway? He'd been out of the country for the last five fucking months on official military orders—even if they were classified, what the Hell could they possibly want with him now?

Unless…Oh Dios Mios, no! Bile washed up the back of his throat and he saw Tanks expression falter for a split second, his chin dropping in the tiniest of nods. "Stephanie? What happened to Stephanie Tank?"

"Mr. Manoso that's what we're trying to figure out."

She was missing? He felt his heart clench in his chest.

"We need to know if you had any contact with Ms. Plum in the last four months." Fuller asked.

"I was on assignment," Ranger snarled. What the fuck was going on? His eyes flicked to Tank once more taking in his friends hardened expression.

"Of course Mr. Manoso. I had to ask." Fuller inclined his head before drawing in a tight breath. "I don't know how to say this exactly and it won't be easy to hear no matter how I word it. I'm leading the task force responsible for locating Ms. Plum."

Task force? "Stephanie was kidnapped?" What the Hell were they standing around for?

"No, Mr. Manoso. We have a federal warrant for the arrest of Stephanie Michelle Plum for kidnapping and endangering a minor, as well as several counts of grand theft, and grand larceny in the second degree."

He was stunned. There had to be some mistake, this had to be some kind of joke. Ranger was not amused.

"Kidnapping of who?" He demanded a hard edge to his voice and posture.

"Your biological daughter Mr. Manoso, Julia Rachelle Martine."

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