SHADOW KILL

A DEAN BLACKWOOD FBI MYSTERY THRILLER

SAM JONES

Copyright © 2025 by Sam Jones

This novel is a creation of the author’s imagination, crafted with care to deliver a unique story experience. The characters, events, and settings depicted are fictional, and any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or to real-life incidents or locales, is purely coincidental.

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Thank you for respecting the hard work that went into creating this story.

PROLOGUE

Robert Jensen’s imminent murder would be the first in this quiet Parisian village in decades.

He tugged at the zip ties that bound his hands and feet to the wooden chair.

He focused on his heart rate—keeping it low.

Remaining calm was critical. That’s what he’d been taught.

You have to stay calm.

Assess the situation.

A sheet-white Jensen glanced around the wooden shack. He eyed the beams. The slanted ceiling. The single rough-hewn door. Slivers of moonlight—the only source of illumination in this pitch-dark room—seeped through the slits in the walls.

You need to find a way out of this.

Wide strips of gray duct tape covered his mouth. Hollering for help wasn’t an option. Even if he could, no one would hear him.

The shack was remote, isolated, no one around. The man who had taken him at gunpoint in Paris had driven forty-five minutes to get there. Jensen had counted the seconds and the minutes in his mind on the silent ride. The man had stopped his Land Rover, pulled Jensen from the back seat, and marched him across acres of open farmland with the gun nuzzled into his spine.

Not a soul in sight.

Jensen’s heart rate ticked up.

Pearls of sweat rolled down his face.

Shit.

Yeah, this guy is gonna kill me.

Jensen had been tied to the chair for ten minutes. He was still counting seconds. And he was committing his surroundings to memory. All the bargaining and deal-making methods of a hostage crisis were fresh in his mind, cemented there by his instructors at Quantico.

Forge a connection.

Lower his guard.

Make friends with this guy.

Buy yourself some time.

The door to the shack swung open, creaking on its rusty hinges.

Hold your head high.

His captor ambled inside.

Mentally disassociate yourself from the situation.

The man closed the door and gently placed an attaché case on the floor.

Jensen met his captor’s gaze, unable to discern his features in the dark room. But he could see that the man was smiling—a wry smile.

The man dragged a wooden stool in front of Jensen, lowered himself onto it, and peeled the tape off of Jensen’s mouth.

“Parlez-vous français?” Do you speak French?

“Un peu.” Jensen nodded. A little.

“Good,” the captor replied, switching to English. “You’ve been in the country long enough to have a good feel for the language, Agent Jensen.”

Jensen detected hints of a Midwestern US accent in the man’s voice. “You’re American.”

“I am.”

“Same.”

“Grand Rapids,” the captor said. “Yes?”

He knows who I am, where I’m from.

Assume he knows everything about me.

“That’s right,” Jensen replied calmly. “What about you?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“All right.” A frazzled Jensen felt like he was playing chess with Bobby Fischer. “Can I ask what this is about?”

“You’ve outlived your usefulness, Robert.” The captor rested his elbows on his knees. “I’m afraid our little arrangement has reached its timely conclusion.”

Jensen’s hands trembled. “You’re him. You’re the one I’ve been⁠—”

“I am.” The captor straightened his back. His nostrils flared. “And that little moment of clarity has unfortunately compromised our operation.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The email you sent, Jensen.” The captor shrugged. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

Oh, Christ.

Jensen trembled.

How did he know about that?

“Listen…” Jensen probed his mind for an excuse. “I was only⁠—”

“Only what?” The captor said. “Ratting out your employers? Betraying me? You’ve been sitting pretty, making a comfortable fortune off of our arrangement. And now, what, you decide to come clean to your superiors at the bureau about what you’ve been doing? Did your fragile little conscience get the better of you?”

Of course it did.

The information I gave you got people killed.

Though Jensen was unable to get a good read of the guy’s face, he could sense his mood was darkening.

“Listen,” Jensen began, evening his tone. “I can still help you. I know more than you think. We can⁠—”

“Dean Blackwood,” the captor hissed. “Is the information you already gave me on his location accurate?”

Take control.

Use what you know to bargain for your life.

Jensen shrugged. “Why Blackwood? Why is he so important to⁠—?”

The captor backhanded Jensen on the cheek with his leather-gloved hand. The pain was instant, enough to make Jensen’s eyes instantly well up.

“Answer the question,” the man barked.

Jensen breathed deeply. He took a moment to center himself and even his tone. “The intel on Blackwood’s location is sound,” he said. “I was thorough.” He probed his cheek with his tongue, tasting blood. “He’s a desk jockey now. He’s a paper-pusher.”

“Ballistic Blackwood working a desk.” The man chuckled. “Amusing.”

The captor assessed his hostage for a moment. He tilted his head to one side like a canine, his breathing slow and rhythmic. Then he got up, walked over to a small oil lamp, and lit it. He retrieved the attaché case, and placed it on the stool.

“I have a wealth of information,” Jensen continued, focusing on his goal to diffuse the situation. “I know things past what I’ve given you. I can be a great asset to you.”

The captor unsnapped the case and reached inside, saying nothing.

Jensen looked down. “Clearly, my friend, you have some kind of end goal here with Dean Blackwood. I understand that.” He attempted to hold up his hands but was swiftly reminded that it wasn’t an option. “And I’m willing to negotiate with you in order to⁠—”

“There is no negotiation taking place here, Jensen.” The captor pulled out something from the case and held it up. “Like I said, the situation here is a signal that our business dealings have come to an end. I simply need to make sure you are being forthright with your intel in regard to the location of Dean Blackwood.” He looked at Jensen. “How quickly I determine the veracity of that information will determine how quickly this next part will end.”

A sickly sensation traced up Jensen’s spine.

Oh God.

What the hell is this guy going to do?

“If I were able to apologize for placing you in this position, I would,” the captor said, angling around. “Unfortunately, it would mean little coming from a man like me.”

Jensen pulled futilely at his restraints. Whatever training he had to fall back on was failing. His composure was slipping, something he knew his captor was clearly aware of.

“The next few minutes will require significant fortitude on your end,” the captor chuckled as he nudged the stool aside with his foot. “Screaming, as we all know, provides one with a significant endorphin boost. That being your only comfort in this situation, I encourage you to do as much of it as possible.”

Jensen’s gaze fell to the implement in his captor’s hand—a serrated knife, a custom job, roughly measuring the length of a hand.

Jensen’s eyes widened.

The captor walked around behind Jensen, seized a handful of his hair, and pressed the blade against the front of his neck.

Per his murderer’s suggestion, Jensen hollered at the highest pitch he could muster as he felt the serrated edge of the murder weapon slowly digging into his neck.

1

Dean Blackwood rattled off his SIG P226 six times in quick succession at the paper target 20 yards down the range. For each pull of the trigger, he projected the face of a different schizoid or whack job he had put down over the course of his career. There was a myriad of assholes who had nearly killed him through various means at one point or another.

Milo McNaab, Dean mused.

Denny Portnoy.

Francis Gibbons.

He tensed his jaw muscles and fixated on the man who had tried to kill his ex-wife and son.

Jerry Weiss.

With teeth gnashed, Dean swiftly depleted the rounds in his mag, ditched it, slapped in another, and shot three more holes into the target—center mass, tight groupings, feverish shots in quick succession.

Dean lowered the SIG and took a step back. His anger was swelling, something he had desperately struggled to rein in for years. It wasn’t going to get the better of him now.

Easy.

Slow.

Take a minute.

With a deep breath, Dean raised up the SIG, spread his stance, and lined up the head of the paper target between his sites. He thought of the worst headcase he had ever come across, someone who deserved a bullet right between their eyes.

He thought of himself.

Who he was.

How he used to be.

The degenerate drunk whose appetite for booze was only rivaled by his thirst for adrenaline.

“Prick,” Dean mumbled as he squeezed the trigger, anticipated the recoil, and saw a single bullet burrow its way through the forehead of the paper target.

A red light flickered, followed by the quick blare of an alarm—the signal to cease fire. Dean engaged the safety of his SIG with a snap of his thumb, placed the weapon down, and stood back. He removed his safety glasses and passive ear muffs, picking up on the scraping footsteps of the Range Safety Officer approaching him from the rear.

“Good shooting,” the RSO grunted. “Solid groupings.”

“Thanks.” Dean kneaded his right shoulder, his sinews prickling from the exercise.

The RSO thumbed the switch inside the shooting stall. The paper target fluttered. “You threw all sense of cadence out the window there at one point, my friend.” He snickered, gesturing at the three holes in the center of the target measuring slightly bigger than a pencil eraser. “What happened? Were you trying to strike the fear of God into this thing?”

Into myself maybe.

“No reason,” Dean lied as he picked up his weapon. “Thanks for letting me run a few drills.”

“You’re a natural.” The RSO plucked the target from the clips, examining the clustered holes bored into it. “You’ve clearly had a lot of trigger time.”

The Rangers.

The Feds.

Musings of Dean’s ex-cop father taking him to the range in his youth crossed his mind.

My tutelage under the old man.

“You from the field office here in Portland?” the RSO asked.

Dean nodded.

“Never seen you around.”

Explaining to the RSO that he had been placed behind a desk, that he’d been offered—and delightfully accepted—what amounted to a remote working position for the FBI after years of close scrapes with death was a story that required too much breath and time to tell. Opting out of any further conversation, Dean shook the RSO’s hand, slipped his SIG into his hip holster, and took the elevator up to the first floor of the Portland Field Office. After the ping announced his arrival, he breezed through the doors and strolled past a cadre of agents huddled in cubicles or filtering down the hallways. The air buzzed with the subdued electricity of men and women righting all the wrongs of the world.

His head down, avoiding eye contact with anyone he crossed paths with, Dean briskly made his way to the exit. Vegas odds were in favor of someone recognizing him, not by association but because of reputation. The last thing he wanted was someone hollering, “Hey! You’re him, right?” followed by a lengthy, unwelcome dissertation of his exploits during his time in the Bureau’s undercover division.

Go home.

Leave.

Dean feigned smoothing his eyebrow, the motion allowing him to conceal his face with his hand.

You can’t miss tonight’s meeting.

Stepping through the doors that led out to the street, Dean was greeted by the crisp winter breeze whipping its way through downtown Portland. As he moseyed toward his pickup parked by the curb, he zipped up his leather jacket to stave off the chill.

A full year.

He slipped behind the wheel of his F-250 and cranked the engine.

Still can’t get used to the chill.

“Well, what did you expect?” the voice in his head gibbered. “You’re a spoiled Southern California brat, amigo.”

Per his therapist’s advice, Dean counted his breaths in a bid to shoo away the voice.

“Oh, come on.” The voice’s affectation took on a taunting tone. “Don’t you wanna talk to me?”

Again, per his therapist’s counsel, Dean fired up the radio to further drown out the voice. He twisted the dials, stopping when he landed on Steely Dan’s “Dirty Work” halfway through its airtime.

“Fine,” the voice in his head grunted. “Suit yourself.”

Squeezing his eyelids shut, Dean made sure the voice—Woody—had taken his leave before he snapped his eyes open, pulled out of his parking spot, toggled the turn indicator, and blended in with traffic filtering through NE Cascades Parkway. Minutes later, he was cruising steadily down the I-5, Steely Dan still playing at full blast.

Two hours.

Dean appraised the G-Shock on his wrist.

Plenty of time to make the meeting.

Though the music did a fine job of drowning out Woody, Dean couldn’t resist dwelling on his ever-recurring thoughts.

His past.

Who he was.

What he had turned into.

His family who had turned their backs on him because of that, and rightfully so.

Claire.

The face of his ex-wife blazed through his mind.

Jeremy.

He pictured holding him in his arms the day he was born.

I wonder where they are.

What they’re up to.

Dean took a furtive glance at himself in the rearview mirror to assess his face, due for a shave. He was twenty pounds lighter and in much better shape since he traded cocktails for pullups and pushups.

“You look good, kid,” his old handler had told him several months back. “Healthy.”

It was a compliment that Dean didn’t take lightly. For years, back when he worked undercover, he looked like he’d been rolled hard and put away wet, twenty-four hours a day.

“On the ragged edge,” the same handler had stated. “A little rough on the eyes.”

After turning his back on the booze and the cigarettes, things had changed. Now he looked good. His rugged appearance and three-day stubble caught the attention of members of the opposite sex. But the moment someone took a step closer to him and caught the corrosive gleam in his eyes, the history burning behind them, they always pulled the ripcord.

They know.

They can sense it.

They can feel it.

“Knock it off, Deano,” he whispered to himself as he adjusted his weight in the seat, tapped his finger to the beat, and navigated his way back to his cabin in the woods. “Just don’t think about it.”

The cell phone inside Dean’s pocket trilled. He assumed it was Bazz making sure he was coming to the meeting. It was a welcome reprieve because Dean always banked on his sponsor ending the conversation with some kind of off-color remark or joke that would undoubtedly elicit a laugh.

When Dean looked at his phone and saw it wasn’t Bazz, he tensed up. The number, while not in his contacts, was one he recalled—as he did every detail of his life with lucid clarity.

It was the Seattle FBI field office.

And whenever those pricks called, it meant a face-to-face would surely follow.

“Special Agent Blackwood,” Dean answered.

“Good morning, Agent Blackwood. This is Special Agent Delvin Lindo with the Seattle field office. I’m sorry for the late notice, but we need you to stop by here as soon as possible.”

We?

Plural?

“I’m uh …” Dean checked his watch, “two-and-half, maybe three hours away.”

“Not a problem.” Lindo paused. “We can wait.”

“Is there something I need to be made aware of, sir?”

“Just get up here as soon as you can, Agent Blackwood.” With that, the call ended.

Adjusting his route, Dean started the drive to the Seattle field office. What the elusive meeting entailed and what it could mean was a mystery to him. All he knew was that his presence had not been formally requested in over a year. And when he was called to Seattle, bad news swiftly followed.

2

For thirty minutes, Dean was forced to wait by himself in the conference room inside the Seattle field office. Only the static buzz of the harsh fluorescent lights kept him company, the drone-ish hum like a bunch of swarming mosquitoes. Implementing yet another tactic he learned from his therapist, Dr. Vance, Dean ticked off round after round of the boxed breathing technique.

In for four.

Hold for seven.

Out for eight.

Dean’s heart rate slowed to that of a sloth. He leaned back in his chair and cut a glance out the wall made of glass. Dozens of agents in the bullpen threw an occasional look his way, trying to pass off their stares as nothing more than brief glimmers, but he knew better.

I can practically hear them talking.

About me.

Dean pinned his eyes on the mahogany table in front of him, recalling the moniker bestowed to him by a fellow agent.

“Ballistic” Dean Blackwood.

Moments later, the door to the conference room swung open. Three men walked in. The first man offered Dean his hand and announced himself as Delvin Lindo, the man who called him. As Lindo took a seat at the head of the table, he introduced the two suited chaps trailing him. The name of the man with chestnut-rimmed glasses and a file tucked under his arm was Dietz. The balding guy was Witwer, whose diminutive height left Dean questioning his eligibility to ride a roller coaster. They stated their ranks, but Dean didn’t bother remembering them. They were in charge, and that’s all he needed to know.

“Agent Blackwood,” Lindo said. “Thank you for coming.”

“Not a problem, sir.” Dean nodded, thinking to himself, What choice did I have?

“How’s the knee?”

Dean glanced down at his left leg, replaying the memory of it bending 90 degrees the wrong way on his last day as a Ranger.

“It’s fine, sir,” he said with a smirk. “Just a little stiff.”

Dietz and Witwer took seats across from Dean. Dietz nudged the glasses on his nose with his knuckle. He zeroed in on the thick file in front of him, never once turning his gaze up to Dean.

“Dean Henry Blackwood,” Dietz grumbled as he skimmed the contents of the file. “You worked in the Bureau’s undercover division, correct?” He flashed a smile at his colleagues. “That clandestine division, known to only those who served in it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“For …” Dietz pressed his finger into a line on the page, his eyes widening, “six years? Seven? The details are a bit fuzzy.”

“Intentionally so.”

Dietz’s lip twitched. “You did work for this division I am speaking of, yes?”

“In a manner of speaking sir,” Dean clarified. “Yes.”

Dietz looked up and narrowed his eyes. “Could you elaborate on that? No one but you and a select few are aware of this division. It’s been, uh, challenging for those of us left trying to piece things together.”

Lindo held up his copper-toned hand, palm facing out toward Dietz. “I think we can bypass this line of inquiry for the time being, Dietz. There are more pressing matters at the moment.”

“My questions are quite pertinent, sir,” Dietz replied, tapping his finger on the file. “If we’re here to ask Blackwood about⁠—”

“So, Agent Blackwood,” Lindo butted in as he leaned over the table, eliciting a sneer from Dietz. “How are you holding up? Been a while since you’ve been in the field.”

For a few beats, Dean flicked his eyes between Dietz and Lindo, certain that neither, based on their defensive postures, held any reverence for one another.

“I’m doing well, sir.”

“Good.” Lindo offered a wry smile. “You’re operating at a much slower pace than you were before. Case review and research for CID, I believe.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean thought about his cabin in the woods where he worked remotely day in and day out for the Criminal Investigative Division. “It’s a welcome break.”

Lindo laughed. “A marked difference from posing as a drug dealer or gun runner every other week, I would imagine. Must have taken its toll after a while.”

A broken marriage.

A kid I don’t see.

A voice in my head.

“Quite so.” Dean squeezed his hand to stave off the shakes. “Putting it mildly.”

“Agent Kent Wilson was your former handler, correct?”

“He was.”

Lindo’s lips twitched into a warm smile. “I was at Quantico the same time Wilson was. We also worked briefly out of the field office in Detroit for a few months. He’s a good man. An even better agent.” He motioned to Dean. “And he spoke very highly of you, Agent Blackwood.”

Fond memories of his old handler—and friend—flitted through Dean’s mind. “The feeling is mutual, Agent Lindo. No compliment paid to Kent Wilson over the years could ever truly capture his worth, in my opinion.”

Dietz straightened his back, his lips turned up into a conceited grin. “To that point, I’d concur. You owe Agent Wilson not only your career but your life, Agent Blackwood.” He probed the file in front of him, snickering. “When one takes into account your,” he winced, “chronic rogue behavior and unceasing defiance of authority⁠—”

“Agent Dietz.” Lindo leaned over the table.

“One could argue,” Dietz held up a finger, pressing on, “that the interference Wilson ran at your behest not only salvaged your career but kept you out of being locked away in a gladiator academy for the rest of your natural days.”

“Dietz!” Lindo’s voice boomed through the room. “That’s enough.”

Beaming smugly, Dietz sat back in his chair. He gestured to Dean, his attention on Lindo, a trace of laughter in his tone. “That’s why we’re here, is it not? The argument could be that we are in this predicament due to Agent Blackwood’s failure to follow established protocols during the operation that resulted in the suspect’s death and our inability to positively ID the body.”

What are they talking about?

Which operation?

Who did I kill?

Dean peeked across the table at the file Dietz was huddled over, curious about the suspect in question, but he couldn’t read any details clearly.

There’s more than a few names on that list.

“Dietz, if you’re finished turning this whole thing into an unwarranted chiding,” Lindo continued with a softened tone, “I’d like to get to the point.”

“I do have one final question,” Dietz went on. “It’s about this …” His mouth slanted into a smirk. “... this voice in your head. The one your psychiatrist Dr. Vance wrote about in his assessment after your tenure in the undercover Bureau was terminated.”

Unreal.

Out of line.

I can’t believe this prick is bringing this up.

His ire swelling, though he kept his composure, Dean laid out the situation in more accurate detail. “It’s not a voice in my head, Agent Dietz. What I am …” Don’t say suffer. “What I am dealing with is a symptom that has developed as a result of post-acute withdrawal syndrome.”

“Because of your drinking.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean dug his fingernails into his palms. “After I quit drinking, my inner monologue, so to speak, emerged and essentially amplified as a result of the cognitive and neurological changes I went through.”

“Again,” Dietz pinned his scrutinous eyes on Dean, “as a result of your drinking.”

“I’ve been sober for a number of years now.”

“Are you willing to take a urine test to corroborate that statement?”

Dean, turning down his gaze, tamped down his urge to spew a series of off-color remarks at the agent.

Dietz shot a look at Witwer before swinging his focus over to Lindo, challenging them to debate the facts he had just stated. “Agent Blackwood, you lived what one could only surmise—to phrase it crudely—a high-octane lifestyle as a result of your time working undercover. A rather redline performance, one could say.”

Dietz flipped a page in his file. “You managed to capture or kill, with a strong emphasis on the latter, over a dozen suspects in the line of duty.”

He turned another page. “You also received five letters of censures, various verbal reprimands,” he lifted up the file, “as well as six-point-eight million you accrued in property damage paid out by the DOJ.” He slapped the file closed and broadened his posture. “Not to mention the several incidents when you physically assaulted fellow agents.”

Dietz sized up Dean. He spoke to him like a lawyer cross-examining a witness on the stand. “What’s this story about you assaulting Agent Matt Rawlings?”

Dean, reflecting on the memory, chose to say nothing.

“Is it true?”

Dean remained silent.

“Agent Blackwood,” Dietz continued. “Did you or did you not assault Agent Matt Rawlings?”

“You’re referencing a classified operation, Agent Dietz.” The vein in Dean’s neck pulsated. “What happened between me and Agent Rawlings is a matter I am not at liberty to discuss.”

“Rawlings was murdered several years ago.” Dietz flexed his brow. “Were you aware of that?”

No.

Dean dug his fingernails into his palms.

I was not.

“A damn tragedy what happened to Agent Rawlings,” Dietz continued. “He was a good man. A hell of an agent. After what happened between you and him—the details of which none of us are fully aware—Rawlings was forced to resign.” Dietz pushed away the file in front of him. “And it appears to be one of countless interactions you’ve had with your fellow brethren in the Bureau that have resulted in their untimely dismissal or resignation.”

Dean said nothing.

Lindo hung his head.

Witwer sunk into his chair.

“Ballistic Blackwood’” Dietz said. “That was what they used to call you, yes? The Bureau’s dirty-work boy willing to do anything and everything to obtain a conviction.” He nodded three times. “When the suspect was taken alive, to be clear.”

That was a different time.

A booze-addled time.

Dean sighed deeply. He tapered his eyes, putting his focus on Witwer. “What was the last movie you saw?”

A slack-jawed Witwer pressed a thumb into his chest. “Me?”

“Yeah.”

“I, uh …” Witwer laughed. “I rewatched Gladiator over the holidays.”

“Great film.”

“Agreed.”

“Second one wasn’t as good,” Dean continued. “A little unnecessary. Felt like a cash-grab.”

“Definitely.” Witwer looked over at Dietz, clocking his heated stare. “I suppose.”

“Agent Blackwood,” Dietz said. “What does this have to do with the discussion currently taking place?”

“Nothing,” Dean said. “I’m just not interested in having the discussion you wish to have, Agent Dietz, so I decided to switch topics.”

Dietz threw up his hands, glaring at Lindo.

Witwer cleared his throat and straightened his tie, feeling like a rube.

“Agent Blackwood,” Lindo began, tapping his finger on the table. “This line of inquiry today is nothing more than an informal discussion on a former operation you took part in.” Lindo stared at Dietz, a measured fury brimming in his eyes. “Your personal history is not open for debate. What we are here to do is consult with you on a particular case that took place in 2012 and how that case may or may not tie into an investigation we have currently opened.”

Dean raised one eyebrow. “You’ll have to be more specific, sir.” His face darkened. “A lot happened in 2012.”

“Kansas City—2012.” Lindo squared his shoulders. “You killed a man by the name of Erik Mason, aka the Undertaker.”

Erik Mason.

Dean swallowed hard.

Psycho son of a bitch.

“Yes, sir.” Dean held Lindo’s gaze, reliving the moment he put three bullets in Mason’s chest. “I did.”

“He burned up in a fire that consumed the warehouse you cornered him in. Isn’t that correct, Blackwood?”

“That is correct.” Dean interlaced his fingers, placed his hands on the table, and tensed his back. “Can I ask what this is about? You stated you have an open investigation. I’m curious how Mason factors in.”

“Well, Agent Blackwood.” Lindo flared his nostrils. “An agent by the name of Robert Jensen was recently murdered in a town a little over an hour southeast of Paris.” He looked at Witwer and Dietz, and then back at Dean. “And the suspect who killed him, who is still in the wind, left a note claiming to be Erik Mason.”

3

Dean knew there was no way in hell that Erik Mason was alive. He shot him three times as a blazing inferno was ravaging the warehouse he had cornered him in. The spectacle was as ostentatious as a prototypical third-act ending to a Michael Bay movie. After plugging Mason three times and leaving him for dead, Dean clambered out a warehouse window and waited for backup units to arrive. By then, the fire had taken over the entire warehouse, razing it to the ground.

He’s dead.

No one came out.

Dean recalled the heat of the fire, his skin prickling as he played back the memory in all its intricate, grueling detail.

There was no way in hell that Mason survived.

Hearing his name, though, knowing that a man was out there in a foreign country claiming to be the Undertaker, caused a wave of nausea in Dean’s stomach.

“Mason is dead, Agent Lindo.” Dean was speaking more to himself than the others. “I saw it.”

Dietz shrugged, assessing Dean with a cold gaze. “We never policed up a body.”

Dean shot back, “Fires have a tendency to turn them to ash, Agent Dietz.” The aroma of scorched wood, blood, and diesel teased his senses. “That’s especially true when they’re as big as the one I witnessed.” He turned to face Lindo. “What is this about, sir? Who was Agent Jensen? How do you know the suspect who murdered him is claiming to be Mason?”

“A few reasons,” Lindo said. “But first, I want to know a little more about the case history here. What was the operation you were part of that targeted Mason?” He motioned to the file in front of Dietz. “Like so many of your case files, it’s bloated with black lines.”

Intentional.

They were black-bag operations.

Dean’s lips constricted.

All my jobs were.

Divulging all the details of what happened with Mason made Dean very concerned. In his former position at the Bureau, he carried out tasks that, for the most part, were not logged away on any kind of record. His sole duty—Ballistic Blackwood’s forte—was to deal with high-priority targets that couldn’t be captured or taken down after all legal means had been exhausted. “Capture and kill” was the mission statement more often than not, so receipts of the deeds were never usually provided.

Dean did his best to lay out the bare bones of what his assignment against Mason entailed. “Mason was a hitman,” Dean began. “Freelance. He worked for a variety of individuals and organizations.” He ticked off the list with his fingers. “Cartels. Irish and Italian mob syndicates. Hell, just to supplement his income, he took several contract gigs from rich folks looking to bump off unfaithful spouses. His enterprise was quite lucrative.”

Because he liked it.

Because the Undertaker got a kick out of killing.

Witwer’s face was a study of confusion. “What was the FBI’s interest in him at the time you killed him?” He cut a look at Dietz and then Lindo. “Frankly, someone of Mason’s caliber sounds like an individual—” He nearly hesitated to say the next part. “Well, more within the interest of the CIA’s Special Activities Division than that of the Bureau.”

Because Mason killed one of our agents.

Because I was hired to track down and kill Mason as a favor to the Deputy Director.

Dean’s eyelid twitched.

Because that same Special Agent in Charge knew that Ballistic Blackwood could pull it off.

Shadow kill this son of a bitch, he told me, and that’s precisely what I did.

“I don’t believe I’m cleared to discuss the operation in full detail,” Dean stated to the men at the table. “For a variety of reasons.”

“Yet you killed him,” Dietz replied, his irritation palpable. “And not a single record, scrap of paper, or digital account explains why you took him out or what exactly the operation waged against him was about.”

Lindo nodded. “Dietz is correct. We have limited information on what happened with you and Mason. I understand that your …” he squinted, filtering his words, “operations conducted at the behest of the undercover Bureau were shrouded under many layers to maintain a high level of operational security. But there are quite a few gaps and leaps of logic with this one.”

Back in 2012, the Special Agent in Charge, Bob Bianchi, told Dean what cover story to recite. Now those same words spilled out of his mouth mechanically. “I was tasked with finding Mason and questioning him in regard to a heroin-smuggling operation being run out of Kansas City by an individual named Clarence Tucker. Mason was allegedly hired as muscle for Tucker’s operation. When I found Mason, things went south. He opened fire on me, and I was forced to defend myself.”

Dietz huffed. “That’s your excuse?” He waved his hand dismissively. “It sounds like you were ordered, by God only knows who, to put Mason down. Granted, his demise is a welcome one, but you’re clearly spinning a cover story here.”

I am.

And you’ll never get the full scoop.

“Agent Lindo,” Dean continued, pivoting topics. “What does this have to do with the murder of the individual you mentioned? You said his name was Robert Jensen?”

“Correct,” Lindo confirmed. “Jensen worked as the legal attaché in the U.S. Embassy in Paris.”

“Why did Mason target Jensen?” Dean assessed the faces around the table. “Any theories on that?”

“We’re working on it,” Dietz grumbled dismissively.

Bullshit.

You’re keeping me in the dark.

You’re only telling me bits and pieces of the story.

“How was he killed?” Dean asked.

“In a manner befitting Erik Mason.” Lindo signaled at Witwer, cueing him to take the reins.

The sheepish Witwer pulled his chair closer to the table. He steepled his fingers and cleared his throat. “According to the preliminary report from the Gendarmerie Nationale, Agent Jensen was found deceased in a rundown chalet in the village of Moret-sur-Loing. The investigation was led by la Région de Gendarmerie de Bretagne, coordinated through their homicide division.”

“Plain speak,” Dean said. “What happened to this guy exactly?”

A pale Witwer wolfed down the lump in his throat. “The autopsy and forensic findings documented in the Rapport d’Enquête Criminelle state that Agent Jensen was tortured before he was killed.”

Dean leaned over the table, his stare boring through the timid FBI agent. “Be specific.”

“Jensen was decapitated,” Dietz blurted out. “His legs and arms were also severed from his body. Is that clear enough for you?”

Grizzly.

Dean sat back.

But a lot of crazed killers can claim a sadistic calling card.

Dean shook his head, glancing over at Lindo. “None of this explains how this is tied to Mason, sir. You guys made it sound like you had enough cause for suspicion here to entertain the theory that he was not only alive but also responsible for the murder.”

As if planned in advance, Witwer flicked his eyes at Dietz who gave him a scrap of paper from the file. Witwer slid it over to Dean in a ceremonious fashion.

Dean examined the paper, a high-contrast black-and-white photo of a fingerprint. “I assume,” he paused briefly, “that the fingerprint matches Erik Mason’s.”

Lindo nodded. “It was pulled from Agent Jensen’s neck. The French first ran the print through their AFIS—Association Française Pour L’Information Scientifique—and discovered that it matched Mason’s. That’s when they reached out to us for confirmation.”

“And if Mason’s body was consumed by that warehouse fire,” Dietz said, “the question we have is⁠—”

“How?” Dean pushed the paper back across the table. “I follow.”

Silence held sway in the conference room for several moments. Dean pictured the leering face of Erik Mason and the final words he imparted before he died.

“It ain’t over, my friend,” the deranged lunatic hissed through his blood-caked teeth. “It ain’t over.”

Blinking himself out of his trance, Dean pushed all thoughts of Mason aside and turned his attention to Lindo. “Someone must have planted Mason’s print at that crime scene, sir. That’s the only logical explanation here.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you, Agent Blackwood,” Lindo said. “Still, we want to entertain all theories in a bid to cross anything unreasonable or impractical off our list.”

“You’re not seriously entertaining the notion that Mason survived.”

“Again,” Dietz chimed in, glaring at Dean, “a body was never produced.”

He’s dead.

I saw it.

I did it.

Paranoid theories began creeping into Dean’s mind.

Crazier things in life have happened.

“I’m not sure what additional insight I can provide here.” Dean leaned back. “Mason is dead. I killed him. In terms of the print that was found, I can only assume it was planted.”

“We want a full detailed account of what happened in the months, weeks, and days leading up to terminating Mason,” Dietz pressed. “Your days as the Bureau’s dirty-work boy have been over for some time. That being the case, I think it’s safe to say that whatever operations you were part of and the great lengths your former superiors went to keep them under the rug can be considered declassified as of this moment.”

Dean laughed. “That’s not how it works.”

“Don’t screw with us here, Blackwood.” Dietz tapped his knuckles on the table. “You will tell us what happened with Mason, who assigned you to take him out, and⁠—”

Before Dietz could finish, Dean stood, pushed back his chair, and headed toward the door.

“Lindo,” Dietz said, throwing up his hands. “What the hell is this?”

Lindo held out his hand and rose from his seat. “We’re not done here, Agent Blackwood.”

“We are,” Dean replied as he opened the door. “Dietz is right. My tenure as the Bureau’s pool boy has been over for some time.” He held up a finger and waved it around the room. “But none of you, not even the director himself, have the clearances or the juice to declassify any of the operations I was involved in. If you have a problem with that, run the request up the flagpole. See what kind of results you get.” With that, Dean left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Dean rode the elevator down to the ground floor and strolled outside to his truck. He was fuming, partly because of Dietz but also because he was forced to relive one of many sour memories he had long since shelved.

Those days are over.

Mason is dead.

Whatever I did, who I was, is no longer a factor.

Dean began the drive back to his cabin, at least a three-hour trip. He played the radio at full blast. He would make this meeting nothing more than a faint smudge in the rearview mirror of his life.

“Still, laddie,” Woody prattled. “What if Mason is alive? If he is, he’s got good cause to come after you.”

He’s not alive.

“But what if he is?”

Yeah.

Dean checked all his mirrors. His anxiety swelled and his suspicions rose with every passing car. His senses were on alert at a level he hadn’t experienced since he left active field duty.

What if?

4

Dean cruised his truck down I-5, passing through Centralia, Winlock, and Portland. He wasn’t far now from his cabin in the woods near Mount Angel. His tension from the meeting at the field office had eased up.

It’s over.

Done.

Nothing more to say.

Arriving at his cabin, Dean put his truck in park, slipped out, and surveyed his slice of paradise—10 acres of solitude nestled in the forest, not one neighbor in sight. Beyond his cabin was a million-dollar view of the Pudding River slicing through the terrain, the area swathed in fog that capped the cedar, maple, and fern trees peppering a range that spanned many miles.

Call it a day.

He fished his keys out of his pocket, smiling as he picked up on the whimpers of his Blue Heeler inside.

“I’m coming,” Dean called out as he opened the door. When he stepped inside his cabin, his canine, Willy, immediately greeted him with a relentless onslaught of licks and groans. The dog groveled around on the floor, hollering to high heaven.

“What have you been doing all day, huh?” Dean ruffled the back of the dog’s neck before moving to his belly. “You’ve been doing nothing, you lazy brute.”

Once the routine of settling Willy down was finished, Dean headed to the kitchen and palmed a non-alcoholic beer from the fridge. He leaned against the kitchen island and took a pair of sips. Then he wandered over to the record player—a gift from his sponsor—pulled a Fleetwood Mac vinyl from the shelf, and placed it on the turntable. He cranked up the speakers next to the player and tapped his foot in sync to the rhythm of “Over My Head.”

“You’re still thinking about it, buddy,” Woody whispered. “I can tell.”

I am.

Dean’s thoughts pivoted to his ex-wife, his son, his father, and every other person in his life he was forced to leave behind in an effort to offer himself—and them—a fresh, chaos-free start. He found himself replaying a vast array of memories.

His brother’s death.

His father withdrawing from reality shortly after.

His sister Sheila.

Jeremy’s birth.

The day that punk kid process server handed him divorce papers, courtesy of Claire.

The muscles in the back of his neck constricted. Dean stepped out onto the back porch to stop his overactive brain. He surveyed the lush rolling hills that served as his backyard, breathing in the clean air deeply as the dull throb of Fleetwood Mac filtered out the screen door.

I miss Claire.

I miss Jeremy.

His thoughts pivoted to Los Angeles.

I miss home.

Dean cracked his neck.

I could use a real drink.

His grip on the non-alcoholic beer bottle tightened.

No.

Don’t do that.

Every sinew in his body felt like it was knotting.

You can’t do that.

Relying on his preplanned method to deal with the thirst, Dean pulled out his cell and dialed Bazz. It only rang once before his sponsor greeted him. “Bazz’s Toilet Emporium.”

Dean laughed. “You need a new opener.”

“How are you holding up, brother?”

“Not great.”

“I can tell.” Bazz took a beat. “You wanna talk?”

Dean told his sponsor—and closest confidant—about his sit-down with Lindo, Dietz, and Witwer. He segued to the story about Mason and how, for the first time in a few months, it had prompted a whirlwind of thoughts about his family and all the choices he made that compelled him to put as much distance between them and him as possible.

“That’s a lot of triggers, buddy,” Bazz lamented. “Good thing you’ve got a meeting tonight.” His tone ticked down an octave. “You are coming, right?”

“Hundred percent.” Dean leaned over the railing on the back porch as Willy ran out and nuzzled his leg. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

“I’m curious,” Bazz added.

“About what?”

“This Mason guy.”

As if listening in on the call, Willy the Blue Heeler whimpered and lowered his head.

“What about him?” Dean said, certain that Cliff Bazz was probing because he was certain the guy had connections to the CIA.

The man still possesses that operator persona.

“Who was he?” Bazz asked. “Why did the Bureau feel compelled now to pull you aside and have a chat about him?”

“Long story.” Dean thought of Agent Dietz. “Pretty sure they weren’t telling me all of it either.”

“Tell me more. I’ve got the time.”

“And I’ve wasted too much of mine wallowing in the past, Bazzy.” Dean reached down and scratched Willy under the chin. “Mason’s in my rearview mirror. And besides, I’m sure you could float his name past your people over at Langley and get the full rundown yourself.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bazz grumbled, a hint of laughter in his tone. “I was an insurance salesman for twenty years. You know that.”

“Right.” Dean shed his smile and moved back inside. “Getting back to what I was saying before …” He eyed the NA beer bottle in his hand. “I’m really feeling that pull today, brother. This is the worst it’s been in some time.”

“Are you using the breathing techniques?”

“I am.” The faint smell of whiskey teased Dean’s nostrils. He knew it was mere phantosmia—a smell that wasn’t really there—but he took a sniff of the bottle in his hand just to make sure.

“The cravings are killing me, Bazzy.” Dean massaged the back of his neck. “All this talk about Mason and my old career just stirred up a lot of crappy memories.”

“This was bound to happen.” Bazz sighed deeply. “And you should embrace it. These moments, these little tests need to happen because it provides you with the ability to prove your resolve to stay clean.”

The statement prompted Woody to offer his two cents: “Drink, lad,” he said. “Just one for old time’s sake.”

Dean’s jaw tensed.

Cold sweat beaded up on his forehead.

He quickly did the math and tallied that it would take him ten minutes to drive to the liquor store, ten to drive back, thirty to get a good buzz, and thirty more for Woody to take hold of the wheel completely.

Don’t.

You can’t.

Dean squeezed his eyelids shut.

You won’t.

“You’re entitled to feel frustrated, irritated, and pissed off here, buddy,” Bazz continued. “It’s how you choose to respond to it, what you decide to do next. Right now, that makes the difference.” He paused. “Now say it.”

Dean drew a deep breath and recited the mantra. “This too shall pass.”

“Again.”

“This too shall pass.”

“You’ve got this. I believe in you.” Bazz chuckled. “After the meeting tonight, maybe you and I can bowl a few frames. Heck, let’s kick around the idea of grabbing the poles and heading down to Bend this weekend while we’re at it.”

“I might call Claire and Jeremy here in a minute.” Dean meandered down the hallway and into his bedroom, Willy hot on his heels. “It’s been a few weeks.” He resisted the urge to sigh. “I’ll need to text her first to make sure it’s okay though.”

“Do what you gotta do, Deano,” Bazz said. “We can talk more at the meeting. Might be good to speak up tonight when you have the chance. You haven’t shared anything with the group in a while.”

“I’ll have to omit the more incriminating details the Bureau still has under lock and key.”

“You still need to share though,” Bazz repeated. “Just find a way to tweak the facts so you don’t give away anything confidential. Shouldn’t be difficult, given your previous experience.”

“I will.”

“See you soon.”

“Bazz …” Relief washed over Dean. Even Willy could sense it, the mutt wagging his tail. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Bazz reassured him. “I’ll catch you later.”

Dean ended the call and removed the SIG from his holster. He walked to his bedroom and took the pistol safe out from under his bed. He punched in the combination—the date his twin brother was killed—opened it, put the SIG inside, locked it, and slid it back under the bed.

He looked over at Willy.

The canine tilted his head to the side, his eyes teeming with anticipation.

“Yeah,” Dean mumbled as he got up. “Dinnertime.” He leaned down and kissed his furry companion on the forehead. “Right away, my liege.”

Dean put Willy’s food in his dish and set it on the kitchen floor. As always, Dean reminded Willy to slow down, and then he changed the album on the record player to Talking Book by Stevie Wonder. As “Superstition” cued up, he wandered out the front door and down the steep earthen grade that was his driveway. He headed to the mailbox 100 feet from the cabin near a blend of foliage.

He opened it and retrieved a small stack of mail, sifting through the pile and holding up each envelope in the last rays of the setting sun in the west.

He examined a power bill.

A letter from Claire’s lawyer.

A credit card statement.

The final item at the bottom of the stack was a high-ticket envelope made of cream-colored parchment. It piqued his interest. Dean flinched, seeing only his first and last name scribbled on the front, no address. There was also no return address on the front or the back.

He quickly placed the envelope back in the mailbox and stood back.

Don’t open it.

Don’t touch it.

You don’t know what’s inside.

Dean ogled the envelope for several moments, a sickly sensation settling in the pit of his stomach. He pulled out his cell, debating if he should call Bazz or the Bureau.

Wait.

Dean’s eyes widened.

His skin prickled.

He sensed a pair of eyes somewhere behind him in the thicket surrounding his property, glued to the back of his neck.

“Oh shit.”

Dean ducked.

The sharp crack of a gunshot drilled through the mailbox, followed by two more in rapid succession.

5

There was no time for Dean to think. Reaction was his only option. He dashed up the driveway and made a beeline to his pickup parked a few paces from the porch. A flurry of rounds stitched the ground behind him. Dean dived into cover behind his truck. One of the bullets clipped his left boot heel, ripping off a chunk of the leather.

Assess.

Pinpoint the shooter.

Dean propped up on one knee, listening for sounds in the bushes that would pinpoint the shooter’s location.

“You forgot your gun, buddy boy,” Woody taunted. “Man, you’re rusty.”

Dean gnashed his teeth and clenched a fist.

No shit.

He stayed behind the truck for several moments. No shots were fired. His only option was to get into the house and retrieve his SIG, a run that would leave him exposed to the shooter.

No choice.

You can’t stay here.

Dean angled his body toward the porch and dug in his heels.

Willy yelped from inside the cabin.

“Superstition” trickled through the record player speakers.

With a deep breath, Dean kicked off the ground and hightailed it toward the cabin. He kept low, ducking and swerving instinctively. Then he heard a bullet thwack and shatter the window on the driver’s side of the truck.

He scampered up the porch steps.

A shot grazed the porch railing.

Two more bored through the mid-rail of the front door as Dean knocked it open with his shoulder. He somersaulted on the floor and rolled onto his back, kicking the door shut before getting up and locking it. He located Willy and hauled him by his collar into the bathroom across from the bedroom.

“Stay here, pup,” Dean cooed, locking eyes with a whining Willy who backed away as he closed the door.

Get your weapon.

The scrape of footsteps on the porch brushed against Dean’s ears.

Defend yourself.

He hustled into the bedroom and fetched the pistol safe from under the bed. Voices inside his head of all his mentors chided him for not being armed at all times.

“Foolish boy,” his father remarked.

“An asinine move, Corporal,” Major Bishop from the Rangers commented.

“Not good,” his old handler Wilson chimed in.

I know.

I know.

I know!

Dean fumbled with the combination on the safe.

The clamor of the front door behind kicked in echoed throughout the cabin.

Stevie Wonder’s voice belted out at full blast from the living room.

Dean flipped open the safe, retrieved the SIG, and slipped in a magazine. He stood at an angle by the doorway, minimizing his exposure while keeping his weapon aimed at the threshold.

Come on.

Dean toggled the safety off. The one-story layout of the house was simple—foyer into living room, living room to kitchen and the back deck, and a jink to the left into the hallway with a bedroom on the left and a bathroom on the right.

My visitor here only has a few options.

Booted feet clacked with slow, methodical pacing across the floorboards in the living room.

Dean slowed his breathing, his eyes on the bedroom door, waiting for the shooter to make his entrance.

“Black-wooood,” the intruder called out from the living room, his Cajun accent cemented deeply in Dean’s brain. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

No.

Fucking.

Way.

Dean squinted his eyes.

That’s Leroy LeBlanc.

He strengthened his grip on the SIG.

How the hell is that possible?

Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the other, listening in on LeBlanc strafing his way through the living room and into the kitchen.

Just wait.

He slowly raised up the SIG, eyeing the sites.

“Come on now, Blackwood,” LeBlanc called out. “Show yourself. Be a chum. You make this easy, and maybe I’ll spare that mutt of yours. I was gonna cut that little shit eater’s head off and spike it on the lawn, but maybe we can forgo all that.”

Threatening his dog stirred up a rage so untenable in Dean that he thought about charging out of the bedroom and strangling LeBlanc with his bare hands.

Come on, LeBlanc.

Dean counted that LeBlanc was five to six paces away from making an appearance.

Show me those crooked teeth of yours, asshole.

“All right, buttercup,” LeBlanc called out. “You want to do it the hard way?” Dean clocked the tip of a Ruger Mini-14 creeping into his line of sight. “How about I start a fire in this bitchin’ place?” The left side of LeBlanc’s face came into view. “Burn it right to the friggin’ ground.”

Dean squeezed off a shot. The bullet zipped past LeBlanc who stepped back, spun around, and rattled off a volley of gunfire that pockmarked the door above Dean’s head.

Dean ducked back deeper into the bedroom. He clapped off two shots as he moved out of the line of fire and took up a position beside the nightstand.

“Who-weee!” LeBlanc shouted. “Keeping me on my toes there, bubba.” He paused. “Is that Stevie Wonder?” Dean heard the track on the record change to “You Are the Sunshine of My Life.”

God almighty.

Dean tried to think of his next play.

Hell of a way to spend a Friday night.

For a few moments, LeBlanc sang off-key with the song. Dean threw a quick look toward the bathroom, his heart reeling when he picked up on Willy’s frightened cries.

“Come out, man,” LeBlanc grunted. “Let’s have a chitchat.”

Dean laughed, amazed he had landed in this predicament. “How’ve you been, LeBlanc?”

“Pretty good.” LeBlanc’s tone grew cold. “My back still aches like a sumabitch from where you plugged me the last time.”

“Should’ve aimed higher then, you buck-toothed bayou-dweller.”

LeBlanc fired a relentless onslaught of rounds that chewed the bedroom door to pieces. Bits of wood flurried about like confetti poppers. He fired twenty bullets and then stopped.

“Now you’re acting ugly,” LeBlanc grumbled. “Let’s be civil now.”

Willy yelped.

Dean cursed under his breath.

The click-clack of LeBlanc loading another magazine carried through the cabin.

Think, damn you.

Think!

Dean took a look around his bedroom, searching for something—anything—that would help him get the upper hand.

He looked at the closet.

Recalled what was inside.

With a grin, he hastily threw open the accordion doors and retrieved the fire extinguisher.

6

Leroy LeBlanc could hear his soon-to-be-terminated victim screwing around in the bedroom. He heard Blackwood rifling around for something, but it didn’t matter. LeBlanc knew he had Dean cornered, and there was fuck-nothin’ the little bastard could do to navigate his way out of this pickle.

“Gun down, Blackwood,” LeBlanc commanded. “I’m gonna march into that bathroom and shoot that butt-sniffer of yours in about five seconds.”

LeBlanc held the stock of the Ruger straight out in front of him. He took a step forward, readying himself to move.

He took aim at the demolished bedroom door.

Moved toward it.

Two steps more and he saw the red burst of a fire extinguisher hurtling through the open doorway.

Dean swung up his SIG as the extinguisher landed with a thud on the wooden floor, gliding and rotating a few feet. He lined it up between the sites of his SIG and squeezed the trigger twice.

The first round clipped the nozzle.

The second perforated the canister, the bullet puncturing the valve inside that triggered the canister to burst open and spread a cloud of white vapor into the air.

Dean fired his SIG three more times in LeBlanc’s direction.

Push him back.

Make him find cover.

Hell, maybe you’ll get lucky and shoot him.

After Dean’s three shots, LeBlanc responded in kind. The Ragin’ Cajun clapped off six rounds, forcing Dean back into the bedroom.

“God damn it,” LeBlanc groaned through coughs and wheezes. “A dick move, Blackwood.”

By that point, a good amount of the vapor had dissipated. Dean was now able to see LeBlanc through the haze, batting his free hand to clear the air and then retreating to the living room.

Go after him.

Take him out.

Shut this thing down now!

Dean moved out of the bedroom, moving and firing his way into the kitchen. He sidestepped toward the kitchen island, discharging three more rounds at LeBlanc who was now in the living room and had managed to dive over the L-shaped couch and into cover.

“Shit,” Dean hissed as he ejected the mag, counted five rounds inside of it, and shoved it back into the magwell.

Five in the mag.

One in the chamber.

Six in total.

Laughter erupted from LeBlanc’s direction. “I think we got started on the wrong foot here, don’t you?”

“A little bit.” Dean peeked over the kitchen island, fired a round into the couch, and ducked down.

“Oh, come on!” LeBlanc shouted. “I’m trying to make amends here.”

“Sure thing.” Dean smirked. “Just poke your head up so I can look you in the eyes while you do it.”

“You gotta die, Blackwood. You know that, right?”

“I thought you were trying to make amends.”

“Yeah.” LeBlanc sputtered his lips. “I lied. Never was that good at it, was I?”

Dean shook his head. “The only person worse at it was that shithead attorney who represented you back during your trial.”

“I went away,” LeBlanc spoke through clenched teeth, “because of you.”

“You should’ve stayed there.” Lure him out. “What happened, sweet cheeks? Did someone feel you up in the showers over there at Angola?”

The ridicule worked. LeBlanc hollered at the top of his lungs as he fired his Mini-14 over the couch, fifteen rounds total. As soon as Dean heard the click of the weapon racking back empty, he dropped and rolled smoothly to the right. From his position behind the kitchen island, he cautiously peered out and spotted LeBlanc inserting a fresh magazine into his Mini-14.

Dean raised up his SIG and squeezed the trigger.

LeBlanc did the same.

The bullet Dean fired struck LeBlanc in his hand before it bored into the trigger mechanism of the Mini-14, forcing him to drop the weapon.

LeBlanc’s shot caught the slide on Dean’s 226. The impact knocked the weapon out of Dean’s hand, fragments of the bullet lodging in the slide, rendering it ineffective.

No way.

Dean cut a look at his weapon and rose to his feet.

LeBlanc mirrored the action.

Both men squared their shoulders.

“Not gonna lie,” LeBlanc said. “That was pretty cool.”

Willy’s cries rang out from the bathroom. Dean puffed his chest as he glanced briefly at the hallway, offering a silent apology to his companion. Through the corner of his eye, he caught sight of LeBlanc’s bloodied hand creeping toward the sheath strapped to his belt.

“Come on, boy,” LeBlanc beckoned as he drew out a 10-inch serrated blade. “Let’s hit the floor.”

Dean eyed the knife block on the kitchen island. He quickly extracted the chef’s knife and held it in a hammer grip.

LeBlanc spread his stance, baring his teeth. He shifted his weight from one foot to another, an amped-up bull waiting to be let out of a gate.

“I’ve been looking forward to this.” LeBlanc pointed the blade at Dean. “Thought a lot about it when you were testifying against me on the stand.”

Dean spaced his feet apart.

LeBlanc juggled the blade.

Willy howled at a high pitch.

Making the first move, LeBlanc charged toward the kitchen, drawing back his arm.

With his sights on LeBlanc’s torso, Dean hurled his chef’s knife overhand. LeBlanc ducked as the knife scraped his cheek, burrowing tip first into the front door.

LeBlanc’s eyes widened. “What the hell was that about?” He threw up his hands. “You ever hear of playin’ fair?”

Without hesitation, Dean retrieved another knife from the block. He threw it overhand at LeBlanc and swiftly snagged another one and then another.

“Come on, man!” LeBlanc dipped to the left and then to the right, twisting away from the incoming blades.

Two knives were left in the block—a cleaver and a boning knife. LeBlanc twisted his way into the kitchen in a serpentine fashion, bobbing and weaving like a boxer as Dean hurtled the cleaver. The knife whizzed past LeBlanc’s right arm, slicing open the sleeve of his jacket. LeBlanc let out a loud, high-pitched bellow as he marched on several paces closer to Dean.

Dean took a step back and breathed deeply. With a quick flick of his wrist, he sent the boning knife toward his target and observed the tip of the blade embed itself into LeBlanc’s right shoulder.

LeBlanc’s body jerked, halting his momentum as he did a quick assessment of the damage. That gave Dean ample time to pick up the six-pound knife block, spin it between his hands, and chuck it full force at LeBlanc’s face.

The block struck LeBlanc square in his nose, fracturing it with a resounding snap. He dropped to his knees, his vision swirling as Dean lumbered toward him. With a swift kick of his boot, Dean knocked the serrated blade out LeBlanc’s hand, sending it skidding across the floor.

Blood seeped from LeBlanc’s nose. His reddened face was inflating like a birthday balloon. He turned up his gaze, mumbling unintelligibly as he locked eyes with Dean.

Dean flared his nostrils.

Took a step back.

Then Dean raised his foot and stomped on the left side of LeBlanc’s head.

7

The scene at the cabin was now typical of most crime scenes—a trio of sheriff’s cruisers parked at canted angles, the terrain glowing with red-and-blue emergency lights. A pair of deputies gripped LeBlanc’s arms—his hands cuffed behind his back—and escorted the battered and bloodied assassin off the porch toward one of the cruisers. He was still in a daze from the boot to his head, but he managed to flash a leer at Dean as an officer placed him in the back seat of a cruiser.

How did he get out?

How did he know where I live?

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat.

Who sent him here?

“Oh, come now, lad,” Woody remarked. “You know who.”

Dean, seated on the top step of his front porch, hooked his arm around Willy. The dog whimpered, shaking gently as he buried his wet nose into the nape of his owner’s neck.

“I know, buddy,” Dean cooed as he softly patted the canine’s rear. “I know.”

Shortly after LeBlanc was stuffed into the back of the cruiser, Dean picked up on the crunching of tires. Craning his neck, he caught a glimpse of a 2002 Chevy Silverado bounding up the driveway. Bazz’s truck.

Dean signaled at Willy to stay put. The pup lay down, scanning the scene suspiciously as his owner approached the beefy 6’3” gentleman with a four-day scruff, springing out of the pickup.

The tails of Cliff Bazz’s multicolored Hawaiian shirt—he traded off between a selection of five—were whipped up by the wind as he nudged past the sheriff’s deputies. Unlike big cities, folks knew each other around Mount Angel, so the deputies didn’t bother stopping Bazz, a man they knew and revered. Bazz pulled Dean into an embrace.

“For the love of Pete,” Bazz said, thumping his meaty palms against Dean’s back. “You all right?”

“I’m good.”

Bazz stepped back. He kept a firm grip on Dean’s shoulders, examining him fully. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Breathing a sigh, Bazz let his hands drop to his sides. He did a quick survey of the scene before his gaze settled on the bloke with the broken nose and bloody face in the back of the cruiser.

“Is that him?”

Dean nodded. “Leroy LeBlanc.”

Bazz snapped his head around. “You know that SOB?”

“Remember that Erik Mason prick I mentioned earlier?”

“What about him?”

“Well, that dipshit,” Dean pointed to LeBlanc, “was a known associate of Erik Mason. They were partners at one point.”

Bazz placed his hands on his hips. Dean fell quiet as he watched his sponsor absorb the information.

“The powers that be call you into a meeting about this Erik Mason guy,” Bazz said. “Hours later, one of his old pals just happens to wander into your neck of the woods.” He lifted his eyebrows, gesturing to the towering thickets around the property. “No pun intended.”

“It’s no coincidence, Bazzy.” Dean glanced over at his mailbox. The envelope, sans return address, was still inside. “Someone’s calling me out of hiding here.”

After telling Bazz what happened, Dean walked with his sponsor to the mailbox. The pair kept a safe distance from the bullet-scarred box, examining the envelope inside as though it were wired to blow.

“You didn’t touch it,” Bazz said. “Right?”

“Only to take it out of the box and then put it back in.”

“Hell.” Bazz bent over to give the envelope a closer inspection. “For all we know, there’s anthrax in that friggin’ thing.” He faced Dean. “I take it the bigwigs from the Bureau are on their way?”

“They should be close.” Dean checked the time on his G-Shock. “The Evidence Response Team is with them.” He motioned to the deputies who were maintaining a safe distance from the property. “Once I flashed my shield, the Duke Boys there tucked their tails between their legs and backed off.”

“What the hell is going on here, buddy?” Bazz shrugged. “What’s the story?”

“Not sure.” Dean looked over at the cruiser LeBlanc had been placed in. He met the assassin’s gaze before LeBlanc pressed his lips against the window and puffed his cheeks.

“Whatever it is, lad,” Woody commented, “it’s not good.”

Moments after Woody offered his insights, an unmarked sedan rolled up to the scene, a single emergency light mounted to the dash. Antennas dotted the rear window and trunk—quintessential Bureau gear. It came as no surprise to Dean that Delvin Lindo—the special agent he had just met with at the Seattle field office—was in the car. Agent Witwer was in the passenger seat.

The question he had was how they had made such a quick appearance, considering the three hours it would have taken them to drive there from the field office.

Lindo offered his hand. “Agent Blackwood.”

“Sir.” Dean reluctantly accepted the gesture.

Lindo peeked over his shoulder at LeBlanc. The two-bit whack job had fogged up the cruiser’s window with his breath, laughing as he proceeded to draw a smiley face with his tongue, making Xs for eyes.

“What happened here?” Lindo asked, examining the scene.

Dean walked Lindo and Witwer through the whole ordeal, concluding with the part about the anonymous letter he had found in his mailbox. When Dean was halfway through recapping the story, the FBI’s Evidence Response Team and the Material Response Team both arrived at the scene, four agents in all. Lindo instructed them to examine the letter.

“Sir,” Bazz butted in, his hand held out to Lindo. “I’m Cliff Bazz.”

“Bazz.” Lindo curled his lip curiously. “I think we’ve met before.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“I’m sure of it.” Lindo leaned back, assessing Bazz from head to toe. “We crossed paths in DC back in 2001 during the Senate Intelligence Committee.” His smile broadened. “You were one of two guys who escorted the CIA Director at the time into the session.”

Bazz narrowed his eyes, constricted his lips, and shook his head. “Wasn’t me,” he grumbled. “Must’ve been someone else.” He swiped his hand through the air. “Guys like me with broad chests and surly demeanors are a dime a dozen.”

Despite the heat of the situation, Dean was still amused that yet another clue had been dropped about his sponsor’s previous occupation. After the uncomfortable exchange between Bazz and Lindo wrapped up, Lindo requested that Dean walk him through the cabin and give him details about the shootout. Inside, unwanted guests were bagging up shell casings and marking items with evidence tags. Willy whimpered and even barked at times as they wandered throughout his cabin.

One of the members of the response team who was examining the envelope called out to Lindo, who reacted immediately, putting on a pair of Latex gloves and walking over. Dean and Bazz were right behind him, their eyes pinned to the wiry tech with half-frame horned rims who was holding up the now unsealed envelope in his hand.

“Agent Lindo,” the tech said as he held it out. “It’s clean.”

Lindo took the envelope and pulled out the letter, a single page of cream-colored parchment. He examined it briefly, sighing as he held out the letter for Dean to read. “Don’t touch it.”

Dean narrowed his eyes, staring at a single line on the paper scrawled in thick red ink.

CONSIDER US EVEN, MY FRIEND

Dean swung around and gazed at LeBlanc in the back seat of the cruiser. The Cajun’s eyes were as wide as saucers, his lips pulled back into a cocksure sneer. He nodded his head and laughed as though he somehow knew what Dean was thinking.

Erik Mason.

Dean read the note again.

That’s his handwriting.

No doubt in my mind.

8

It was easy for Dean to recall—as was every moment of his life—what Mason’s handwriting looked like. Days before he killed Mason, he tracked him to a motel outside Kansas City. The clerk there had provided Dean with a bill, paid in cash, for the room Mason had stayed in the night before under the name Earl Boone. The signature scrawled on the bottom of the bill matched the handwriting Dean had just seen on the letter.

“It’s Mason, sir,” Dean said to Lindo. “That’s his handwriting.”

The tech with the specs arched one eyebrow. “How do you know?” He motioned to the letter that Lindo now gripped in his hand. “We’ll have to run it through forensic analysis software and cross-reference it with the suspect’s handwriting.”

Dean waved off the tech. “It’s him.” He tapped his head, a steel vault of recollections. “Trust me.”

“Interesting,” Lindo commented. “Then again the rumors of your affinity for recall are well-known and unparalleled.”

“That’s a big reason the Bureau recruited me in the first place.” Dean shrugged, thinking back to when Agent Kent Wilson had visited him in the hospital in Germany and pitched him the offer. An agent with impeccable memory was an asset who had massive potential in the field.

Plus a hair-trigger temper, exceptional marksmanship skills, and ample time with Rangers.

A guided missile who could lock on and take out a target with the snap of a finger.

“Agent Blackwood,” Lindo said, steering Dean away by the arm toward his sedan. “You stated that the man who assaulted you tonight was Leroy LeBlanc.” He turned up his gaze. “A known associate of Erik Mason.”

“Correct.”

“If that’s the case, assuming the man in the back of that cruiser is Leroy LeBlanc⁠—”

“It is.”

“Well, then it’s hard not to consider the timing of tonight’s events to be nothing short of remarkable.” Lindo squinted. “It’s strange, yes, but let’s not jump to any conclusions.”

Oh, come on.

This guy can’t be serious.

“It’s not remarkable, sir.” Dean locked eyes with his superior, his face striped by the hellish glow of nearby emergency lights. “You bring me in for a casual inquiry about Erik Mason. Hours later, Mason’s old associate shows up at my place and tries to smoke me. Then I get a letter in the mail with Mason’s handwriting scribbled all over it.” He nodded. “This was by design.”

“I see,” Lindo said.

“Sir,” Dean softened his tone. “Permission to speak freely.”

“Granted.”

“What the hell is going on?”

“Agent Blackwood, that very question lingers on the tip of all our tongues at the moment.”

“I’m speaking about the meeting that took place at the field office earlier today.” Dean took a step closer. “I was given a clipped version of events in regard to what happened to Agent Robert Jensen. While it’s been some time since I’ve been in the field, the basic principles of reading body language that the Bureau taught me have stayed with me.”

Lindo crossed his arms. “Point being?”

“You’re withholding, Agent Lindo.” Dean pointed his finger toward LeBlanc in the cruiser. “That shithead didn’t show up here tonight unannounced on a whim. That letter I received is as incriminating as it gets. And how in the hell did LeBlanc manage to escape federal lockup? He got put away in Angola for a twenty-to-life stretch. If memory serves me, he only served a dime of that sentence.”

Lindo held up his hand. “We’ll figure it out in due time, Agent Blackwood. What’s important right now is making sure you are safe and⁠—”

“Don’t read from the cue cards here, sir.” Dean felt his temperature tick up. “I’ve been out of the field for years. Now today, Erik Mason decides to reach out from the grave? And a known accomplice of his who’s supposed to be locked up goes well out of his way to pop me?”

“Again,” Lindo insisted, “we will need time to sift through everything. In the meantime, I’d suggest you pack your bags and hole up in lodgings closer to the field office.”

“I’d prefer to stay in Mount Angel, sir.”

“Negative. I need you close by the field office in case we have to pull you in for questioning at a moment’s notice. I can’t waste time waiting for you to commute from Point A to B.” Lindo pulled out his cell, drafting a text. “You’ll stay at the Westin. I’ll have a room ready for you when you arrive. I’ll also arrange to have several agents assigned to sit with you at the hotel until we can sort all this out.”

“Sir, I⁠—”

“Pack your bags, Agent Blackwood.” Lindo’s tone hardened. “Go to Seattle. In the meantime, we will secure this scene and take the suspect over to the Federal Detention Center after we get him checked out at the hospital. We have things covered on this end, rest assured.” He smiled weakly and patted Dean on the arm. “Get some rest. You’ve been through a lot.”

Dean was thinking like a chess player, assessing and pinpointing what his next five moves would be. “I’d like my sponsor to stay with me.”

Lindo shot a look at Bazz. “The big guy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What for?”

“I’m in recovery, Agent Lindo.” Dean’s posture slackened. “I was supposed to go to a meeting with him tonight.” He gestured to the bullet holes stitched into the front door of his cabin. “Obviously, that didn’t pan out. Consistency with meetings and check-ins with my sponsor regularly are critical aspects of remaining sober, so it would help tremendously if my sponsor, Cliff Bazz, stayed with me during this time.” He feigned a pleading expression. “The last thing I want to do is slip. There have been a lot of triggers tonight.”

For a few moments Lindo considered the request.

“And I want my dog to come with me. That’s a given.”

Lindo couldn’t help but smile, and then he reluctantly relented and agreed. “But you, Bazz, and that mutt have to leave for Seattle right away.”

I need time.

Dean slapped together a plan.

Plenty of time to do what I need to do.

Saying nothing more, Dean headed inside, packed his bags, and gathered up Willy’s leash and food. After he put his luggage and Willy in his pickup—broken window and all—he approached Bazz, the man who was “never” in the CIA. He was loitering near the mailbox.

“Need a favor, Bazzy.”

“Sure.” Bazz turned around. “What’s up?”

“They’re about to take LeBlanc to the hospital.”

“Makes sense.” Bazz laughed. “You did stab the guy and stomp on his head with your boot.”

Dean ticked down the volume of his voice, leaning into Bazz’s ear. “I’m going to head to the Westin hotel in Seattle to check into a room.”

“Kind of a trek, isn’t it? Why can’t you stay somewhere close by?”

“They want to keep a close eye on me. They don’t want me going too far off the reservation.” Dean turned around to check on Willy. The dog’s nose was pressed against the back window. The weary look in his eye signaled he was taxed from the night’s events. “Honestly, I think Lindo and those other two pricks at the meeting are holding something back.”

Bazz squinted. “Like what?”

“I’d have to have a conversation with them to get more insight into that, Bazzy.”

“I’ve got a feeling that’s not gonna happen.”

“No.” Dean sighed. “It won’t.” He peeked at the cruiser LeBlanc was in, still saturated in the glow of emergency lights. “But maybe my friend Leroy LeBlanc has some answers.”

“No way in hell you’ll get a face-to-face with him,” Bazz said. “His ass is going to be under lock and key for the duration.” He snickered. “Unless you can find a way to bullshit your way into the hospital or something, you’re up a creek without a paddle.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “That’s my plan.”

“What is?”

“To bullshit my way into the hospital where they’ll be holding him. I’m sure they’ll take him to a Seattle hospital where they can keep an eye on him and question him.”

“Jesus,” Bazz groaned as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I was kidding.”

“I’m not,” Dean said. “While I drive to Seattle and check into the Westin, you’re gonna tail the cruiser LeBlanc is in. As soon as you know which Seattle hospital he’s in, you’ll go inside and find out what room he’s in. Then you’ll link up with me at the hotel.” He clapped his sponsor on his back. “Make sure you put on a coat or something when you go into the hospital. They’ll spot that loud shirt of yours a mile away.”

“It’s late, Deano. You’re spinning.” Bazz’s features stiffened. “We also missed tonight’s meeting, which I’m not happy about. Frankly, I think the two of us just need to get some sleep.”

“Help me out here, Bazzy.” Dean flashed a pleading set of eyes at his sponsor. “I need to know why and how LeBlanc showed up here tonight. I can’t wait for days or weeks for Lindo to deliver some redacted version of events. Just do me this one favor.” He took a beat. “Please.”

A bleary-eyed Bazz briefly met Dean’s gaze. A hint of a sigh trickled out of his mouth. “How do you plan on shaking Lindo’s people at the hotel? Once you check in, he’s gonna want to keep a close eye on you.”

“Don’t worry.” Dean winked. “I’ve got that covered.”

9

Minutes after checking into the Westin in downtown Seattle, Dean navigated his way to his room on the fourth floor. In the lobby, he had memorized the placard on a wall that blueprinted the emergency exits.

After setting up Willy’s dishes and ordering his furry buddy to go to bed, Dean waited in the room for just shy of ten minutes until a pair of agents arrived. They announced themselves as Raab and McFadden and stated that they’d be posted up in the room directly across the hall so they could keep a close eye on things.

Dean shook both their hands. “Appreciate the help, boys.”

Twenty minutes after Raab and McFadden slipped into the room across from Dean’s, Bazz arrived. McFadden quickly intercepted him at Dean’s door. Raab placed a call to Lindo to verify who Bazz was. Then they gave Bazz the go-ahead to enter Dean’s room.

Bazz walked inside, closed the door, and informed Dean that Leroy LeBlanc had been taken to the Harborview Medical Center in Seattle, less than a ten-minute drive from their hotel. He was admitted to a room on the third floor.

“I followed Lindo and that other agent with him into Harborview,” Bazz whispered, peeking over his shoulder toward the door. “I made sure to keep my distance so they didn’t spot me. They were there for a while, long enough for LeBlanc to get admitted and taken to a room. Then they left.”

“They probably went back to the field office,” Dean said. “I’m sure LeBlanc’s not giving them anything. They’ll probably take another run at him in a couple hours after he has a chance to rest.” Dean fetched his leather jacket. “Did they post up anyone outside LeBlanc’s door?”

“Local PD.”

“How many?”

Bazz held up a single finger.

Dean then initiated the second part of his plan. He told Bazz to stomp on the ice bucket with his foot. Then Bazz took the bucket across the hall to Raab and McFadden’s room, making sure his bulky frame blocked the view out their peephole.

Bazz rapped his knuckles on the door.

Dean slipped out of his room and dashed down the hallway, making sure he was well out of sight by the time Agent Raab answered the door.

That’s done.

As Dean dashed into the stairwell, he heard his sponsor grumbling to Raab about his broken ice bucket.

Now comes the hard part.

Hospitals always unnerved Dean. He’d be around death plenty in his life. He’d seen men get shot, stabbed, burned, drowned, and run over in the thirty-seven years he’d been alive, but hospitals were different.

“You gotta watch people die slowly,” Woody groaned. “It’s worse. A lot more protracted.”

Exactly.

Recollections of his mother’s passing came to mind.

And it blows.

Dean navigated his way through the third floor of Harborview Medical. The staff—orderlies, doctors, nurses—paid him no mind. They were too taxed and preoccupied saving lives. As far as they knew, the 6’3” guy was just there to cheer up a close friend or relative.

Two minutes into his sweep of the floor, Dean spotted a uniformed Seattle police officer standing by a door outside a room. The officer looked like he was in his late 20s or early 30s. His lustrous blue eyes swept the hallway for signs of any threats. One hand was on his holstered service weapon. The other hand was behind his back.

Thank God.

Dean cleared his throat and approached the officer.

Rookies are much easier to sway.

“Evening,” Dean greeted as he held up his badge to the kid’s face. “Special Agent Dietz from the Seattle field office.”

The officer—Dean saw the name Byrne on his name tag—straightened his back. “Evening.”

“Leroy LeBlanc?”

“No, sir.” Byrne shook his head. “I’m Josh Byrne. Central Precinct.” He winced. “Crap. You weren’t asking for my name.” Byrne nodded over his shoulder at the door. “Yeah, this is LeBlanc’s room.”

“You seem jittery, son.”

“I’m on my second Red Bull, sir.”

“Take it easy with that stuff. It’ll shave years off your shelf life.” Dean offered the young officer a warm smile, the kind an older brother might give. “When’s the last time someone talked to LeBlanc?”

“A few minutes ago.” Byrne craned his neck, searching the hallways. “An orderly, I think.”

“No one else?”

“Just his doctor, sir.”

“Understood.” Dean clipped his badge to his belt. “I’m gonna head inside, if you don’t mind.”

“I, uh …” Byrne spread his feet, blocking the door. “A man named Lindo said no one except the doctors and nurses are supposed to go in or out of this room, sir.”

Dean tensed the muscles in his face. “Oh boy.”

Byrne’s eyes widened. “Oh boy what?”

“You weren’t told.”

“Told what, sir?”

“Your CO should have briefed you that I was coming by.” Dean pulled out his cell. “Someone’s night is about to get a hell of a lot longer.” He feigned dialing a number and then held the device to his ear.

“Sir, I …” Byrne searched around the hospital as though some third party would show up to intervene. “Who are you calling?”

“Central Precinct.”

“What for?”

“Because we’ve got a problem.” Dean held up a finger, continuing with the ruse that someone was on the other line. “Yes, this is Agent Blackwood.” He paused. “Yes, I’m here now.” He nodded. “Yes, his name is Byrne. He’s one of yours.” He narrowed his eyes. “No, you didn’t tell him.” Dean held up his hand. “No, he’s not letting me in. Who is Byrne’s watch commander? I think we should⁠—”

“Sir.” Byrne reached out, grabbed Dean’s sleeve, and pulled him closer. “You can go in. It’s fine. Really.”

Dean paused for dramatic effect, sizing up Byrne. Certain that he had Byrne on the hook, he told the “man” on the other end of the line that everything was sorted out, that he could take it from here.

“Thank you, Byrne.” Dean pocketed his cell. “Appreciate the help.”

“Of course, sir.” Byrne stood aside. “If you need anything, just give me a shout.”

“Just let me know if Agent Lindo or anyone else from the field office shows up.” You need to clear this kid out of earshot. “Also, if it’s not too much trouble, I’d love a cup of coffee.”

“Copy that, sir.”

Byrne opened the door to LeBlanc’s room, gesturing like an overeager bellhop for Dean to enter. Then he retreated down the hallway. Dean stepped inside the room, hands in his pockets. His upper lip twitched like a rabid dog as he met LeBlanc’s gaze, the bruised-up, pulpy-faced Cajun shackled to his bed.

“Don’t kill him, laddie,” Woody insisted. “We need to know what he knows.”

Sure thing.

Dean cracked his knuckles on his right fist.

Whatever you say.

10

Dean walked around LeBlanc’s bed, his gaze fixed on the linoleum floor. LeBlanc wolfed down a cup of red jello, exaggerating the sucking noises just for effect.

“Figured you’d come calling,” LeBlanc grunted as he tossed his empty plastic cup to the floor. “You’re still as resourceful as ever. No way in hell this little visit here is sanctioned.”

“How are you feeling, Leroy?”

“Like hammered shit.” LeBlanc turned his eyes down, assessing the bandages on his hand, face, and shoulder. “Throwing those knives at me was a classless act, Blackwood.”

Dean parted the window curtain and examined the well-lit parking lot below through the mesh-wire glass. “You’re lucky I didn’t kill you.”

“Maybe you should have.”

“Maybe I will.”

“No.” LeBlanc spoke through clenched teeth. “You should have. Not that sparing me or yourself tonight will make much of a difference.” His eyes wandered, filled with knowing. “Someone will get to you here soon. I was just hoping I would get to you first.”

“That’s why I’m here.” Dean located a chair in the corner, dragged it to the side of the bed, and sat down. “Need to pick your brain a little bit about the events leading up to your little visit to my cabin earlier tonight.”

LeBlanc flashed a pair of blood-stained teeth. “Never thought I’d get the chance to see you again, Deano. You look a lot better than the last time. You were throwing Jameson like you were getting paid per shot.”

“And you,” Dean faced the bed, “were pimping out your services to Erik Mason the last time we crossed paths.” He flared his nostrils, his expression radiating pure hate. “You were also hawking copies of those little video recordings you made of you and your victims on the dark web.”

“Cinematic masterpieces.”

“They also swayed the judge into slapping a harsher sentence on you.”

“Prosecution couldn’t prove that I sold those videos or that I was the one on those recordings with those women.” LeBlanc’s tone brimmed with pride. “Sure, Judge Weinbaugh tacked a few more years onto my stretch, but hey, what’s a couple more years in the long run?”

“I’m glad you brought that up,” Dean leaned forward, “because I can’t for the life of me figure out how the hell you managed to get yourself sprung from Angola, at least not in a legal sense.”

“Oh, in due time you’ll figure that out,” LeBlanc said. “But your focus shouldn’t be on me right now, Blackwood. Frankly, what you should be thinking about is finding a place to hide before he shows up.”

Dean assessed LeBlanc. “You’re talking about Mason—a dead man?”

“Erik Mason isn’t dead, my friend.” LeBlanc winked. “He is very much alive.”

“Where is he?”

“Dunno.”

“Don’t play games with me.”

“Is this the part where you threaten me like you did the last time?” LeBlanc slightly raised his shackled wrist. “I’m in protective custody. Nothing more you can do to me. I’m going back to Angola, for life this time. Sure, I failed to take you out, but at least I got a few days on the outside. I’ll chalk this one up to a win.”

“Assuming Mason won’t kill you for failing to kill me,” Dean scoffed.

LeBlanc stared intensely at Dean. “Don’t worry about me.” He smirked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “My part in this is done. The man you should be worried about is Mason.”

How in God’s name could Mason be alive?

Why did he kill Agent Robert Jensen in France?

How does that tie into LeBlanc?

Dean’s neck muscles tensed, his frustration mounting.

What the hell is going on?

“You’re killing time, lad,” Woody said. “Too much of it. You need to find out what LeBlanc knows about Mason, and you need to do it fast.”

Despite the fact that Woody’s presence was a much-unwanted irritation, the Irish prick was right. Dean needed to know what LeBlanc knew, and he needed to know it now. He put his chair back in the corner and moved to the door, engaging the deadbolt with a soft click.

“Knock it off, Blackwood,” LeBlanc muttered. “That whole telephone-book detective crap doesn’t sway me anymore.”

Become who you were.

Who you used to be.

Dean shot a look at the metal tray on the cart next to the bed where there were remnants from the cheap, flavorless hospital meal LeBlanc had consumed.

If you want to know what LeBlanc knows, you gotta get rough.

With a swipe of his hand, Dean grabbed the tray, knocking bits of food and trash onto the floor. He held it up high in his right hand as he approached the bed.

You have to go ballistic.

“How did you escape from prison?” Dean growled. “Who told you where I live?” He held the tray higher. “Also—and this is the most important question you have to answer—is Erik Mason alive?”

LeBlanc eyed the tray. He turned his gaze to Dean. Then he laid back his head, yawned, and closed his eyes.

“Turn off the light on your way out, will ya?” LeBlanc used his head to fluff his pillow. “I’m gassed.”

Dean blinked once.

Stepped back.

With a firm, two-handed grip, he swung the tray over his head, lined it up with LeBlanc’s face, and followed through like a batter swinging at a 100-mile-per-hour fast pitch.

11

“Six days ago, LeBlanc was taken from Angola, the Louisiana State Penitentiary, to Our Lady of the Lake Regional Medical Center in Baton Rouge. He had faked a cardiac episode.” Dean didn’t pause as he explained to Bazz what LeBlanc had pulled off. He looked out the window of their hotel room at the skyline of Downtown Seattle.

“Once LeBlanc was at the Medical Center, a plan orchestrated well in advance was carried out. With the assistance of a few well-placed accomplices, LeBlanc broke out of the hospital and fled the state.”

“LeBlanc told you this?” Bazz asked, his voice weighted with skepticism. “Just like that?”

Dean nodded.

“How?”

Dean thought about the six blows he delivered to LeBlanc’s face, arms, and shins with the metal tray. He opted out of telling his sponsor the grittier details of his interrogation methods and continued sharing LeBlanc’s confession.

“I only got a few minutes worth of talk out of him before I had to leave,” Dean said. “Lindo and Dietz showed up not long after I got there.”

“Did they make you?”

“No. I snuck out the back.”

“Not bad.” Bazz moved to the bed and scratched a slumbering Willy behind his ears. “I guess being a field agent is like riding a bicycle—you never forget how to do it.” He held up his hand. “Not that I would know anything about that.”

Yeah.

Dean thought about how easy it was to flip that switch, to go from being in neutral for the past several years to Ballistic Blackwood at the drop of a hat.

Like a duck to water.

“Go on,” Bazz said. He made a gesture with his hand for the story to continue. “I wanna know how LeBlanc managed to bust out of the hospital in Baton Rouge.”

Dean shrugged, pacing the room. “LeBlanc claimed that six weeks before he broke out, someone contacted him inside Angola through his lawyer.”

“Who?”

“He wouldn’t tell me. I didn’t have enough time to get that from him. He did say that this individual, whoever he was, had set up a plan to break him out of prison.”

Dean explained that he was taken to Our Lady of the Lake where a nurse, an EMT, and the police officer guarding his room helped him slip out right after the doctors finished their battery of tests.

“The EMT gave LeBlanc a set of car keys,” Dean continued. “Once LeBlanc made it to the parking lot, he slipped behind the wheel of a Mercury. Inside the trunk was a duffel bag, 30 grand in cash, a fake passport, and a Ruger M-14.”

Bazz nodded, piecing together the rest of the story. “Then LeBlanc drove across state lines.”

“Correct.”

“He made the 35-hour trek to Oregon.” Bazz nodded at Dean. “To your place.”

“He also changed cars halfway here,” Dean explained. “The guy who helped him break out, the one who orchestrated everything, had set all this up in advance. He gave LeBlanc my home address and a history of my movements.”

“I don’t suppose there’s a way to corroborate all this? What I’m asking is if you think LeBlanc could be full of shit.”

“Oh, he definitely broke out.” Dean took out his phone and tapped it a couple times. Bazz leaned over and took a look at the title of the news article on the screen.

ANGOLA PRISON BREAK:

INMATE ESCAPES HOSPITAL WITH STAFF’S ASSISTANCE

“God almighty,” Bazz groaned as he read the article. “LeBlanc wasn’t spinning yarns.” He handed the phone back to Dean. “What happened to the cars he escaped in? All that other stuff?”

“Apparently, the only evidence the Feds found was the Ruger LeBlanc used to open fire on me,” Dean said. “As for the cars, the fake passport, and the map, they were torched. LeBlanc claimed he burned everything a few hours before he showed up at my place and shot at me.”

“What about the letter you found in the mailbox?”

“LeBlanc left it there.”

“Is he the author?”

“Negative. It was in the trunk of the Mercury that his”—Dean thought of a way to put it—“benefactor left for him. LeBlanc was instructed to place the letter in my mailbox before he took me out. When I asked LeBlanc who orchestrated his breakout, I had to get out of there. I saw Lindo and Dietz in the parking lot getting out of their car.”

Bazz got up and paced the floor, tracing his fingers back and forth across his jawline. From the poker games Dean had played with his sponsor, he knew this was his unconscious way of signaling his frustration.

“Clearly someone wanted you dead,” Bazz said, ticking off the facts. “And if LeBlanc’s story is true, which it appears to be, you have reason to believe that it’s Erik Mason pulling his strings.”

“Or someone claiming to be Erik Mason,” Dean corrected. “I killed the son of a bitch a long time ago.”

“Is it possible that he’s alive?”

“I don’t know.” Dean replayed the scene from his eidetic memory—shooting Mason three times in the sternum and watching him crumble to the floor of the fire-licked warehouse. “I’m not inclined to believe he’s alive. After I shot him, the fire spread like the place was soaked in kerosene. The cops set up a tight perimeter around the scene seconds after I got out of there. If Mason did escape, he must’ve dug a tunnel underneath the foundation in less than a minute, all while he was bleeding out from the three bullets I shot into his chest.”

“Then who sent LeBlanc?” Bazz asked. “Who would go to these lengths to break him out? Who has the pull to orchestrate something this elaborate, not to mention bribe a nurse, an EMT, and a cop to help him escape?”

I don’t know.

Dean glanced over at sleeping Willy. The dog’s paws twitched as he whimpered, the telltale signs of a nightmare.

I just don’t know.

“I have to talk to Lindo,” Dean said. “I have to tell him what LeBlanc told me and how I got him to tell me.”

“You tuned him up.” Bazz frowned. “Didn’t you?”

“A little.”

“Well, that confession will significantly complicate the investigation the Feds currently have in motion.” Bazz held up his hands. “I mean, from the limited experience I have, I’m fairly certain that whacking a man upside the head who’s currently in federal custody will significantly, pardon my French, fuck up the works.”

“It will,” Dean said. “But I don’t have a choice. If I tell Lindo what happened, yeah, I’ve got problems. My career is over. Still, I managed to elicit a confession from LeBlanc that he would have otherwise not given. Lindo and his pals would’ve spent weeks trying to break him. The confession will be inadmissible, but the information will help steer the investigation in the right direction.”

For a few moments, Bazz fell silent. Finally, he turned up his head and met Dean’s gaze. “That’s why the Feds hired you way back when, didn’t they? What you did to LeBlanc tonight was your old MO.” He grinned, but it was glazed with a thin layer of unease. “That’s how you used to put all those guys down back in the day.”

“I did when the Bureau was left with no other option to take someone down.” Dean took a beat. He thought about the old days. The action. The drinking. “And reverting back to that kind of behavior is giving me a headache on par with my old morning hangovers, Bazzy.” Saying nothing more, he headed to the door.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m gonna tell Raab and McFadden what happened.” Dean palmed the door handle. “They’ll put the word out to Lindo. I’m sure he’ll make an appearance here within the hour.” He paused, his grip on the handle tightening. “I want to get ahead of this thing, Bazzy. I spent a long time putting this life behind me. As far as I’m concerned, what happened at the hospital with LeBlanc is the first and last time I’m making this foray back into my old lifestyle.”

With a nod, Bazz sat down on the bed and left Dean to do what he needed to do. Dean saluted with two fingers before he stepped out of the room and made his way across the hall. His steps were slow and deliberate.

Confess.

Take your pink slip.

Dean knocked twice on Raab and McFadden’s door.

Hell, maybe this is your ticket to a new life.

McFadden opened the door, and Dean told him he needed to talk. After giving both of them a brief version of the events that transpired—including the part where he gave them the slip with Bazz’s help—Raab called Lindo. Minutes later, Dean, Raab, and McFadden got in a sedan and headed to the Seattle field office.

“You’re in deep shit, Blackwood,” McFadden said from the passenger seat. “This is bad.”

Yep.

This is the end of my career.

Dean, seated in the back, settled in for the brief, ten-minute drive.

Face it with your head held high, Deano.

12

Rain hammered the windshield of the sedan as it rolled down 2nd Avenue in Downtown Seattle. Dean stared out the back side window. The drive would only take four minutes, but he hoped it would take less.

Agent McFadden’s cologne is an assault on the senses.

Dean wrinkled his nose, his head spinning from the overwhelming stench of wood, spice, and amber wafting from the front of the sedan.

“God almighty,” McFadden groaned, stifling a yawn with his fist. “I’m fading fast here.”

Agent Raab, driving with one hand on the wheel, shrugged. “That’s what happens when you quit drinking coffee.”

“Doc says I need to cut back, so I’m cutting back.” McFadden patted his stomach. “Besides, the second I have a sip, my gut starts singing.”

“I’ll always drink coffee.” Raab tapped the side of his skull. “Keeps me sharp.”

“You’re still young by all metrics, Raab.” McFadden wagged a finger at his partner. “Get back to me in ten years. You’ll be singing the same tune I am. You’ll be waking up with an upset stomach, sore knees and a bad back with no apparent cause.”

“Sure.” Raab threw a quick look to his rearview mirror. “How about you, Blackwood? You a big coffee drinker?”

Dean thought about his daily intake, about running for the coffee pot the second he felt the urge to drink something harder. “It’s my only vice now,” he said. “I used to hit it even harder way back when.” Recollections of his time chipping coke to maintain his cover in South Beach came to mind. “Caffeine was the least of my problems.”

“That’s the word around town,” McFadden said, angling his body around to the back seat. “Anybody who’s anybody knows about your little stunts back in the day.” He tapered his eyes. “What did they call you? They had a nickname for you around the Bureau.”

Dean clenched a fist. “Ballistic Blackwood.”

“That’s right.” McFadden snapped his fingers at his partner. “That was before your time, Raab. Back in the day, agents in every state knew about Ballistic Blackwood.” He looked over his shoulder at Dean. “Honestly, I didn’t think you were real until I laid eyes on you tonight.”

“How’d you do it, by the way?” Raab said, assessing his mirrors. “Back at the hotel. How’d you get past us and sneak out to the hospital to see LeBlanc?”

“My buddy Bazz.” Dean shrugged. “When he asked to borrow your ice bucket, I gave you two the slip. The guy’s bulky, so it was easy for him to block the view through your peephole.”

Raab huffed, and McFadden sighed, the pair trading dejected reactions to Dean’s ruse. The sedan continued its slow roll down the moonlit pavement of 2nd Avenue.

“I guess there’s something to be said about having Ballistic Blackwood pulling one over on you,” McFadden continued. “Lindo’s gonna raise hell about it though. I’m sure Raab here and I are in for a good chiding after we tell him we lost track of you.”

Raab nodded. “We probably should have kept a closer watch on you, Blackwood. I mean, I wasn’t around during your heyday, but I heard some stories.” He let out a hearty chortle. “Did you really board a Cessna in Walton, Kansas, while it was taking off?”

“Oh, yeah!” McFadden chuckled. “We heard about that one.”

Dean exhumed the memory from his mental vault in all its adrenaline-soaked glory . “The plane wasn’t in the air. It was only taxiing.”

McFadden whistled. “Unreal.” He signalled to his partner. “Biggest action either of us have seen was that one time Raab here accidentally discharged his weapon at the range while it was in his holster.”

Raab shook his head as he hooked a left down Union Street. “Earned myself a cushy little two-week hiatus from work for that one while the investigation was pending. I swear, not one person in this organization can step out of line once without having their rear end thoroughly inspected with a microscope. Not Blackwood though.” Raab shot his chin up at the rearview mirror. “Guy single-handedly takes out one suspect after another with impunity.”

McFadden angled around in his seat, pinning an inquisitive gaze back at Dean. “Why is that? How do you still have a job with the Bureau? Someone like you should be in jail or working a night security gig at a self-storage place by now.”

Or dead if we want to be realistic. Dean closed his eyes, weary from the interrogation.

“This time you screwed up big, Blackwood.” McFadden pointed a finger back at Dean. “After what you did to LeBlanc, I wouldn’t be surprised if Lindo has us throw the cuffs on you.” He held up his hands. “I do respect you and all, but I’m gonna have to say whatever I have to so we can save face in front of the SAC. No offense.”

“None taken,” Dean grumbled. “Do what you gotta do.”

The sedan continued down Union Street.

McFadden cleared his throat.

Raab shifted his position behind the wheel.

Dean stretched his legs as he played back what Raab said about the incident where he boarded the plane on the runway in Walton.

Only Wilson and Santoro knew about that.

All those files were either shredded, scrubbed, or buried.

No one knew about that but the three of us.

Dean examined the two agents in the front, sensing that the pair of them were keeping an even closer watch on him than before.

“I dunno, laddie,” Woody muttered. “I think you’re thinking what I’m thinking.”

Maybe.

Possibly.

Dean glimpsed at the rearview mirror and briefly met Raab’s gaze, clocking the beads of sweat dotting the man’s forehead. When Dean put his focus on McFadden, he saw the man drumming his fingers on his leg. It’d be easy to write it off as caffeine jitters, but the man said it himself—he was taking a break from the brew.

Christ.

Dean took a deep breath.

Please tell me I’m being paranoid.

“It’s feasible,” Woody said, “but there’s no harm in feeling out the situation.”

Yeah.

Dean straightened his back. You’re right.

“How’d you know?” Dean said, leaning forward in his seat.

McFadden looked over his shoulder, his brows smashed together. “Know what?”

“About that thing,” Dean said. “That story about me boarding that plane in Walton, Kansas.”

McFadden paused, fiddling with his seat belt. “Everyone knows about that. There’s a million stories about you floating around the Bureau.”

“True.” Dean’s hand drifted toward his hip holster. “But only a select few knew about that plane thing. There’s classified and then there’s classified. That story about the plane definitely leaned toward the latter.”

Raab dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. “People talk, Blackwood. Stuff gets around. I mean, hell, how many times has OPSEC been blown because some clown runs his mouth at the water cooler?”

It has.

But not with that story.

No way in hell.

If Raab and McFadden heard, it was because Wilson or Santoro told them.

It couldn’t be Wilson. No way.

Same for Santoro—for obvious reasons. Dean recalled the last conversation he ever had with the man.

Dean’s nerves spiked, his palms glazed with cold sweat. He slid his fingers across the cold steel of his SIG, his gaze flicking back and forth between the backs of the agents’ heads. “McFadden,” he said. “When did you start working with the Bureau?”

“Oh, man.” McFadden sucked air through his teeth. “Four years now. I was with the DEA before that.”

“Have you ever worked in New York?”

“For the Bureau?” McFadden shook his head. “No, never. I visited the city once when I was in college. Didn’t care for it much.”

“Where were you working when you were with the DEA?”

“Albuquerque.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Gotcha.” He focused on Raab. “When did you start work for the Bureau?”

The younger agent threw a look over his shoulder. “Three years ago.”

“Private sector before that,” Dean quickly added.

“How’d you know?”

“Your tapered fade gives off that finance bro vibe.”

Raab raised his eyebrows, chuckling with guarded amusement. “I worked on LaSalle Street before that. Wall Street of the Midwest.”

“Have you ever been to New York?”

“I was there a few months after 9/11. Thought about moving there, but I opted for Chicago instead. My old man was from there.” Raab eased into the right lane. “I wanted to be closer to the family.”

Dean squinted. “So neither of you worked in New York.”

“No,” McFadden uttered, his tone biting. “We never worked in New York.”

“Did you guys hear about that plane story in Walton together or separately?”

“You’re still going on about that?” McFadden sighed.

“I am.”

A pinched-faced McFadden swiveled his body toward Dean and rolled his eyes. “Why?”

“Because only three people know about that,” Dean explained. “Myself, a guy, and another guy. There was no paperwork. No trail whatsoever linking me to the event. It was all word of mouth.”

Raab tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “So what?”

“Well, I’m confident that Guy A wouldn’t run his mouth about the story, which means that Guy B, the former SAC who ran the field office out of New York City, was the one who told you. According to the timeline, though, neither of you were in the area during his tenure.”

“Maybe he did tell us,” Raab said, glimpsing at Dean in the rearview mirror. “Have you ever heard of conferences? The Bureau has a few of them every now and again. It’s feasible this guy you’re talking about told us about the plane thing in passing at some conference or something.”

Dean smirked. “Does the name Michael Santoro ring any bells?”

“Why?” McFadden snapped.

“He was the SAC for the field office in New York for six years. The one I’m talking about—one of the guys who knew about this plane story.”

“Yeah,” McFadden said, his tone dismissive. “I met him.”

“When?”

“Dunno.” McFadden squirmed in his seat. “Two years ago. Maybe three.”

“I doubt that.”

“Why would you doubt that?”

“Because Michael Santoro died nine years ago,” Dean said. “Liver cancer. He tendered his resignation with the Bureau shortly after he was diagnosed. I spoke to him on the phone a week after that. He passed away two days later.”

Raab said nothing.

McFadden followed suit.

“I mean,” Dean snickered, “it’s possible that you two might have met Santoro before. Maybe the stars aligned and against all odds you both managed to cross paths with him at some point.” Dean pointed at McFadden. “But claiming that he told you this story—and I’d bet all the paltry four grand in my savings account that he didn’t—and saying that you met him two or three years ago just doesn’t line up. It’s possible your memory is failing you.” Dean tensed up. “But I’m leaning toward you being completely full of shit.”

McFadden stared forward.

Raab released his left hand from the wheel, dropping it on his lap.

“Michael Santoro, Kent Wilson, and I were the only ones who knew about that plane story,” Dean said, his fingers curling around the grip of his SIG. “I guess I’m just having a hard time figuring out how the two of you managed to be in the same place at the same time to hear a story that only a dead man, another man I know and trust implicitly, and I had knowledge of.”

McFadden glanced at Raab.

Dean flared his nostrils.

The car lurched, swerved, and screeched to a halt.

Dean, his SIG now out of his holster, tensed up as McFadden spun around, got up on his knees, and jammed a Glock in Dean’s face. His finger was on the trigger.

“Yep,” Woody remarked as Dean held his hands in the air. “I knew something was off about these two.”

13

It wasn’t the first time Dean had a gun pointed at his face. By his tally, it was now six.

“Easy, Blackwood,” McFadden whispered, a cocksure grin on his face as he ripped the SIG out of Dean’s hand and placed it on the front seat. “Just be cool.”

Dean, hands in the air, sat back as Raab moved the car forward and made a sharp left down University Street. Raab increased his speed and toggled the emergency lights, clearing the other vehicles on the road out of his path.

Stay calm.

Assess.

You’ve got some time here to think.

“Nice job, McFadden,” Raab grumbled as he loosened his tie. “Between the foul-up at the hotel and this bullshit⁠—”

“Can it!” McFadden snarled as saliva trickled out of his mouth. He lined up Dean’s head between the sights of his weapon. “Hey, Blackwood. I was gonna pop you in the back of your head while your back was turned, but now we gotta drag this out.”

Dean shook his head. “If you dimwitted pricks think I’m death-marching myself into the middle of an open field, you’re dreaming.”

“Pipe down.” McFadden gripped his gun in both hands. “Unless you want one in your kneecap.”

A stone-faced Dean made sure his hands were still up to keep the appearance that he had submitted to his captors. But his hands were raised mostly so he could use them—now his only weapon—at a moment’s notice.

Stall.

Hold them off.

You need time to think.

“So,” Dean said. “Are you guys real FBI agents or just playing the part for the sake of appearances?”

“We’re real, shithead,” Raab replied. “As real as it gets.”

“Who’s pulling the strings here? You two? A third party?” Dean took a moment to think of the major players. “Lindo?”

McFadden waved the Glock at Dean. “Trying to make sense of the how, who, and why is pointless, Blackwood. Just sit back and take it easy. You comply, we’ll make this quick.”

“I take it you two are contingencies,” Dean said. “Someone sent LeBlanc to deliver that letter before he took me out. When he failed, someone assigned the two of you to pull the trigger and finish the job.”

“Enough,” McFadden barked as he kept his focus on Dean.

“Come on, man.” Dean held his hands up higher. “At least do me the courtesy of⁠—”

“Shut the fuck up.” McFadden struck his Glock against the headrest. “You say one more goddamn thing and I’ll end this right now.”

Damn it.

Dean clenched his jaw.

So much for stretching it out.

The sedan’s chassis dipped and then rose as it merged onto the I-5 freeway. Wherever the thugs were taking Dean was a mystery to him, but he knew the final destination would be marked by a shot to the head and two to the chest.

“How do you wanna do this?” Raab asked McFadden. “The orders were to take him out at the hotel after that big guy left.”

“We pivot,” McFadden said.

“Pivot how?”

“I’m thinking.” McFadden assessed Dean, firming up his hold on the Glock. “We gotta make it look like he went for my weapon or something.”

“We can’t pop him here.” Raab said.

“I know that, Raab.”

“Then what do we do?

McFadden gnashed his teeth. “Just drive a little bit while I figure this out. We have to make it look clean.”

You’ve got a little time here, Deano.

Not a lot, but enough to do something.

“If you’re gonna do something, laddie,” Woody said, “you’d better do it now.”

Oh, hell.

Dean rested his left shoulder against the door as the sedan approached a tunnel up ahead below an overpass.

This is really gonna suck.

He locked eyes with McFadden. “If You Leave Me Now” by Chicago dribbled out of the sedan’s speakers.

“You gonna keep that thing trained on me the whole time?” Dean asked.

McFadden nodded, caressing the trigger guard with his finger. “Absolutely.”

“What about the cop on the bike in the tunnel up ahead?” Dean gestured to the windshield. “The second he sees that piece, he’s gonna fire up the roof.”

McFadden turned and briefly glanced at the windshield.

Raab leaned forward, trying to pinpoint the alleged motorcycle cop.

Now.

Dean leaned back in his seat, tucked his knee into his chest, and shot out his foot at McFadden. The bottom of his boot thwacked against the agent’s left cheek, his head snapping before it struck the front windshield. A few beads of safety glass fell onto the dashboard.

As McFadden lost consciousness, the Glock in his hand discharged. The bullet slammed through Raab’s side window, the glass disintegrating as he cursed and fumbled to keep a firm grip on the wheel.

Dean raised himself up and eyed his SIG in the front seat. He lunged at it. His finger grazed the grip as Raab made a sharp cut to the left.

The inertia threw Dean to the left. He struggled to balance himself as Raab turned on his siren.

Woody was singing in sync but off key to the music on the radio.

The cars in the other lanes veered out of the way, horns blaring like a handbell choir in a church service.

Dean reached up and grabbed Raab’s seat belt just above the pillar loop. He yanked the belt, slamming the agent back in his seat. Then he reached forward and wrapped the seat belt around Raab’s neck.

“Stop the car,” Dean barked. “Now!”

A red-faced Raab pawed at the seat belt with one hand and kept the other hand on the steering wheel. By that point, the music on the radio had changed to “Shattered” by the Rolling Stones.

“Must be an oldies station,” Woody pointed out. “I like it. Today’s music is manky.”

Not now, dude.

Raab stomped on the gas pedal and pressed it to the floor despite Dean’s objections. The sedan zipped through the tunnel, bobbing in and out of the lanes.

“Stop the car!” Dean shouted.

Through the corner of his eye, Dean clocked McFadden stirring out of his slumber. A ribbon of blood streamed down the agent’s cheek. He fluttered his eyelids open, taking a moment to assess that Dean had wrapped the seat belt around Raab’s neck.

As Dean pulled harder on the seat belt, McFadden retrieved Dean’s SIG. He quickly chambered a round and pressed the weapon against Dean’s head.

“Let him go,” McFadden demanded

Dean maintained his grip on the belt.

“Blackwood,” McFadden growled. “I’m not gonna tell you again.”

Think.

Make a move.

Do something!

Dean caught sight of the slide lever on the bottom left of Raab’s seat and let go of the seat belt. Raab inhaled sharply as the belt loosened. He pawed at his neck.

McFadden reached out one hand toward Raab, briefly taking his focus off of Dean.

Now.

Dean quickly ducked down on the floor, reached to the left of Raab’s seat, and pushed the slide lever forward. He threw his shoulder into the back of Raab’s seat like it was a blocking sled.

Raab’s body smashed into the steering wheel, making it impossible for him to steer the car. The right side of the sedan lifted off the ground before it went into a roll at 65 miles per hour.

McFadden screamed.

Raab struggled to push away from the steering wheel.

The sedan somersaulted violently in the air.

“Hang on, laddie,” Woody screamed. “This might sting.”

Dean’s vision fractured into a dizzying blur as the car flipped over and over. He gritted his teeth. Blood rushed into his brain. His stomach did a somersault as he squeezed his eyelids shut.

Despite the chaos of the situation, he counted that the car had turned over three times and was halfway through a fourth.

Two loud bangs had echoed throughout the car, signalling the deployment of the airbags.

The frame twisted, emitting a high-pitched shriek.

The windshield shattered.

A final boom reverberated through the car. Dean figured it was the roof slamming down on the pavement. After a few protracted moments, the vehicle came to a stop just outside the tunnel.

The sharp metallic odor of the airbag powder stung Dean’s nostrils as he slowly opened his eyes. He took a quick assessment of the damage. Like he thought, the sedan had landed roof-first on the pavement.

Take it slowly.

Check for injuries.

After a quick pat down, Dean discovered a small laceration on the side of his head.

A wicked headache too.

Other than that, you’re good.

The quick glimpse Dean took of the front seat revealed that McFadden was gone. Based on the absence of a windshield, he deduced that the agent had been spit out at some point during the accident. Agent Raab, however, was pressed against his airbag. His arms looked crooked—maybe broken—in several places. His head was twisted, his neck contorted at an unnatural angle like an owl’s.

“Christ,” Woody remarked. “It’s like that scene in The Exorcist.”

Dean searched around the upside-down car, looking for his SIG. He saw it on the dashboard, wedged between the driver’s door and the A-pillar.

“Leave it,” Woody said.

Why?

“Because we can’t stay here. We have to run, and you know damn well why.”

Shit.

The sound of sirens multiplied in the distance.

There’s no way I’ll be able to explain away any of this.

And if Raab and McFadden were involved in this, who else is caught up in it too?

Dean ogled Raab’s mauled, knotted body.

Someone gave these two the order to kill me.

We gotta assume that no one can be trusted.

Dean shimmied onto his back and planted his feet against the back passenger door. With two swift kicks, he broke it open. He slipped out, casting a look left and right as he found his balance. About three-quarters of a mile away, a fleet of Seattle police cruisers were ascending on the location. Fifty yards behind the overturned sedan, he caught sight of Agent McFadden’s body smeared along the pavement.

“Go, laddie,” Woody commanded. “Now.”

Drivers of the vehicles that had pulled over were stepping out of their cars. Several had cell phones in their hands, recording the action in real time. Dean turned, looked down, and covered his face with one hand.

Wasting no more time, he broke into a sprint down the side of the freeway, the Seattle PD moments away from closing in on the scene.

14

Bazz propped himself up on the bed with three pillows. Beside him, Willy whimpered, his gaze lazily fixed to the television in the middle of broadcasting the intro to Diff’rent Strokes.

“Classic TV, pal,” Bazz said as he scratched behind the mutt’s ear. “Nothing holds a candle.”

The dog ripped his eyes off the TV and rolled onto his back, disinterested.

“I know.” Bazz patted Willy’s belly. “He’ll be back soon. I promise.”

After the intro to the show, Bazz’s cell rang. He grabbed the phone off the nightstand, answered it, and put the call on speaker.

“Go for Bazz.”

“It’s me.” Dean’s voice was a whisper.

“Dean?” Bazz eyed the phone, the number not one saved into his contacts. “What’s up? Where are you calling from?”

“I borrowed a phone.”

“From who?”

Dean let out a sigh. “Someone who didn’t hand it over willingly. I don’t feel that great about it.”

Bazz squinted. Willy snapped his head up and tilted it curiously to the side.

“Are you watching the news?” Dean asked.

Bazz bolted upright. Dean’s tone was low and gravelly. For a moment, he was worried his buddy had fallen off the wagon.

“I’m sober,” Dean assured his sponsor.

“Then why would I need to be watching the news?”

“Because every local station has their cameras pointed at a Bureau-issued sedan that just flipped over and over on I-5.”

“Tell me,” Bazz said, “that this doesn’t have fuck all to do with you.”

“Would that make you feel better?” Dean replied.

After scooping up the remote, Bazz quickly searched the channels. It took him three flicks of the button to find coverage of a battered sedan on its roof on the I-5 freeway. As Bazz watched the feed in wide-eyed horror, a reporter on the scene provided narration of the situation that had unfolded.

“Seattle PD has confirmed through the local FBI field office that two of its agents were in the vehicle as it overturned violently on the freeway. A third individual was spotted by local motorists who recorded this footage of the unidentified male fleeing the scene.”

The feed cut to footage of Dean covering his face with his hand and hotfooting his way north down the freeway.

“Oh, buddy,” Bazz groaned as he scooted forward to the edge of the bed. “Please tell me that’s not you.”

“It’s me.”

“Then you know what I’m gonna say next.”

“Have at it.”

“Fuck!” Bazz shouted as he shot to his feet. “What the hell happened?”

“Raab and McFadden pulled a gun on me,” Dean explained. “The pair of them were acting wiggy when I started asking them questions. Long story short, someone assigned them to take me out.”

“How do you know?”

“The fact that they said so was kind of a dead giveaway.”

Bazz huffed, his focus fastened to the television. “Who gave the order? Are you sure that’s what they said?”

“I’m sure. And I don’t know who gave them the green light to kill me.” Dean took a beat. “But it’s clear that someone wants me gone, and I can’t trust anyone right now, except you.”

For several moments, Bazz sifted through the next possible steps and what his role would be in that process. No matter what came to mind, the choices to him were shit.

“You should contact Lindo,” Bazz suggested. “Bring him in the loop on this.”

“No way,” Dean said. “I told you. I can’t trust anybody.”

“What are you going to do? Stay on the run?”

“I have to. I was planning on washing my hands of this after I talked to Leroy LeBlanc, but …”

Potential headlines that would be covered wall-to-wall for the next few days floated through Bazz’s mind.

Special Agent Dean Blackwood Assaults Suspect.

FBI Kills Two of Its Own.

Former Bureau Employee Kills Two Then Flees the Scene.

“The optics aren’t good,” Bazz lamented. “At all.”

“As of now, the Bureau will think I’m guilty of something,” Dean explained. “That’s how all this looks. Christ. I should have never gone to see LeBlanc.”

“I warned you, pal.”

“Well, Monday morning quarterbacking isn’t going to help shit right now, Bazzy. Whoever sent LeBlanc is the same person—or people—who were pulling Agent Raab’s and Agent McFadden’s strings.”

Bazz shrugged. “Why? Who the hell would possibly want you dead?”

“That’s what I have to find out,” Dean said. “I need to reverse engineer this whole thing and figure it out. Maybe it all goes back to that job back in the day.” He paused. “Maybe this thing is somehow tied to Erik Mason.”

“You’re not seriously considering going rogue, are you?”

“I’ve done it before. It’s been a hot minute, but I’m sure I can get back into the swing of things.”

“Dean, you can’t just⁠—”

“I have to go underground, Bazz,” Dean cut in. “I need to figure out what the hell is going on. That’s the only way I’ll be able to clear my name. Turning myself in isn’t an option. Who knows how high up this thing goes? For all I know, Lindo and everyone else up to the damn Director of the FBI has something to do with it.”

Willy stirred on the bed, catching Bazz’s eye. The canine snorted, assessing Bazz with an inquisitive set of eyes.

Same here, buddy.

I’m worried too.

“I need you to take care of Willy for a while,” Dean continued. “And I need you to pull whatever strings you can to keep Claire and my son out of the loop on this.”

“If you go dark, Lindo and whoever else at the top of the chain of command are going to question her at some point.” Bazz was worried. “I can’t run interference like that.”

“Bazz, I know we crack jokes that you never worked for Langley, but we need to stop that ribbing and the wink-wink-nudge-nudge shit right now. Look, sooner rather than later, the Bureau is going to piece together that I called you. You need to go to them before that happens. Tell them I called and asked for your help, but you turned me down. And after that, I went dark.”

Bazz pinched the bridge of his nose. He paced the room, eventually making his way over to the thermostat to cue up the A/C. “This is a big ask, pally,” he said. “I know you know that.”

“I need your help, man,” Dean pleaded. “You probably won’t hear from me again anytime soon after I end this call. Just promise me you’ll cover for me. More importantly, make sure my family never knows what happened here. Cash in on whatever favors you need.” He drew a breath. “Please, Bazz. You’re the only person I can trust.”

A stone-faced Bazz nodded. He looked out the window, wondering where Dean was holed up. “You’ve got it. Just stay frosty. Find out what’s going on and get your ass back here in one piece.”

“Copy that.”

“Good luck.”

On that note, Bazz ended the call. He tossed the cell phone on the bed and wandered over to Willy who was cowering with his head under a pillow.

“I know, big guy.” Bazz patted the mutt gently on his rear. “I know.”

15

An hour after the wreck on I-5, Dean crossed the road that led up to the VIP lounge at Modern Aviation BFI. He had spent forty-five minutes making sure he was clear of police and federal tails in the net thrown over an area of several miles to snag him.

Dean had ditched his phone and his wallet. He had nothing but the lint in his pockets and a glimmer of hope backing the one plan he had to get a ride to his next destination.

“Remember the old days, boyo,” Woody whispered. “Charm your way into getting what you need.”

Working undercover had instilled Dean with a variety of skill sets. Thinking on the fly and being able to bluff others were his key fundamentals. Coupled with his eidetic memory, he was a one-man show with a repertoire of fake names and backgrounds. Dean Blackwood, the FBI’s former undercover whiz kid, had the ability to be a different person entirely at a moment’s notice.

Been a few years.

Dean pulled open the door to the lounge of the private air strip. Cool A/C caressed his skin as he examined a Cessna and Gulfstream outside on the tarmac.

Hopefully it’s just like riding a bike.

After doing a quick scan of the building’s interior—a few leather couches, a coffee machine to the left, and what appeared to be a check-in counter beyond that—Dean was greeted by a man in jeans and a polo shirt who was pouring himself a cup of coffee at the machine.

“Evening,” the guy greeted.

Dean offered a nod and a smile. He did a quick assessment of the man, deducing that he was in his mid to late 20s.

“Hey, man,” Dean grumbled, speaking like he had just finished a twelve-hour trip. “Did you work here yesterday morning?”

The guy shook his head. “No.”

Perfect.

“Damn.” Dean sighed deeply, slackening his posture to emphasize his feigned disappointment. “I think I left my phone on the plane I came in on.”

“Sorry to hear that.” The employee blew on his steaming java. “What flight were you on?”

Dean motioned to the tarmac outside the windows to his right, recalling the few hot spots folks who could afford private jets usually frequented. “I was coming back from Jackson Hole,” he lied. “Can’t remember when I landed. It was early.”

“Jackson Hole.” The young employee furrowed his brow, his gaze turned down to the polished linoleum floors. “I’m trying to think.”

Come on.

Please tell me that someone flew in from Jackson Hole yesterday.

“Wait.” The guy snapped his fingers twice. “Was that the flight that got diverted from⁠—”

“Yep.” Dean nodded, taking the cue, using the employee’s ignorance to further embellish his lie. “That’s the one.”

“That plane’s gone, I’m afraid. It took off around 4:00 for Palo Alto.” The employee pointed to a door on his left. “I know we cleaned it beforehand. We always do that. Someone might have found your cell and left it in the lost and found.”

“Mind if I check?”

“Sure.”

After a theatrical demonstration of scouring through the lost and found, Dean—who made a display of his anger over not finding his phone—grunted in frustration.

“I’ve got everything on that phone,” Dean said, slamming his fist on the counter. “Goddamn everything.” He flashed a pleading look at the employee. “Mind if I borrow yours for a sec? I need to sort this out. Heads are going to roll tonight over this.”

It was no issue for the young guy at all. The last thing he wanted was to be the one responsible for an affluent guy being inconvenienced, so he palmed over his cell without a second’s hesitation.

Dean slowly punched a number from memory into the cell. He asked the guy if he wouldn’t mind asking the crew members out on the tarmac if they had, by chance, seen his missing phone. As soon as the employee hustled out the door to abide by the request, Dean hit send on the device and held it to his ear.

“Come on, Bugsy,” Dean whispered as the line started to ring. “You’re my only shot here.”

Retirement came easy for Frank “Bugsy” Malone, though he was just shy of being in his 50s. If anything, he considered himself semi-retired. He still operated as a middleman for the occasional drug or weapons buy or doled out fake passports and IDs. The biggest difference between how he operated now versus then was that his clientele was a bit more selective. He also started his days around 10:00 a.m. instead of 7:00 a.m.

Bugsy—he earned the nickname for his affinity for vintage culture and his resemblance to Bugsy Siegel—slipped into the hot tub beside his infinity pool. He reached over to grab his cappuccino, his eyes skimming the Las Vegas strip through his T-round, tortoise-shell eyeglasses.

Two sips in, Bugsy’s gold-plated cell phone rang. He took his time to answer. Nowadays there was no rush. On the third ring, he casually put down his cappuccino, dried his hands on a towel with his initials monogrammed on it, and answered.

“This is Siegel.”

“This is Blackwood.”

Bugsy ripped off his sunglasses. “Shit.” He shifted his weight in the hot tub. “You’re still alive?”

“How’s tricks, Bugsy?”

“I’m hanging up.”

“I wouldn’t do that.” Dean took a beat. “Not unless you want someone to drop a dime to the feds about that score that hooked you up with early retirement over there on the Glitter Gulch.”

The muscles in Bugsy’s jaw tensed. All of a sudden, the hot tub became a little too hot. He took a moment to even his tone. “We had a deal after that thing in Scottsdale. You agreed to divert attention away from me⁠—”

“I lied through my teeth and doctored everything to make it look like the info you fed me about your competitor came from a CI. If word gets out that it was you who assisted the Bureau, you’ll have half the Irish mob on your ass by this time next week.”

“All right.” Bugsy held up his trembling right hand. “Just tell me what you want.”

“Passports, for one.”

“Done.”

“Three hundred grand and an account to access it. A pair of burner phones. Make sure I get a credit card with a decent limit on it.”

“No problem.”

“I’ll also need you to secure me a lift out of the Modern Aviation BFI in Seattle.” Dean’s voice became sarcastic. “A well-to-do fellow such as yourself still flies private, so you should be able to leverage some connections to make that happen.”

“That’ll take a minute.”

“You’ve got twenty.”

By that point, Bugsy was out of the hot tub and scampering through the sliding glass door into his retro, art-deco home. “It’ll take me about an hour to get all that stuff together,” he explained. “You’ll need to give me your final destination so I can forward all of it there—the cash, the passports, the whole smash. I’ll have to wire transfer the cash through secure encryption.”

“And the passports?” Dean said.

“My guy in Vegas can pull that off in a couple of hours.” Bugsy palmed a bottle of vodka and a shot glass from a bar cart in his kitchen. “Soon as it’s done, I’ll expedite it to wherever you are via a diplomatic courier.”

“Good.”

Bugsy poured a shot, downed it, and poured himself another. He snapped his head around and pinned his sights on the front door. He was worried Ballistic Blackwood would make an appearance.

Son of a bitch clocked me in the jaw the last time I saw him.

The scar on Bugsy’s left cheek—a souvenir from Blackwood—throbbed as he briefly recalled their previous interaction.

“I need a name for the passport,” Bugsy said. “Whatever alias you want. Whatever country of origin you want. I’ll make sure my guy backs it up with biometrics, database cleanup, and authentication codes.”

“John Miller.”

Bugsy winced. “That’s the best you can do?”

“I don’t need anything fancy,” Dean said. “My country of origin is Canada. Your guy can handle the rest from there.”

“Fine.”

“And Bugsy,” Dean’s tone stiffened, “if anything happens to me, anything at all …” The sound of knuckles cracking came over the line.

A sheet-white Bugsy downed his second shot. His nerves began to settle. “Just tell me where you’re going so I can get the ball rolling here.”

“Paris,” Dean said. “As in France.”

16

Flying to Paris was the only option Dean could think of. Right now, the States—and everyone in them except his ex-wife, son, and Bazz—were too unreliable. Too hot.

Need to stay on the move.

Need time to think.

Have to make some plays here.

Putting as much distance between him and the mess was the first idea Dean had. The second was going back to where the fiasco had all started—the murder of Agent Robert Jensen at the hands of Erik Mason.

Allegedly.

Dean rested back in his seat as the nose of the Cessna lifted up. He was pissed, taxed, and completely at a loss as to what the hell was going on.

“Good evening, Mr. Miller.”

Dean looked to his left. The private flight attendant, a young woman with her flaxen-colored hair tied back into a rigid bun, stood dutifully at attention.

“Evening.”

“Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Just a Coke.”

“Sure thing.” She motioned to the galley. “If you want, I can splash a little JD in it for you.” She winked. “Might help pass the time.”

The mention of hard liquor stirred Woody from the recesses of Dean’s mind. “Do it,” the manic leprechaun snarled. “You’ve earned it after what you just went through.”

Dean waved the attendant off, his forced smile widening. “Just the Coke.”

With a polite nod, she snapped on her heels and went to retrieve the beverage.

Dean, listening to the cool chuff of the air conditioning above his head, closed his eyes. He replayed the events, wondering who was in on the ordeal, trying to make the few pieces of the puzzle fit together.

I don’t get it.

Why Erik Mason?

Who assisted LeBlanc in his escape?

Why come after me?

Who hired Raab and McFadden to take me out?

The dull throb of a headache knotted the muscles in his neck. As with booze, anything prescribed over and under the counter were no longer permitted when it came to easing his afflictions.

“Just breathe,” Dean whispered, relaxing in his seat as best as he could. “Easy.”

He fluttered open his eyes.

Breathed a sigh.

When he glanced over to his left, he saw that Woody had somehow materialized—a solid figure dressed in a soiled, oversized suit, fiddling with the cabin light above his head.

Christ.

“Evening, boyo!” The disheveled leprechaun, bearing a strong resemblance to Robin Williams, toyed with the air, his seat belt, and the headrest. “First stop is Canada, right? Greenland after that? A quick stopover in the UK for the final refueling before Paris?”

Dean said nothing as the flight attendant returned with a can of Coke and a glass cup filled with ice. He thanked her and requested some music to drown out Woody—something laid-back. The mirage in the seat across from him snapped his fingers repeatedly.

“I’m talking to youuu,” Woody said. “We’ve got a lot of time to chew up here, laddie. Might as well fill it with some chitchat.”

I don’t want to.

“Fine.” The leprechaun grinned, his tobacco-stained teeth on full display. “I’ll do it for both of us.”

Over the in-flight audio system drifted the sounds of “How Long Has This Been Going On” by Ace.

It did nothing in the way of drowning out the voice in Dean’s head.

“So,” Woody went on, “Erik Mason is still alive.”

Dean peered out his window as the Cessna cruised steadily through the billowy skies.

“You’ve gotta work this out, Deano. Someone wants you dead—multiple people, in fact. You need a good sounding board here.” Woody shrugged. “Look, I know you and I have had our differences, but I’m the only friend you’ve got here at the moment.”

You’re not my friend.

“Well, I’m here for the duration.” Woody shot his unbuttoned cuffs tinted with coffee stains. “Whether you like it or not.”

Unfortunately.

“You think Erik Mason is still alive?”

I’m not sure.

“Then why go to Paris?”

I’m going back to where all this started. If I find out what happened to Agent Robert Jensen, if I find the guy who killed him, maybe I can make some sense of this.

“You’re using yourself as bait to lure out Erik Mason,” Woody corrected, leering at Dean. “Let’s be real here. You want to make sure the focus is on you. You’re making sure that Mason doesn’t try to come after your family.”

Dean dug his fingernails into the armrest.

Woody stood, meandered into the aisle, and started swaying to the beat of the music. “That’s what you’re doing here, lad,” he continued. “That’s how you did things in the old days. You kicked the hornet’s nest to draw out the heat. Once they had their eyes on you, you stomped each and every one of those little bastards one by one.”

Past tense.

“Currently present.” Woody moved out of the way of the flight attendant as she strolled down the aisle. He danced up behind her as she moved to the galley, pumping his fists out of sync with the beat of the music. “Honestly, it’s not a bad idea. If you find the guy claiming to be Mason, you can bring him back to the States and use that as your bargaining chip. Dumb ass hell. Risky as shit, but it might work.”

It’s an insane plan.

“Bully for you for fessing up to that.” Woody held up a finger as he hopped onto his seat and jumped up and down like a little kid in a hotel room. “First step in recovery is admitting you’re Ballistic Blackwood.” He rattled off a smoke-choked chuckle.

I’m not that guy anymore.

“You’ll have to be if you want to make it out of this alive.”

Dean watched the clouds sweep past his window, each one projecting the faces of his family—his late mother, his father, his twin brother, his sister. After that, he started wondering where his ex-wife Claire and son Jeremy were. What were they doing? Did they ever think about him?

The loud-mouthed figment of Dean’s imagination lay across a pair of seats. He crossed his legs. Swung one foot. The whole visual was like a child at a slumber party.

“Whatcha thinking about?” Woody quipped.

None of your damn business.

“It was rhetorical, dumb-dumb.” Woody tapped the side of his skull. “I know what you’re thinking. We share the same brain, remember?”

Makes me strongly consider a lobotomy.

“Grow up.” Woody blew raspberry and plopped down onto his rear. “And to answer your question—yes, Claire and Jeremy are thinking about you.”

How do you know?

“A feeling.” Woody stroked his upper lip, his eyes lazily glued to the window beside him. “Ah, heavens. I miss them too.”

They are not your family.

An affronted look washed across Woody’s face. “They are as much mine as they are yours.” He picked at his chipped fingernails, the lines in his face softening. “And I’m right there with you with this whole going to Paris thing. If we want to make sure Claire and Jeremy don’t get caught up in this, we need to march right up to Erik Mason, kick him in the nuts, and rip out his spine.”

Don’t get ahead of yourself.

“And you make sure to stay on point,” Woody pressed, stabbing a finger at Dean. “You need to find out what’s going on, who’s behind it, and why someone wants you dead.” He tapered his bloodshot, booze-soaked eyes. “And you need to be quiet about it—discreet. I know you prefer using a mallet instead of a needle, but the softer hand is key here. Like Bob Bianchi said back in the day when he hired you to take out Erik Mason, you need to be the shadow.”

Bob Bianchi.

Dean tilted his head to one side, thinking.

Maybe he knows.

If there’s a way to contact him, there might be a chance to have him shed some light on this.

“I’ll leave you to get some shut-eye,” Woody said, stretching his arms above his head. “I could use a bit myself.” His eyes widened. He snapped his fingers. “I do want a genuine French macaron when we get there. That’s not up for debate. I’ve been itching to have one for years.”

Saying nothing more, Dean thumbed off the light above his head and reclined his chair. He rolled his head to one side, slowing his breathing in the hopes it would do the same with his heart rate.

Who’s doing all this?

Why are they doing it?

Melatonin flooded his brain, coaxing him to the brink of sleep.

Someone is at the top of this malicious little pecking order.

17

The Panic Room was a seedy club in an even seedier part of the Belleville area of Paris. Like the world outside the club, it was cramped and colorful with a lively edge and an even grittier clientele. Citizens in the more affluent and distinguished parts of France viewed Belleville and the Panic Room as a slum.

To Théo Caron, it was an atmosphere perfectly suited for a man of his tastes. The greasy, long-haired, leather-jacket-clad Théo nudged his way through the crowd. The multi-colored lights on the arched, low-hanging ceiling above his head cast a panoply of hues across the dance floor. Théo flashed a crooked smile as he wiped the cocaine residue off his nose. He shimmied his way to the back of the club, dancing with a few patrons to a French cover of “Jungle Love” by Morris Day and the Time. At one point, a long-haired, broad-chested woman offered him a brownie, and he delightfully accepted and gave her a peck on the cheek.

Past the dance floor, a man in a tailored suit poked his head out of a hallway that led to the back. He scanned the area. Checked his watch. Cursed under his breath in French. Once he caught sight of Théo, he gnashed his teeth.

“Théo,” he shouted. “Arrête. Ramène-toi ici tout de suite.” Stop. Get back here right now.

Théo held up the one-minute gesture.

The man in the tailored suit grimaced, patting the bulge in his jacket.

Théo made his way to the back. The man in the suit smacked him upside the head, insulting him in rapid-fire French.

“Tu es en retard,” the suit grumbled. You’re late.

Théo shrugged. “Fallait que je prenne un coup de main, Gérard.” I had to get a ride, Gérard.

“Abruti.” Jerk. “T’as récupéré les infos?” Did you get the information?

“Oui.” Yes.

The two moved down the hallway, arriving at a door on the right. Gérard went in first. Théo followed. Once the door was closed, Théo, still riding high off his coke buzz, approached the desk, the sole furnishing in the windowless room. Seated behind it was his employer, his back to Théo.

“Ça va?” Théo greeted. How are you? “La boîte est pleine ce soir.” The box is full tonight.

“English,” the man behind the dusk muttered. “Please.”

Théo cleared his throat, slinking back from the desk. His nerves and the blow had done a number on his balance. “Sure thing.” He wiped his nose, making sure there were no nose candy remnants. “I, uh …” he looked back at Gérard. “I got the info you needed.”

“Is it intel solid?”

“Very solid.” Théo held up his hands, a reassuring gesture. “The mole inside the FBI gave me everything—taps on comms, movement logs, even low-level chatter.”

“So …” the man at the desk turned his chair around, his GQ-worthy features illuminated by the red glow of the desk lamp beside him. “Where is Dean Blackwood? Did LeBlanc square him away or not?”

Théo motioned to the chair in front of the desk.

The man behind the desk steeled himself, the brief flicker in his eyes indicating a clear rejection of the request to sit down.

“Blackwood, uh …” Théo flexed his brow, “took LeBlanc down.” He tamped down his nerves. “At least that’s the story I received, Mr. Mason.”

Erik Mason—the man behind the desk—took a beat to digest the information before he spoke. “Took him down?”

“The sources inside the Bureau said Blackwood engaged in a fight with LeBlanc inside his house. Blackwood walked out on top.”

Mason leaned back. His left eyelid twitched. “LeBlanc failed to take out Blackwood?”

Théo nodded. “Correct.”

“And LeBlanc? Where is he now?”

“He’s currently in FBI custody in a Seattle hospital.” Théo paused before continuing, his expression sheepish. “And Blackwood, it appears, assaulted the other two agents you had on the payroll, Raab and McFadden, when they tried to take him into custody.”

Mason laughed and cut an amused gaze at Gérard who was guarding the door. “Why am I not surprised?” He tapped his finger on the desk, his right hand disfigured from burns. “Blackwood still has the magic touch.”

“We figured this was a possibility,” Gérard chimed in. “The only question that remains is what Blackwood’s next move will be.”

“That all depends on what our friend Théo here knows, what he learned from our source who’s keeping tabs on the FBI.” Mason motioned for the greasy-haired thug to continue. “So, Théo, what do you know?”

Théo assessed both men before he continued. At one point, he fixated on the bulge in the jacket of the man behind him. “Blackwood is in the wind,” he said, his tone grave. “According to what your guy with his ear to the wire heard, Blackwood got into a …” he took a moment, searching for the words, “car wreck.”

“A car wreck?”

“With the agents I mentioned, Raab and McFadden. I guess Blackwood got into some kind of a scuffle, killed them, and ran away. Looks like he’s taken off somewhere. The Feds and the local police are scouring Seattle looking for him.” Théo snickered. “I’ve never seen a guy in our profession sidestep getting killed so many times. It’s impressive.”

“Don’t say our profession,” Mason corrected. “You’re a glorified courier, Théo. We pay you to run memos and notes between the real players. A man like you is easily replaceable, so don’t let your ego get too inflated.”

Théo turned down his gaze, fiddling with the series of rings on his fingers.

“So Blackwood’s missing in action,” Mason continued, rising from his desk. “And knowing him as well as I do, he’s not going to sit idly by now that he knows someone wants his head. He’s not a man who’s inclined to hide out and wait for the dust to settle.” Mason sat on the edge of the desk, facing Théo. “Knowing Blackwood, he’ll try to attack this thing head on.”

“Does Blackwood know?” Gérard asked. “About what happened with Robert Jensen?”

Théo snapped his head around. “He does. Our contact inside the FBI said that Blackwood was pulled in for a meeting. He knows everything.”

Mason smiled. “That means he’s coming here.”

Gérard furrowed his brow. “You seem certain.”

“I am.” Mason shot the cuffs of his $4,000 silver-hued suit. “It’s the only play Blackwood has. All he knows is what our source told him. Raab and McFadden had limited knowledge of what’s transpiring. They don’t know who I am or anything in regard to the death of Agent Robert Jensen.” Mason pressed his finger into the desk. “Blackwood will want to make sense of this, so he’ll play the cards he has and find his way here.”

“Bold move,” Gérard said. “Even if he tries to come here. Théo said that half the federal and local law enforcement agencies in the state of Washington are looking for him.”

“Blackwood is resourceful.” Mason widened his eyes. “Believe me. He’ll find a way to get to France. Once he does, he’ll come looking for me.”

“We can beef up security,” Gérard offered. “That’s not a problem.”

“No.” Mason waved him off. “We have enough security. I want Blackwood to work his way to me. Not right away, mind you, but I’m looking at the upside here.” He held up his fist and pointed with one finger. “I can take care of Blackwood myself.” He examined his scarred hands, souvenirs from the fire he nearly burned to death in. “After all, I still owe him one.”

Mason pushed off the desk. He walked around the room, the music on the dance floor shaking the walls. “We wait until Blackwood rears his head,” he said. “We’ll put people on the streets we know to keep an eye out for him—people we can trust. Like I said, I do want to have a face-to-face with the man, but I don’t want it to happen prematurely.”

“The only way to guarantee that,” Gérard replied, “is if Blackwood gets his hands on one of our people. That’s how he’ll pull this off. He’ll get a line on our guys, find the weakest one, and work his way up the ladder.”

“He’ll target someone vulnerable.”

“Someone stupid.”

“Someone,” Mason said, “who will fold under the pressure.”

Théo squinted.

Mason smiled.

Gérard reached into his jacket, pulled out a CZ P-10 C outfitted with a suppressor, pressed it against the back of Théo’s skull, and squeezed the trigger.

Théo’s head snapped forward, the bullet going into the back of his head and through his forehead. His body fell onto the desk.

“Send the word out,” Mason instructed. “Let our guys know about Blackwood, that he’ll probably be in the city by nightfall.” He gestured to Théo’s corpse. “And get me a new courier as soon as you have a chance.”

18

Delvin Lindo closed the shades and took a seat at his desk. He loosened his tie and rubbed his temples. After the hour-long video chat with the senior leadership inside the Bureau, he needed a moment to himself.

During the conference call, those at the apex of the FBI’s hierarchy had cast aspersions and pointed fingers. Some blamed Lindo, believing the responsibility for allowing Dean Blackwood to get away rested solely on his shoulders. Once someone called out the scapegoating and deflection of responsibility as nothing more than a time-wasting exercise, the tone of the meeting shifted to damage control.

“Find him, Lindo,” FBI Director Richard Womack commanded at the close of the meeting. “Find him and bring him in alive.”

Why Blackwood had fled and why he had allegedly killed Agents McFadden and Raab made little to no sense to Lindo. When he first met Blackwood, he wasn’t instilled with the sense that the man was a cold-blooded killer.

Then again, he mused, I don’t know all that much about him.

Knuckles rapped softly on Lindo’s office door. He rose from his seat, slipping his hands in his pockets as he announced for the person outside to enter.

The door swung open. A tall, wizened gentleman stood outside. He greeted Lindo with a weary smile, stepped inside, and closed the door. He walked over to Lindo and offered his hand.

“How are you, Lindo?”

“I’m good, Wilson. How about you?”

SAC Kent Wilson widened his grin as he took a seat. The strapping, dark-skinned man winced as he adjusted his weight.

“Getting older,” Wilson said. “Time moves at twice the speed now.”

Lindo nodded in understanding, flitting his focus to a spot on the wall over Wilson’s shoulder. “The feeling is mutual. I shuffle to the bathroom at least three times a night nowadays. During the day, I’m running to the john every five seconds.” He snickered. “Part of me thinks I’m doing it just to get away from everyone in the office so I can take a moment to think.”

Wilson grinned and said nothing.

“So,” Lindo said, resting his hands on his lap. “What do you know?”

“Enough.” Wilson picked at the callous on his palm. Despite his age, his regular weight-lifting kept him in shape, making him appear much younger than he actually was. “What’s the status of the operation?”

A weary-eyed Lindo rubbed the back of his neck. “I just got off the horn with Womack, Caron, and Ziegler. Right now, we’re working in coordination with the other three agencies—Department of Homeland Security, NSA, U.S. Marshals—to try to track Blackwood’s movements.”

“I assume you’re trying to keep the media in the dark as long as possible.”

Lindo nodded. “Womack has insisted on keeping a low profile as we hunt for Blackwood. We’re operating in the shadows on this one—no leaks, no chatter. Control of the narrative here is crucial. We’re keeping external comms minimal while we close the net.”

“Yes, because the last thing the Bureau needs is a media feeding frenzy,” Wilson added. “If word gets out that a rogue FBI agent who killed two of his own is running around the streets …” He shrugged, allowing his words to linger in the air.

“It’d be one thing if it were just a rogue agent,” Lindo added. “But the fact that it’s Blackwood shifts the whole paradigm. If his dossier gets leaked or his case history hits the press, the media circus will be next-level. We’ll be fighting a two-front war—containment and damage control.”

The tightness in Wilson’s face faded. “No one knows Blackwood better than I do.”

“That’s why I asked you to make the trek up here from LA.” Lindo straightened his back. “You know him. You worked for him for years. If anyone has the inside track on how this guy’s mind works, it’s you.”

A few moments ticked by. Wilson spent the time adjusting his posture. At no point did he appear relaxed. “The one thing I know for certain,” he continued, “is that Blackwood didn’t kill those men.”

“You’re willing to go to Womack with that?”

“Lindo, no one here is gonna give a damn about my opinion.” Wilson’s tone was clipped. “Except you, I suppose.” He softened his tone, turning his gaze down to his hands. “I covered that kid’s six on every op he’s ever been involved in—ran damage control, handled the fallout. The point is, I know him, so I’m sure he didn’t just fly off the handle and go AWOL for no reason.”

“Blackwood kept his position in the Bureau because of the interference you ran for him,” Lindo said, his tone brimming with contempt. “More importantly, he skated by without facing any formal charges or even a slap on the wrist for the shit he pulled.”

“I’m aware.”

Lindo’s gaze expanded. “Then how are you going to convince me that Blackwood didn’t just snap and kill two of my agents?”

Wilson steeled himself, his eyelids narrowing to slits. “How much do you know about Dean Blackwood?”

“Little to nothing.” Lindo flicked his wrist. “Whatever information I was able to pull on your boy was redacted, bloated with black lines. But the little I did piece together about what he did for the Bureau indicates that he was part of some kind of shadow division the Bureau devised post 9/11.”

“You’re not wrong.” Wilson exhaled sharply, his tone heavy with the weight of the past. “After 9/11, the FBI had to get ruthless in its fight against terrorism. The administration wasn’t playing games. It was about neutralizing high-value targets and cutting out the red tape of protracted court cases and bureaucratic hurdles.”

“A kill squad,” Lindo clarified as he ripped his eyes off Wilson. “The Bureau hasn’t funded or executed operations like that since CHAOS or COINTELPRO. Methods like that are usually the CIA’s bag.”

“It was a different time, Lindo. You and I were kids when all that stuff went down, but we’ve both been at the Bureau long enough to know that the Bureau has been capable—and still is—of going to extreme lengths to get the job done.”

Lindo leaned back in his chair, stroking his upper lip contemplatively. “So Blackwood was an assassin.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Wilson searched his mind for the right way to phrase it. “Dean was—” He sighed. “Look, Blackwood isn’t some B-grade freak with a hair-trigger temper.”

“You’re softening the truth here, Wilson.”

“I’m stating what I know,” Wilson replied curtly. “Hell, even I wasn’t brought into the fold on the bigger picture.”

“And what, pray tell, does the bigger picture look like?” Lindo slumped in his chair. “My God, Wilson. If any of these missions or this division was ever brought to life, you’d be sitting in congressional hearings well past your retirement, not to mention the public and legal blowback.”

“Those files are sealed.” Wilson tilted his head to the side. “The ones that weren’t destroyed, that is. Dean and I were only briefed on what was necessary for all the reasons I just discussed. My role was strictly to assign the tasks. It was just Dean and I working hand-in-hand for years.”

“Were the other agents working in the same division as Blackwood?”

“A few,” Wilson said. “Dean and I were never made aware of who they were for operational security purposes.”

“Who established that division?” Lindo shifted in his chair.

“That part is a bit murky.” Wilson looked up. “Again, very few people were in the know about the existence of the division. Even those who were, like myself, never given a complete rundown.” Wilson leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Years ago, high-ranking Bureau officials who have since retired or moved on came to me directly to work with Dean on high-profile missions. His task was simple—go after the target, handle it, and burn the receipts when the job is finished.”

Lindo raised his eyebrows. “You were his babysitter?”

Wilson’s expression hardened. “He was my friend, Lindo. Look, the kid has his issues, but I stake my life and reputation on his being a good man. He risked life and limb for years, and I was the one who pulled him out of the field. You have no idea what Blackwood has been through.”

“Well, your friend, from all outward appearances, has killed two of my guys and fucked off somewhere to do God only knows what.”

“He’s trying to figure out what’s going on,” Wilson corrected. “I know Dean. He wouldn’t run if he didn’t have a good reason.”

“What could it be?”

After throwing a furtive glance at the door, Wilson scooted his chair closer to the desk. He ticked down his volume, speaking in a hushed tone like he was worried the office was bugged. “If Dean’s on the run, it’s because he’s convinced he can’t trust anybody.”

Lindo shrugged and then smirked. “According to Blackwood’s profile, the guy allegedly hears voices. That doesn’t exactly reflect someone with a sound mind.”

“That particular issue you’re speaking of is slightly more complicated than the information you skimmed in his profile, Lindo. Like I said, the kid has his problems, but his intuition, his—” Wilson pointed at Lindo’s face, “uncanny knack for sniffing out the truth is a talent I have not seen or ever will see in another human being.”

A pinched-face Lindo squinted. “What are you saying? What is this kid? The wizard prodigy of law enforcement?”

“Yeah,” Wilson said, his smile widening. “He is.”

“You’re not instilling me with confidence here, Wilson. I’m tasked with finding Blackwood and bringing him in, and if the stories about him are true, if he’s still abiding by these brazen methods he’s so notorious for, I might have to take him down the hard way.”

Wilson took his focus off Lindo, his gaze dropping to the floor. “It took a long time for Dean to get his head straight. I rode shotgun through that whole mess. What matters to him is having a normal life. That’s what he fought for more than anything these past few years—being with his family.” He met Lindo’s eyes, unwavering. “Dean wouldn’t throw that away, not after everything he’s worked for. He just wants a shot at normalcy. And the only reason I can think of for him going off the reservation is because someone pushed him there.”

Lindo fell silent, studying the lines on Wilson’s face. The statement landed, and with his experience as a seasoned investigator and interrogator with a sharp instinct for deception, he recognized it as the truth.

“Leroy LeBlanc came after Blackwood,” Wilson continued. “If what you told me is accurate, one of Erik Mason’s known associates just killed one of our own in Paris.” He shook his head. “None of that is a coincidence.”

“On that we can agree.”

“Then we need to shift our focus here.” Wilson leaned back in his chair.

“To what exactly?”

“Finding out why Dean ran. Continue searching for him.” Wilson’s tone sharpened. “But we need to dig deeper. If it were up to me, I’d start by looking a bit more into Raab and McFadden.”

“Why them?”

“Because they were the last two men to see Dean, and if he decided to take them out, I’m convinced it’s because they cornered him and forced him into a situation where he had no other option.” Wilson made a passing-the-ball gesture. “LeBlanc. Mason. Raab. McFadden.” He raised his shoulders and held out his palms. “We have to find the connection.”

The faint chatter outside the office grabbed Lindo’s attention. He rubbed his middle and index finger together—a habit that sharpened his thinking.

“I’ve trusted you from the day I met you, Wilson,” Lindo mumbled. “You’re a solid agent and an even better man. You want to back this play, I’ll back it.” He raised a finger, his expression hardening. “But if I get even the slightest whiff that Blackwood is about to go off the rails, the conversation and the arrangement between us will shift on a dime. I won’t be asking any more questions. My mandate will be to take Blackwood down, plain and simple.”

Wilson nodded. “Agreed.”

“Good.” Lindo took a moment to breathe. “I’ll start this whole process by looking deeper into Raab and McFadden. In the meantime, I need you to cash in on whatever favors you can, pull whatever strings you need to, and do a deep dive into Leroy LeBlanc and Erik Mason.”

Wilson tensed up. “That’s the one thing here that troubles me the most.”

“What?”

“Erik Mason. The op you uncovered—the one Dean was involved in to take him out. I was Blackwood’s handler for years. Every operation, every target, was assigned to him by me.” He leaned, his voice dropping lower. “But I never gave Dean that assignment.”

19

Moments after the plane touched down in Paris─Le Bourget Airport, $300k hit Dean’s account, courtesy of the unwilling Bugsy Malone.

Good man.

Dean unclipped his seat belt, nodded thanks to the flight attendant, and made his way to the door.

Now hopefully he’ll do what he was told and keep his mouth shut.

Per the arrangements Bugsy made, a car was waiting for Dean 100 yards from the tarmac—a Mercedes-Benz S-Class rented from a fleet of luxury vehicles owned and operated by a private rental company.

Dean, with no bags and nothing in his pockets except the bag of pretzels the attendant gave him, made his way to the vehicle. A lean man in a black suit and tie, an amiable smile on his face and hands clasped in front of him, waited by the rear passenger door. He was suppressing his restless energy, his charm bordering on boyish.

“Bonjour!” the driver greeted, flashing an eager set of piercing blue eyes. “Comment était le vol?”

Dean winced, the universal expression indicating he was lost in translation. “English?”

“English.” The driver nodded, his thick French accent coating the word. “Yes, I speak it.” He offered his hand. “I am Maxime. I am from the private limo company. How was your flight? You are Monsieur Miller, yes?”

Dean shook the man’s hand—the man with the very pronounced, very thick, very comical accent.

Maxime opened the rear passenger door. Dean slipped inside. His weight caused the black leather interior to creak.

Cozy.

Dean fiddled with the window button.

Nice job, Bugsy.

Seconds later, the Benz took a left, rolled across the tarmac, and headed for the exit that spilled onto the street.

“Your package is back there,” Maxime called out from the front. “Monsieur Malone said your shaving kit is there.”

Shaving kit.

Dean spotted the leather cache case beside him, grabbed it, and thumped open the clasps.

Subtle.

“First time in Paris?” Maxime asked.

“First time,” Dean confirmed.

“Business or pleasure?”

“Business.”

“May I ask what you do, Monsieur Miller?”

Dean, sifting through the cache case, quickly slapped together an excuse. “Insurance,” he said as he found the credit card Bugsy had provided. “Cyber liability.”

“Ah, a tech man!” Maxime flashed a smile in his rearview mirror. “How long have you been doing that?”

God almighty.

This is the last thing I wanted to do.

“Six years,” Dean continued as he opened the cache case. Inside was a pair of burner phones in blister packages. There was also a Canadian-issued passport with the name John Miller on it. The picture Bugsy used for John Miller was from several years back when Dean sported a beard and a glazed-over look in his eyes.

Jesus.

Dean slipped the passport into his jacket.

I had the hangover from hell when that photo was taken.

As Maxime drove and fired off one question after another, Dean took the time to examine the landscape outside his window. The road snaked through a mix of industrial zones, commercial areas, and suburban neighborhoods. The Benz drove past warehouses and office parks before it transitioned into quieter residential streets lined with small shops and tree-filled parks.

Feels familiar.

Familiar but foreign.

“Because it is foreign, jackass,” Woody snapped. “Fackin’ hell. Sometimes I think you’re dumber than you look.”

Dean rolled his eyes as the Paris skyline appeared on the horizon. He caught sight of the Eiffel Tower and La Défense skyscrapers. The streets became busier, the buildings taller, the atmosphere more vibrant the closer the Benz got to the heart of the city.

It’s beautiful.

Dean examined the skies above Paris—heavy, brooding clouds.

Should’ve brought Claire here.

He recalled the time—several, in fact—when his ex-wife had suggested a trip, vacation, or brief sojourn from his work with the FBI. Each time, the request fell on deaf ears because Dean was too distracted by work or too loaded to listen.

I should’ve done a lot of things.

“So, Monsieur Miller,” Maxime said, the Benz cruising steadily down Boulevard Barbès. “I was not given a hotel or other destination when I was dispatched.” He cast a glance over his shoulder. “I can suggest several hotels in the city. Very good places.”

It took Dean a moment to answer. He was too distracted by the architecture lining the Boulevard Barbès—a mix of classic Haussmannian buildings with ornate stone facades and modern, more utilitarian structures.

“I, uh …” Dean blinked his eyes, focusing on the task at hand. “I’m open to suggestions.”

“Well, there is the Ritz,” Maxime said. “Very classy. Very nice. There is also Hôtel de Crillon, Kimpton St Honoré Paris.”

“What about something more mid-level?”

Maxime squinted. “I don’t understand.”

“Less flashy,” Dean corrected. “Something cheaper.”

“Ah, something cheaper.” Maxime nodded. “Yes, there are a few places.” He motioned over his shoulder. “I took you as a man of classier tastes, no offense given.”

“None taken.”

“Hôtel Park Lane is a good option.”

“Let’s go with that.” Dean flicked his focus to a man on the street dressed in a three-piece suit. “Actually, do you know where I could pick up a decent wardrobe?”

“I did see that you had no bags, Monsieur Miller.”

“They were misplaced.”

“Ah, oui.” Maxime squinted harder. “I see.” He shrugged and then turned left at the end of the street. “I know a few places. We can get you sorted away. I am happy to provide you with anything and everything you need.”

I’ll need a gun.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, the jet lag catching up.

But one thing at a time.

Dean stood in front of the full-length mirror inside Boutique Fursac Paris Richelieu. The high-end luxury suit store was immaculate, embodying a kind of streamlined, sanitized aesthetic that reminded Dean of an Apple store.

“The Apple store?” Woody lamented. “Christ almighty, laddie. Could you try not to sound like an ignorant, unseasoned American? We’re trying to look fackin’ classy here.”

Classy, Dean discovered as he appraised his suit in the mirror, was a look he embodied well. The suit—a medium-blue two-piece with shiny fabric and a sheet-white dress shirt—lent him the appearance of a wealthy man who could rub shoulders with the elite.

“Vous avez l’air très raffiné, monsieur,” exclaimed the tailor, a bald, sinewy man who was adjusting Dean’s cuffs.

Though he couldn’t understand a word the man spoke, Dean took what he said as a compliment. After stripping off the suit so the tailor could put the finishing touches on it, he selected a pair of black dress shoes. Satisfied with his choices, he paid for his wardrobe with his credit card, and then someone offered him a cappuccino, courtesy of the store. By the time he finished it, his suit was ready. He thanked the tailor for doing everything in an expedited fashion and walked out to the Benz parked by the curb.

Dean hopped in back, meeting Maxime’s gaze in the rearview mirror.

“Where to now, Monsieur Miller?”

“The hotel.”

“Right away.” Maxime checked his mirrors, peeked over his shoulder, and merged into the traffic flowing down Rue de Richelieu.

The Benz drove on. It took a right. Another left. Maxime droned on about the architecture of the city, though Dean wasn’t listening.

“The private limo company you work for,” Dean said as he took out one of the burner phones from its blister packaging. “What is it called?”

“Paris Platinum Service.” Maxime flashed a smile in the mirror. When he said the word platinum, it wasn’t just a word—it was an anthem. Each syllable was perfectly enunciated with dramatic flair: “Plat-in-um.”

“I see.” Dean powered up the burner phone, set it up, and began a Google search for Paris Platinum Service. “Say it again.”

“Pardon?”

“The limo service you work for.” Dean pinpointed the business on several pages, verified that it was real, and pocketed his phone. “Say it again.”

“Monsieur …” Maxime’s voice began to shake, something he attempted to conceal with a smile. “I do not understand.”

“I like your accent. I just want to hear you say Paris Platinum Service again. Makes me feel all regal.”

Maxime cleared his throat. He fidgeted in his seat. “Paris Platinum Service.”

“Again.”

“Paris Platinum Service.”

“Once more.”

“Paris Platinum Service.” When Maxime said it that time, the precision of the three-syllable emphasis faded. It was smoother. More casual: “Plat-num.”

Dean laughed. “Christ.”

“Is there a problem, Monsieur Miller?”

“You’re good.”

“I do not …” Maxime raised his shoulders. “Monsieur, I am confused.”

“Most people from Alabama tend to be.” Dean’s voice carried an edge. “Hopefully you’re not one of those sycophants who chants ‘Roll Tide’ every time he has the chance.”

A single drop of sweat rolled down Maxime’s face.

20

Dean kept a sharp eye on Maxime as he steered the Benz down Rue de Gramont, the street lined with a mix of old townhouses and modern shops. The scene, like much of Paris, was elegant and enchanting, though Dean was too focused on calling out his driver for not being who he claimed instead of really taking it all in.

Dean moved to the left side of the back seat and perched forward, his forehead pressed against the back of Maxime’s headrest. “Eighteen hours ago, I choked out an FBI agent with his seat belt. Shortly after that, I caused the car we were riding in to crash. Poor bastard broke his neck, arms, and every other damn thing. The other agent with him got smeared into roadkill on the asphalt. Point being, I’m a little tired of playing games.” He reached around, grabbed Maxime by the arm, and squeezed. “Now what part of Alabama are you from?”

The color of Maxime’s skin turned a ghostly shade of white. He slammed his fist on the steering wheel, his teeth gnashing as he relaxed his posture. “Piedmont,” he grumbled, his true Central Alabama accent bleeding through.

“Who hired you?”

“Bugsy.”

“You’re his local contact here in Paris?”

“Yeah.”

Dean shrugged. “Doing what?”

“Lots of different things,” Maxime said. “I am a driver, but I’m more of a courier.” Bugsy tells me to pick up a package, I pick it up, and then I take it to its final destination.” He pointed to one side of the car and then another. “A to B.”

“I take it this Benz and the whole pepped-up Parisian driver shtick is a front.”

“Hey, man.” Maxime snickered. “It works. As far as the locals know, I’m just a skippy little native drivin’ around high-class clientele all day. Fakin’ the accent helps throw the scent off.” He glimpsed at Dean through his mirror. “If anyone heard my real accent, they’d look at me like I had a second head growin’ out of my ass.”

“You pull it off well.”

“Thank you kindly.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean said. “I’m still considering choking you out for bullshitting me the past hour.”

Maxime held up his hands. “Look, brother.” He laughed nervously. “I ain’t no hit man or muscle, or any other kind of thing like that. I told you, I’m a courier. I just drive packages around all day.”

“Then why did Bugsy send you to pick me up?

“He’s worried.” Maxime flashed the whites of his eyes. “From what he told me, you’re a bad motherfucker. Bugsy just wanted me to, well, keep an eye on you while you got settled in Paris. He wanted to make sure this little arrangement you made with him doesn’t blow back in his face. From the sounds of it, he’s worried about reprisals. Apparently, you broke the guy’s jaw once.”

“In two places, yeah.”

“Well, I’m not looking to get mine smashed to bits.” Maxime belted out a chuckle. “Look, if you want, I’ll drive you around free of charge. I’ll do whatever you want. I’m sorry about faking that French guy stuff earlier. Just don’t hurt me⁠—”

“Enough!” Dean loosened his grip on Maxime’s arm and sat back, sighing his frustration.

The Alabammer here is probably telling the truth.

I’ve got a lot of dirt on Bugsy.

The guy’s never ordered a killing before.

The last person he tried to kick that trend with is me.

“Maxime,” Dean muttered. “Where did you come up with that name?”

Maxime shrugged. “Just picked it.”

“What’s your real name?”

“Shane Ditto.”

“Ditto?” Dean smirked. “Like D-I-T-T-O? Ditto to that?”

“Yes, sir.” Maxime—aka Shane—mime-tipped his fake hat. “Pleased to meet you.” He held up a finger. “And to be fair, I’m originally from Vicksburg. I consider myself more from there than Piedmont.”

“You know the area well around here, Shane?”

“Like the back of my hand.”

“How much is Bugsy paying you? What’s your daily rate?”

The question elicited a sneer from Shane. “I don’t make a daily rate. Bugsy’s got me over a barrel on that one. I only get paid each time I take a package. It’s kind of like working for a ride share company. The only reason I stay is because Bugsy lets me stay in one of his apartments in the city.”

“An apartment.” Dean nodded, changing up plans in his head. “Sounds good.”

“It’s all right. It’s only two bedrooms, but I like it well enough.”

“I meant to say that your place just became my new lodgings here, sport.”

Shane huffed. “Seriously?”

“Big time,” Dean said, pinning his focus on Shane’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “You just became my new chauffeur for the remainder of this little trip here, Ditto. But I’m going to make it worth your while—50k now and another 50 once I finish my little job here in Paris.”

“My friend …” Shane pulled the Benz over to the side of the road, turned around, and pursed his lips into a smile. “Consider me at your service for the duration.”

“Good.” Dean eased up his defensive posture, settling in for the ride. “First, take me to this apartment of yours.”

Shane nodded. “Done.”

“Once I’m settled there, maybe I’ll hit up some nightlife.”

“What, uh …” Shane took a beat. “What exactly are you here in Paris to do? Bugsy never mentioned why you were coming.”

“Because Bugsy doesn’t know,” Dean said. “And neither do you. That information is on a need-to-know basis.”

“Whatever you say.” Shane squinted. “And when you said nightlife, what kind of places are you looking to hit up?”

“I take it that Paris has more than its fair share of seedy establishments.”

“One or two.”

“List them,” Dean said, formulating in his mind the next phase of his plan. “I’m looking to stir up a little trouble tonight.”

21

The word seedy barely scratched the surface of the places Shane suggested to Dean. While most tourists would have preferred places more upscale, Dean had specified to his new employee that he wanted to stop off in joints where a guy has a high chance of getting mugged.

Shane recommended the Rex Club, Folies Pigalle, the Panic Room. “There’s more,” he said, “but those are good places to start.”

“I’m in for a long night then,” Dean replied. “I haven’t said this in a while, but for the first time in a long time, I’m looking to pick a fight.”

In the apartment, Shane fetched two bottles of Kronenbourg 1664 from his fridge and gawked at his new employer like he had just been asked for the square root of something.

“I don’t get it.” Shane offered one of the beers to Dean, which he swiftly declined. “You’re actually looking for trouble?”

“In a way, yeah.”

“That happen a lot?”

Dean clenched his jaw. “Not as much as it used to.”

For the next few seconds, Dean’s mind whirled through his past, remembering the many personas he had donned when he worked undercover. An outlaw biker throwing back shots in a clubhouse. An affluent human trafficker living in the penthouse of a high-rise. A crack dealer half-in-the-bag sleeping on a cot in a flophouse. Roles of a lifetime, each one acted out with an emphasis on the details. To successfully embody the person he was pretending to be, he had to fully embrace the unique lifestyles attributed to each one.

So many.

Too many.

While Shane droned on about the layout of the nightlife in Paris—specifically places a person could go to stir up trouble—Dean continued his mental recap of his tenure working undercover.

He thought about the years he’d spent away from his family.

The men he arrested or killed.

His close scrapes with death.

“All of it at the expense of a marriage and a relationship with your son,” Woody chimed in. “But we had some fun, didn’t we?”

No.

No, we did not have fun.

The division Dean had been assigned to with a select few others was a capture-or-kill squad, according to rumors Wilson passed on. High-octane. Shoot on sight authorization. It was a mandate born of the post-9/11 world. The Bureau wanted bodies, not suspects languishing in prison at the taxpayers’ expense.

“Results are what’s important,” Wilson once told him. “You and the other guys in this unit are not the typical breed of undercover agents. These guys you’re going after are assholes of the highest caliber, and the Bureau wants them wiped off the face of the earth, no matter the cost.”

Who else was in the unit—save for Rawlings, that one agent he worked with unsuccessfully—what jobs they worked, and how those assignments factored into Dean’s missions were of no concern to him at the time he accepted the position. Even the work itself and how it may or may not have contributed to the “greater good” meant little as well. He simply needed an outlet, a high-adrenaline lifestyle, something to keep him on the move.

Because of my brother.

The memory of Tommy Blackwood’s murder, one that played out in front of Dean’s eyes, rushed into his thoughts.

He clenched a pair of fists.

The muscles in his chest constricted.

Thoughts of how it affected his family and overall mental health spun out like a busted tilt-a-whirl on the cusp of collapsing.

“We still haven’t come to terms with that, lad,” Woody said, his voice weighted with concern. “Have we?”

Dean blinked himself out of the trance—he needed to focus on the task at hand.

“Anyway,” Shane said, waving his hand through the air, signing off on whatever long-winded dissertation he had given while Dean was daydreaming, “depending on what you’re trying to accomplish, there are a few places you could hit up tonight.”

“I’m searching for a person,” Dean explained. “A man.”

“Oh, well …” Shane cleared his throat, his expression timid. “If it’s company like that you’re looking for, there’s always the sex districts⁠—”

“It’s not like that, wonder boy.” Dean surveyed the two-bedroom apartment—cozy, modern, comfortable, but not flashy. “Someone was killed in a place called Moret-sur-Loing outside Paris.” He locked eyes with his new temp. “I’m looking for the guy who killed him.”

“Got it.” Shane nursed his beer, his body angled toward the window in the kitchen that gazed out to Montmartre with its cobblestone roads and outdoor cafés. “Look, I’m not exactly rubbin’ shoulders with those type of creeps, but I might be able to point you in the right direction. If you give me a name, that might help.”

Dean debated how much to tell Shane. He was still building some semblance of trust with the man but knew that the time he had was limited.

You’re on the clock.

You have to move fast.

“Erik Mason,” Dean said. “Ever heard of him?”

Shane shook his head. “No, never.”

“I’m not surprised.” Dean slipped down on the couch. “Mason probably wants to keep things as quiet as possible.”

“You said he murdered a guy though.” Shane snickered. “That ain’t exactly in line with keeping a low profile.”

“Well, I gotta find him. I’ve got questions for this prick, and he’s the only one who has answers. The best way I can think to do that is⁠—”

“Heading to the grungier parts of Paris,” Shane cut in, “asking around about Mason, and eventually, after asking too many questions to the wrong kind of people, stirring up some unwanted attention. Then you might bait this Mason fella out of hiding.” He motioned with his beer to Dean. “I think I’m followin’ you.”

Dean smirked. He was beginning to like—but not completely trust—his new driver.

After taking another hefty swig of his beer, Shane crossed over to the recliner across from the couch and sat. “That’s a pretty intense approach, don’t you think? Like kickin’ a beehive.”

“In a manner of speaking, yeah.”

“Well, while I do grin big at a hundred thousand dollar payday, I don’t think it’s worth throwin’ myself into harm’s way like that.” Shane held up his hands. “No offense. Maybe it’s better if I stick to just pointing you toward the places you’re lookin’ to go to.”

“Agreed,” Dean said. “To be fair, I’m still on the fence about you claiming who you say you are.”

“That’s understable.” Shane winked. He downed the last of his beer. “John Miller, I take it you’re not gonna tell me your real name anytime soon.”

“Let’s stick with Miller.”

“Fine by me.”

“Also,” Dean continued, “if Bugsy calls and asks for an update, you’re to refrain from letting him know about our new arrangement. Make sure you keep up appearances here.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” Shane replied. “A hundred grand is the most money I’ve ever seen in my life. Coupled with what I’ve stashed away, I’m planning on blowin’ Paris and hotfootin’ my way over to Amsterdam after this. I’m gonna write a novel.” Shane put his beer down, his expression eager. “Actually, if you’ve got the time to hear the elevator pitch⁠—”

“Maybe later.” Dean rose from the couch and made his way over to the bag that held his new suit. “I need to start scoping these places out.” Ho nodded to his cache case. “There’s another burner phone in there. Take it. That’s how you and I will keep in contact.”

“Gotcha.” Shane retrieved the cell and looked at the blister packaging. “In terms of a ride, I can drive you around all night. Like I said, 100k bought you dinner and a movie.”

“I’ll use public transit or cabs.” Dean took the suit out of the bag. “I don’t want anyone knowing we’re working together. In fact, you should probably stay close to home until I’m finished here in Paris.” He shot a look at Shane. “I don’t suppose you have a gun, do you?”

“Nope.” Shane ripped open the cell phone packaging. “Never needed one.”

Well I do.

Dean rummaged through his plan for the night, thinking about the caliber of people he’d run into before the night was finished.

Maybe one of these cretins I meet will have one on them.

“If you’re looking to go to seedy clubs,” Shane said, pointing to Dean’s suit, “that swank li’l number you got might draw some eyes.”

“That’s the idea.”

“Right.” Shane struck his palm against the side of his head. “Idiot.”

After he removed the suit and laid it out, Dean walked over to Shane and squared off with him. His eyes turned cold. His tone took on a darker edge. “Understand something here, Shane.” Dean took a step closer. “I’m here to stir up trouble with people who will take pleasure in the process of gutting you just so they can get to me. Once I start turning heads, things are going to get heavy, and they’re going to get heavy fast. If you fuck up, if you decide at any point to cross me, you’re never going to have the chance to write that great American novel you were getting ready to wax on about.”

Shane swallowed hard and said nothing.

“Do as I say,” Dean continued, “exactly when I say it and how I say it. You stand by me, you do as you’re told, and you’ll be sitting pretty sipping lattes in the Venice of the North by this time next week.”

The kid held his head high, his lips bowed up into a warm grin.

“Now,” Dean clapped the kid on the back and walked over to his suit. “This is the part where I say something clever to sign off the conversation. Unfortunately, I’m a bit jet-lagged, so I’m coming up with zilch.”

Dean stripped off his jacket followed by his shirt and pants, ready to don his wardrobe for the night.

Had he caught Shane’s expression, he would have seen that the kid was staring in appalled amazement at the series of scars and bullet wounds stitched into Dean’s sinewy back.

22

The Panic Room was the fourth place Dean ended up visiting in a bid to find information on Erik Mason—or, if he got lucky, Mason himself. The first three spots—Folies Pigalle, the Rex Club, and the Whisper Club—ended up being nothing more than experiences marked by drunken assholes and even drunker women. The locations had introduced him to a few shitheads in the past four hours, but not the top-tier caliber shitheads he was looking to find.

Sooner or later, you’re bound to find someone who knows something.

When Dean entered the Panic Room, the booming bass of David Naughton’s “Makin’ It” hit him like a brick, vibrating through his chest. He skimmed the establishment, clocking its points of ingress and egress as he nudged his way through the crammed dance floor.

Bright, multicolored track lights synced with the rhythm of the retro disco music cast a glow over Dean’s face. He squinted, mildly irritated that his field of vision had narrowed and his hearing had become less acute.

This place is a throwback to the 1970s.

I feel like Travolta in Saturday Night Fever.

“Don’t throw shade, lad,” Woody shouted over the music. “Your musical preferences haven’t progressed past the aughts.”

Opting out of replying to the figment of his imagination, Dean snaked his way through the crowd and arrived at the bar. He ordered a beer for appearance like he had done at the last three clubs but never took a sip. He started a tab with his credit card and scanned the terrain for the most disreputable individual he could find.

Dean tapped his foot to the beat, feigning interest in the vibe.

A moment later, he caught sight of the security camera on the east side of the club. He stared directly into the lens.

Gérard, assessing the man on the closed-circuit feed who was staring right into the camera, leaned in closer to the screen.

“Je n’y crois pas.” I don’t believe it.

The description Mason gave of Dean Blackwood, which he had provided to his entire crew, was thorough and highly detailed. Mason knew Blackwood as intimately as he knew himself.

“I know every line of that fucker’s face,” Mason had told his people. “It’s burned into my goddamn memory like a cattle brand.”

It took Gérard a moment to make sure the individual he was looking at on the live feed of the dance floor was the man in question, but he knew in the pit of his gut it was Dean Blackwood.

And the bastard just walked right through our front door.

Gérard plugged in Mason’s number. It rang twice.

“What is it?”

“He’s here,” Gérard said.

“Perhaps you could be a little more specific.”

“Blackwood.” Gérard nodded at the monitor as though Mason were right beside him. “He’s here. At the club.” He couldn’t help his laughter. “He just walked right in.”

“He’s quick,” Mason remarked. “What’s he doing?”

Gérard examined the monitor. “He’s posted up at the bar. He’s got a beer, but he doesn’t look like he’s really drinking it.”

“You’re sure it’s him? Blackwood’s known for throwing a few back.”

“I’m telling you, Mason.” Gérard motioned at the monitor with sharp gestures. “It’s him. I’m ninety-nine percent sure.”

“Keep your eyes on him,” Mason instructed. “Put a tail on him. Do not—and I repeat—do not approach him.” He took a beat. “Knowing him, he’s doing precisely what I theorized he would do—try to get a line on me.”

With Mason still on the phone, Gérard texted two members of his entourage—Pierre and René.

Get to the club.

Now.

“I’m calling for backup,” Gérard told Mason. “If Blackwood’s here, we have the chance to intercept him.” He switched to his native tongue. “C’est une opportunité en or.” This is a golden opportunity.

A few moments of silence ticked by on Gérard’s end. Finally, he said, “What do you propose? If Blackwood is looking to find you, perhaps we should approach him and act as though we can offer him just that.”

“Risky.”

“He’s in your club, Mason,” Gérard said. “He’s surrounded by your men. He walked himself right into a killbox.”

“It’s not the first time Blackwood dove head-first into a tactically dangerous situation,” Mason scoffed. “It’s his calling card. That psycho son of a bitch probably has some harebrained scheme simmering on the back burner.”

Gérardheld his head high. “Allow me to take the lead here. I can bring him in. I’ll have him standing in front of you within the hour.”

For reasons Gérard couldn’t fathom, Mason laughed. When his laughter subsided, Mason spoke in a tone that was borderline condescending.

“Try your hand at it,” Mason ordered. “But I want someone on standby in case something happens. If Blackwood evades capture, I want to be able to track his whereabouts. More importantly, do not kill him. I want him alive, even at the expense of your own life and limb.”

“Understood.”

“Gérard.” Mason’s tone hardened. “Good luck.”

With that, the call ended. Gérard, sporting more of a pep in his step, took the Glock 17 out of the holster under his blazer and checked the rounds. He retrieved a pair of zip ties from a desk drawer and stuffed them into his back pocket.

Gérard turned his focus back on the monitor. Blackwood was surveying the club, his body positioned in a way that he could clock anyone who approached him from any given direction.

“J’espère que ce connard est un combattant,” Gérard muttered. I hope this asshole is a fighter.

23

Twenty minutes of loitering at the bar yielded no progress for Dean in his attempt to move up the food chain to Erik Mason.

He met a guy trying to hawk molly, mentioned Mason’s name, and got a quizzical expression.

A woman offered him a pot brownie.

A second guy, by far the biggest and most brooding guy he met that night, flashed Dean a surly look when the two bumped elbows. After a quick exchange, Dean understood the guy was just another drunk asshole with no real connection to the underworld.

“Perhaps you’re thinking about this all wrong, laddie,” Woody commented.

You think?

“I mean, it wasn’t a particularly bad idea to try to find Mason this way, but perhaps you’re thinking of the angles all wrong.”

Maybe.

Dean checked the time.

It has been a while since I’ve been in the field.

“A long time,” Woody remarked. “And I don’t have the inkling that Mason is just going to walk in, show his face, and⁠—”

“Monsieur,” someone called out on Dean’s left.

Dean snapped his head around and quickly clocked a man in a suit that looked on par with the price he had paid for his.

The gentleman leered.

Dean nodded in greeting.

The man’s eyes shimmered with lethal intent.

“My name is Gérard,” the man said, bowing his head subtly. “I believe you are looking for Monsieur Mason.”

No.

Fucking.

Way.

“Well,” Woody huffed, “I guess that makes me the arsehole.”

Dean stood up, took a small step back, and assessed Gérard with a smile. He then threw a quick look over both shoulders to make sure no one was waiting in the wings.

“I’m confused,” Dean said, furrowing his brow. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

“Your name is Blackwood,” Gérard replied. “Oui?”

Dean’s smile broadened.

Gérard followed suit.

“Monsieur Mason is willing to meet with you.” Gérard motioned to the exit over Dean’s shoulder. “I would be happy to take you to him.”

“Is that so?”

“You are looking for Monsieur Mason, oui?”

“I am.”

“Then there is no sense wasting time pretending otherwise.” Gérard flattened his hand across his chest. “Your arrival in Paris was anticipated, and Monsieur Mason, as I mentioned, has been wishing to speak to you for some time.”

Don’t follow this goon outside.

Think of a plan here.

You need to⁠—

“Mon ami,” Gérard said as he reached into his jacket, pulled out a Glock 17, and held it down by his side. “This is Monsieur Mason’s club.” He winked. “His home turf, as you Americans say. You can either come with me willingly or I can shoot you here on the spot and present the authorities with whatever story I wish.”

Oh brother.

Dean eyed the weapon.

This night went from zero to ten in a blink.

Behind Dean, two men crept into view through his peripherals. One had a goatee. The other had a beard and hair that fell to his shoulders.

Muscle.

I wonder what the word for that is in French.

“We will take a drive now,” Gérard stated. “You will comply. You will not cause problems. If you do, I will⁠—”

“I get it.” Dean held up his hand. “You’ll do something mean to me.” He eyed the men behind him. “I won’t cause any problems.” He clasped his hands in front of him, a sign of contrition. “Lead the way.”

Gérard motioned to the front entrance with a bellhop-like gesture of his hand, signalling Dean to move.

Dean turned around. The men behind him spaced apart, allowing him to walk between them. He moved slowly toward the front exit. As he crossed the dance floor, he felt the occasional nudge in his back—the men behind him offering him subtle reminders that they were glued to his six for the duration.

“Well, you found Mason’s people,” Woody said, his tone lowered to a hush. “What’s the plan now?”

Mason wants me alive.

“From the sounds of it.”

I just need to get outside.

“And then what?” Woody huffed. “Don’t get yourself killed just yet, lad. I still haven’t had a chance to taste a genuine French macaron.”

Dean terminated the conversation inside his mind as a bouncer to his left opened the front door. He stepped outside, the chilly night breeze prickling his skin. One of the men behind him pressed something into the small of his back—the cold tip of a sidearm, a sensation all too familiar.

“René,” Gérard grumbled as he crept into view on Dean’s left. “Tu conduiras.” You will drive.

The thug with the goatee—René—nodded as Gérard produced a set of car keys and tossed them over. Then he gave the other man—Gérard called him Pierre—a set of zip ties followed by instructions spoken in rapid-fire French, something Dean was able to translate easily after Pierre took hold of his right arm and applied a firm squeeze.

Gérard punched a number into his phone. He glanced to his left, eyeing the stretch of road known as Rue Amelot.

Maybe his backup is close by.

After ending the brief call, Gérard pocketed his phone and put his focus on Dean. “Now we will go there,” he commanded, nodding with his chin to the Audi parked across the street. “You will ride in the back. My associate will bind your hands before you get in.”

“I’d prefer riding shotgun,” Dean replied. “I get a little queasy when I sit in the back.”

The pithy comeback was met with a swift fist to Dean’s gut, courtesy of Pierre. Dean doubled over, a brief wave of nausea overcoming him as he coughed, cleared his throat, and straightened up.

“Okay.” Dean grimaced as Pierre tugged his right arm and guided him across the street. “I guess I’ll sit in the back.”

You have to make a move.

You have to take control.

If these guys take you to Mason, you’ll be outnumbered and outgunned.

The second you get in that car, your chances of survival diminish.

Gérard walked at the head of the group, scanning the street, looking for threats, his stride smoothe and aquiline. His eyes briefly settled on René who was already in the Audi, firing up the engine.

Dean moved slowly, complying with his captor’s orders, feeling Pierre’s grip on his arm tighten as they crossed the street and walked to the right side of the Audi.

Now’s the time.

Dean breathed slowly.

Just wait for the opening.

He watched as Gérard opened the right rear door, murmuring something in French to René before opening the front passenger door.

“Get in,” Pierre snapped.

Dean narrowed his eyes.

Took a breath.

Pierre yanked his arm, and Dean shot his elbow into the man’s throat, spun him around, and punched him in the solar plexus.

Pierre doubled over.

Gérard, halfway in and out of the Audi, whipped his head around and reached into his blazer.

Dean stepped to his right, raised his foot, and kicked the car door. It slammed into Gérard, driving his torso and throat into the doorframe and rendering him unconscious. The Glock 17 slipped from Gérard’s grip and landed on the pavement at Dean’s feet.

Dean scooped up the weapon and chambered a round.

René bolted out of the Audi and peeked over the roof, reaching for the piece inside his jacket.

“Nope,” Dean barked as he lined up René’s head between the sights.

With a grimace, René held up his hands. He mumbled something in French, adjusting his stance, jittery and pissed at the same time.

“You speak English?”

“Oui,” René seethed.

“Then step away from the fucking car,” Dean barked. He backed away from Gérard and Pierre’s unconscious bodies, making sure he held the Glock steady on René. “Move over here to my side of the car. You’re gonna load your boss Gérard here into the trunk.”

“No.”

With a heated stare fixed on René, Dean rounded the car, closed in on his target, and aimed the Glock 17 at the goon’s head.

René flared his nostrils.

Dean slid his finger across the trigger.

In the BMW across the street, two men watching the event unfold placed a quick call to their boss—Erik Mason.

“Blackwood just took down Gérard and Pierre,” the driver of the BMW said into the phone, his teeth gnashed, fuming as he watched the scene play out across the street. “He currently has a gun pointed at René.”

“Of course he does,” Mason replied.

“What are our orders?”

Mason took a moment. “End it,” he finally said. “I’m wasting time trying to get even with Blackwood. Just terminate him and be done with it.”

“Compris.” Understood.

The driver ended the call and nodded to the man next to him. The pair each removed a Walther P99 from their jackets as the driver unlocked the doors.

Dean reached in the driver’s side of the Audi and unlatched the trunk. Then he swiftly pistol-whipped René’s cheek, which was sufficient motivation for him to do as Dean said. He cursed under his breath, walked to the right side of the car, and—per Dean’s instructions—used the zip ties in Pierre’s pocket to bind Gérard’s hands behind his back.

“Lift him up. Use your knees. It’s easier on the back.”

René cursed in French, dragging Gérard’s limp body to the rear of the car, lifting it into the trunk, and closing the lid.

Across the street, Dean heard car doors slam. He shot a look in that direction and saw two men in leather jackets—one with slicked-back hair, the other with an earring. They were sauntering toward the Audi, each with a suppressed weapon in their hand.

The backup.

The B-team.

Dean ordered René to move away from the car, making sure he was still in his line of sight as he flashed a grin at the two approaching thugs.

“Nice night for a walk, gents.”

“Oui,” the one with the earring replied, a smile brimming on his face. “Nice night for a walk.”

The two men drifted apart. Dean crept around the right side of the Audi toward the front bumper, casting a quick glance to his left to see René joining the other two, forming a loose perimeter.

“Put your weapon down,” Earring snapped. “You’re coming with us.”

Dean smirked.

Earring and his partner snapped the hammers back on their weapons in sync.

“Well,” Dean whispered. “Shit.” He swung up his weapon.

Earring and his cohort followed suit.

24

The two men were fast, but not nearly as fast as Dean. He got his weapon up first and fired two rounds at Earring, followed by two more at his partner. The first pair struck Earring in his sternum, knocking him on his back, his bulletproof vest absorbing the rounds.

The partner with the slicked-back hair—a man who opted out of vests because they wrinkled his clothes—was struck once in the chest and once in the throat. He was mortally wounded, but he didn’t die right away.

On his back, Earring fired his weapon blindly at Dean. The three shots he rattled off forced Dean to duck below the hood of the Audi. The bullets clipped the hood, one of them whizzing past Dean’s head within inches.

Dean peeked over the hood. Earring was on his feet, hustling toward the other side of the street. René followed after him, both men leaving their downed cohort to choke and bleed out on the pavement.

Go.

Get out of here.

You’re not getting into a shootout in the middle of a busy street.

Dean slid into the Audi, twisted the keys dangling in the ignition, fired up the engine, and slammed the door shut with a thud.

His left hand gripped the wheel.

He threw the shifter into drive with his right.

With gritted teeth, Dean slammed his foot onto the accelerator, peeling off down the street. Two more thuds echoed as the Audi’s right-side doors slammed shut from the sudden force.

All right, Blackwood.

Where are you going?

You need to shake these guys.

Dean scanned the road, mentally retracing the map of the terrain he had committed to memory before arriving at the club. He spotted Rue Oberkampf ahead, stretching west to east at the intersection.

Turn right.

He reached the intersection and jerked the wheel hard to the right. Glancing quickly at his mirrors, he saw the BMW about 30 yards behind, tailing him without hesitation.

Go the wrong way.

The Audi hugged another sharp turn, and Dean’s body lurched to the left. Cars heading in the opposite direction blared their horns and flashed their headlights in a frantic warning.

“Oh man,” Dean moaned, tensing up as he prepared to snake his way through the oncoming traffic on this one-way street. “This might’ve been a bad idea.”

The vehicles ahead of Dean swerved left and right, clearing a path. Several cars screeched to a halt, planted in the road like a random arrangement of headstones.

Just like back at Quantico.

Recalling his training, Dean swerved expertly one after another between the vehicles parked at crooked angles on the road, the faces of the shocked drivers in clear view.

A quarter of a mile down the road—about 400 meters in France, Dean thought—was another intersection, Boulevard Voltaire. As he approached, he took a quick peek at his side mirror and saw that the pursuing BMW, despite the obstacles in its path, was closing in.

They’re good.

Very good.

Dean put his eyes back on the road. Directly in front of him, about 25 feet away, a Fiat came to a hard stop in the middle of the street.

“Shit.”

Dean gritted his teeth, turning sharply to the left. The Audi’s right side scraped against the Fiat’s left, the screech of grinding metal filling the car’s interior. Whizzing past the Fiat, Dean held up his hand at the driver—the universal gesture for “my bad, buddy.”

Clearing the Fiat, Dean slammed his foot down harder on the accelerator. He barreled into the intersection and then drifted the Audi into a turn, the tires screeching as he nosed the vehicle into the slide.

Dean saw headlights flashing on his right.

A horn blared loudly as a driver laid into it.

Cutting a glance to his right, Dean spotted an oncoming VW right before it clipped the Audi’s right rear side. Dean’s body jolted as the Audi was sent into a violent 360-degree spin. His vision blurred into a chaotic mix of colors and shapes as the deafening screech of twisting metal and the banshee-like wail of tires filled his ears.

Come on.

Come on.

Come on!

Dean fought against the turn, relying on instinct, and gently steered into the direction of the spin while simultaneously easing off the accelerator and applying pressure to the brakes.

The Audi gradually slowed down and then came to a halt, positioned squarely in the middle of the intersection.

Okay.

Dean gripped the wheel, scanning his surroundings and quickly orienting himself. The Audi was now facing south down Boulevard Voltaire, the opposite direction he intended to go.

Now you need to⁠—

A car horn honked.

Dean snapped his head to the right.

The BMW pursuing him was hurtling toward the Audi’s passenger side at about 40 miles per hour.

Go!

Dean slammed the shifter in reverse and mashed the gas pedal to the floor, tearing down the road in reverse as the BMW roared past him, clipping his front bumper, yanking it off with a violent jerk and sending it skidding across the pavement.

Alrighty.

Dean jerked his head around and glanced at the rearview mirror.

This little stunt is a first.

He continued driving in reverse, navigating the turns with one hand, bobbing and weaving in and out of the lanes. He pressed down on his horn and didn’t ease up, signalling to all the other vehicles to clear the hell out of the way.

Need to turn this rig around. Not enough space on this street.

Dean took a quick look through the windshield and saw the BMW closing in fast.

He registered the crack of a gunshot.

A bullet punched through his windshield, nicking his headrest.

“Son of a bitch.” Dean drew his stolen Glock 17 and rested it on top of the steering wheel. He aimed toward the general direction of the BMW’s windshield and fired three quick shots. The bullets tore through the glass, frosting it. Though the shots were off-target, he could tell from the way the BMW suddenly braked and swerved left into the next lane that he’d rattled the driver.

Dean put his focus on the road behind him. It opened up. He quickly swung the wheel hard to the left and shifted into drive. The Audi skidded slightly before whipping around in a tight U-turn, its tires barking against the pavement as Dean throttled the engine and hooked a left at Rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud.

Dean yanked the wheel left, braking hard as the Audi’s rear slid out. He punched the gas, countersteering just enough to power through the intersection, tires screaming but the car remaining steady.

Put some distance between you and these guys, man.

The sharp “wee-woo, wee-woo” of police sirens pierced the air in the background.

The situation’s close to becoming untenable.

Inside the BMW, Earring—the guy Dean had shot twice in the chest outside the club—cradled his arm. One of the shots through the windshield had nicked him just above the tricep. “Merde,” he spoke through clenched teeth. Shit.

Blackwood was now ahead of the BMW and gaining distance. Earring stayed on his tail, expertly weaving through traffic.

He’s going to get away, Earring thought. The man is good.

Earring pulled out his cell and punched in a number. Mason answered after one ring.

“Sitrep,” Mason said.

“Blackwood is getting away.”

Mason sighed. “Where are you now?”

“I’m headed east on Rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud. It looks like he’s about to turn right onto Temple.” Earring floored the gas, closing in on Blackwood, but the Audi quickly pulled away, widening the gap. “Merde.”

“Keep on him,” Mason instructed. “Jean-Luc and Andre are close by. Just stay on Blackwood’s tail and keep me informed of where he’s going. The two of them will intercept.”

“Copie ça.” Copy that.

Earring placed the phone on speaker and put it on the passenger seat. He updated Mason on Blackwood’s every move as he came closer to the turn for Boulevard du Temple.

If Jean-Luc and Andre had been called in, Earring knew it meant explosions—literal ones—would soon rock the streets of Paris.

25

Dean turned right on Boulevard du Temple. A quick glimpse at his mirror showed that the BMW was still on his tail, though it appeared to be falling farther behind.

Is he giving up?

Running out of gas?

Experience told Dean that once the bad guys were on your tail, they didn’t relent. Either they’d be taken out, or they’d make sure you didn’t walk away.

Just keep going.

Don’t stop.

You need to get as far away from here as possible.

Dean drove four blocks down Boulevard du Temple. The BMW trailing him stayed on his six—close but not too close.

“I don’t like this, laddie,” Woody said. “Not one bit.”

What’s to like?

Recalling the map he had memorized of Paris streets—fully detailed, as were all his recollections—Dean plotted a course in his head toward Shane’s apartment. He’d have to wait until he knew he was clear of the BMW—as well as anyone else who was following him—ditch the Audi, find a way to change clothes, and then proceed on foot toward Shane’s so he could figure out what to do next.

“Sharp thinking, chap,” Woody grumbled. “Don’t forget about the guy in the trunk.”

Damn it.

Dean slammed his hand on the steering wheel. If Gérard wasn’t dead back there by now, he sure as hell had to be banged up from the twists and turns during this chase.

I’ll worry about that later.

A hundred yards ahead on Rue de Temple, two Paris police cruisers—sirens wailing, lights flashing—skidded to a stop, facing each other in the middle of the street. Dean immediately recognized their move—an attempt to set up a roadblock, forcing him to a halt.

The lanes were narrow and congested enough that they could pull it off.

Ram them?

No way.

Dean’s adrenaline spiked. There were no moves left other than to slow down or⁠—

Drive the other way in reverse.

“Oh man,” Dean grumbled as he slammed on the brakes, peeked over his shoulder, and came to a stop. “This blows.”

Once the Audi screeched to a halt, Dean slammed the shifter into reverse and floored the gas pedal. Mirroring his earlier move, he tore backward down Rue de Temple, reaching 60 miles per hour.

“In France,” Woody commented, “that would be 96.5 kilometers per hour.”

Please shut up.

As before, Dean expertly weaved through the other cars, his focus razor-sharp. Without a clear plan or mapped route, he continued his high-speed reverse down the Rue de Temple, his eyes scanning for an opening to turn around.

Wait.

The BMW was closing in on Dean’s right. With a swift flick of the wheel, Dean executed a sharp about-face turn, spinning the Audi around as he rolled the driver’s side window down and drew his Glock.

As the BMW went past him, Dean squeezed the trigger, unloading his entire magazine into the driver’s side window with deadly precision. The bullets struck the driver—Earring—in his arm, face, and torso, taking him out of the fight.

Got him.

Dean tossed the Glock onto the passenger seat and quickly checked his side mirror. The BMW swerved erratically, losing control before slamming into a parked car with a violent crash, sending both cars careening into the front of a boutique shop.

“Well,” Woody said. “Don’t think we’ll be invited back here anytime soon.”

As Dean turned the Audi down Rue Charlot, a fleet of police cruisers converged on the scene from all directions. Dean zigzagged through narrow street after narrow street at a high speed, shaking the cars off his tail like a fugitive evading hounds. He managed to lose most of the pursuing officers, but one stayed right on his bumper.

Need to find a garage.

I gotta shake this cop, ditch this car, then⁠—

A hundred yards down the road, Dean saw two men in suits stepping into the street—both of them holding something at their sides.

Dean’s jaw dropped as his mind processed the weapons—Beretta GLX160s.

Grenade launchers.

The men raised their weapons.

Dean shot a look at his rearview mirror and saw the police cruiser still on his tail. Without a second thought, he slammed on the brakes, cranked the wheel, and yanked the Audi to the side.

The grenade rounds howled through the air, detonating with a deafening blast.

The shockwave rattled the street as the grenades found their mark, obliterating the cruiser in a fiery eruption of metal and smoke.

With the immediate threat gone, Dean spun the wheel, turned back onto the road, and gunned the Audi forward.

His eyes locked on the men with the grenade launchers.

Their gazes widened in unison just before they scrambled to get out of the way.

Go!

Go!

Go!

Skimming his mirrors, Dean saw more police cruisers barreling toward the scene. They weaved around the smoldering wreckage of the exploded cruiser, quickly closing in on the two men still standing in the street with grenade launchers.

Cops will be busy with those two for a second.

Dean swung left at the end of the street, pulled out his burner, and dialed Shane’s number. The call connected after a couple of rings. Providing his current location, Dean quickly requested a place to hide the Audi. Shane sent him the address of a garage about half a mile away.

Dean found the garage, eased the Audi in, and parked it in a secluded spot. He kept the engine running, his eyes darting around as he waited for a few moments and listened for any signs of pursuit. The hum of the Audi and the distant police sirens filled the silence, but there was no movement directly outside—no sirens close by, no voices.

You’re safe.

For now.

Dean turned off the Audi, slipped out, and popped the trunk.

He peeked inside and saw Gérard’s battered corpse balled up inside, a tattered mess of tangled, bloody limbs.

“Yikes,” Dean grumbled. “Guess I took a few too many hard turns there, Pépé.”

Dean stripped off his suit jacket and tie, and rolled up his sleeves to change his appearance in case any APBs had already been issued. He rifled through Gérard’s body, swiping a cell phone. Behind the body was a Pelican case. Dean popped it open and saw two Glock 17s, several burner phones, and a handful of grenades—smoke and frag.

He took the case.

Okay.

Dean grabbed a handkerchief from Gérard’s pocket and swiftly wiped down the car to remove any of his prints. He stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket and walked away, keeping his pace steady and his movements deliberate. Moments later, he was out on the streets of Paris, headed west toward Shane’s apartment, away from the chaos that had played out just minutes earlier.

I don’t spot any tails.

Dean threw a furtive glance in every direction, making sure he wasn’t being followed.

The only question is what the hell to do next.

I have Gérard’s phone—that might get me in touch with Mason.

That might be my next play.

For now, though, I need to lay low.

“You need help, lad,” Woody commented. “You’re making a royal mess of things.”

I know.

“This isn’t good.”

No kidding.

“You need to quit it with this brazen, dive-in-head-first bullshit. You need to contact the home front. You need to give someone the scoop so they can lend you an assist.”

I can’t call anyone.

“Yes, you can.”

Like who?

Who could I possibly trust other than that kid Shane?

I can’t call Bazz.

There’s not one person I can think of to⁠—

A name entered Dean’s mind.

He terminated his stride.

“Yep,” Woody said. “Him.”

Over his head and in need of a trustworthy ally, Dean pulled out his burner. He studied the screen as he kept walking.

If there’s anyone I can trust, it’s always been Kent Wilson.

26

In an era where data, number-crunching, and algorithms are the standard to close cases, a man like SAC Kent Wilson was seen as a throwback—almost antiquated. His method of investigating matters—gut instinct—was the tactic most of his generation had embraced.

Wilson, hunched over the desk in his hotel room, drummed his fingers along his laptop’s palm rest.

Something’s off about this whole thing.

He rubbed his bleary eyes with his fingers.

LeBlanc.

Mason.

Agents McFadden and Raab.

That mystery assignment someone gave Dean that I never had knowledge of.

Implementing a practice drilled into him by one of his basketball coaches at UCLA whenever his stress levels peaked, Wilson began pacing.

“Walk it off, Willy,” he heard the voice of Assistant Coach Farmer say. “You’re spinning. Slow it down and take a second to think.”

Think.

Think.

Think!

Wilson ambled over to the window and parted the curtains. He gazed out at the Seattle skyline bathed in the warm glow.

“Why did you take those agents out, kid?” Wilson whispered, acting as though Dean was in the room with him. “What happened? Why did LeBlanc come after you?” He rubbed his chin. “And who the hell assigned you to take out Mason?”

With little information to work with, Wilson started—as the saying goes—working the phones. He called Delvin Lindo, the SAC of the Seattle field office, who answered after the first ring.

“Talk to me, Wilson.”

Wilson sat down on the edge of his bed. “I want to know a little more about LeBlanc.”

“Where are you going with this?”

“I’m amassing intel and evidence at the moment, Lindo.” Wilson smirked. “You know how that works—gathering clues, piecing them together. That sort of thing assists a guy pretty well in solving a crime.”

“You know as much as I do,” Lindo said. “LeBlanc got sprung from prison after faking a heart attack. Who assisted him and how that played out will take some time. We’re questioning everyone from the guards at Angola to the staff at the hospital he was taken to shortly before he broke out.”

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. “There has to be something, Lindo. Give me a little to work with here.”

“Not sure how pertinent it is, but I did come across something odd in relation to LeBlanc. His fingerprints.”

“What about them?”

“Well, he didn’t have any when he was first taken in years back. After Blackwood arrested LeBlanc and he was booked, the techs discovered that he had burned off the tips of his fingers.”

No fingerprints.

Odd, yes, but not the first instance of a suspect singeing off his prints to avoid detection.

What’s it got to do with the price of tea in China?

“How did they positively ID LeBlanc?” Wilson asked.

“Blackwood,” Lindo said. “They used the intel he amassed on LeBlanc. He was the one who tracked him, the one who took him down a few years back.”

“Makes sense.”

“Since we’re on the subject of fingerprints, there’s something else I found.” Lindo looked up.

“Hit me.”

“Mason’s fingerprint,” Lindo said. “The one that was pulled off Robert Jensen’s body. “We just got the report back from the French Gendarmerie in Moret-sur-Loing. The print lifted from the victim’s body wasn’t a standard print. It had trace amounts of cyanoacrylate residue—the kind of adhesive used in forensic lifting.”

Wilson curled his lip. “Whoever killed Jensen wanted us to think Mason was alive.”

“We need to figure out who had access to Mason’s prints.”

“It could be someone in Mason’s circle,” Wilson said. “Or, worst-case scenario, it was someone embedded in an agency, perhaps European or⁠—”

“One of ours,” Lindo interrupted.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Yeah,” Lindo paused, his voice lowering. “But you were thinking it.”

Wilson stood and walked over to the desk, scribbling LeBlanc’s name followed by the word fingerprints on a notepad. “Any progress on Raab or McFadden?”

Lindo paused, his silence brimming with disdain. “I pulled Raab and McFadden’s comms logs, financials, and access logs. Both of them had six figures wired to their personal accounts two hours before Blackwood killed them.”

Son of a bitch.

Wilson tensed his jaw.

I knew it.

“Lindo,” Wilson groaned, “you could have mentioned that before.”

“I’m still trying to make sense of it myself.”

“Well, clearly McFadden and Raab were given orders to take Blackwood out. Someone paid them to kill him.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Lindo snapped. “The money that was wired to them could mean anything.”

“Stop burying your head in the sand, Lindo. You know that money is directly linked to what happened with Dean. We just need to confirm it.”

Lindo said nothing.

“Who gave Raab and McFadden the green light to make a move on Blackwood?” Wilson continued. “That’s what we have to figure out. Come on, man. You must have a sense of what’s going on here. You knew these guys. They were your agents.”

“Are you implying I gave them that order?”

“You wouldn’t have brought me on board if you were pulling the strings here, Lindo.” Wilson flexed his brow. “But someone ordered Raab and McFadden to take Dean out.”

“Theories are one thing. Proof is another,” Lindo said. “And if you manage to substantiate this with solid intel, you’d better understand that two rogue agents under my watch taking a bribe to eliminate another agent will have serious repercussions for me.”

Wilson nodded. “I understand.”

Lindo took a beat, his stress clearly piquing based on the elongated breath he took. “I’ll find out why that money was wired to Raab and McFadden. I’ll have to hold off OPR getting involved though. I want to sniff this thing out before it gets to them, Richard Womack, or anyone else over in Washington. The second they find out that two of my own men were implicated in any kind of wrongdoing, we lose all control of the investigation.”

“I also need you to access some old files,” Wilson went on. “Specifically the ones related to Dean’s former undercover division. I can’t handle it myself. If Womack or anyone else catches wind that I’m digging into this, it could create problems.”

“I thought you said all those files were destroyed or redacted.”

“Not all of them,” Wilson said, moving toward the window. “Get in touch with the ASACs, RMD, and reach out to the techs in Digital Evidence, but make sure they’re cleared to handle this discreetly. Put a rush on it. I need everything you can pull from secure comms, encrypted files, and any off-the-books operations tied to the division Dean was embedded with. Do a deep dive into the covert ops logs—at least the ones that are on record. Check with the records unit and see if anything was archived under special access. We can’t afford any leaks.”

“What was the division called?”

Wilson winced. “It was never given a name.”

“Convenient.” Lindo paused, the sound of rapid keystrokes echoing in the background. “Let me ping the techs and run a full trace on their secure files. Give me a few hours.”

“I’ll be here.”

Wilson terminated the call and tossed his cell on the bed. Every second that passed was time he couldn’t get back, time that was running out.

“I wish you could tell me what’s going on here, Deano,” he whispered as the muscles in his neck knotted. “I’d give my left arm to hear from you.”

Wilson’s cell rang. He scooped it up and answered it after two rings.

As if God or fate or the universe was listening a moment before, the voice that greeted him was Dean Henry Blackwood.

“Hey, boss,” Dean murmured. “Been a minute.”

27

Hearing Dean’s voice made Wilson feel like all the air had been snatched out of his lungs. His knees wobbled, and he had to sit down on the bed.

“Deano,” Wilson muttered. “Where are you?”

“It’s better if you don’t know,” Dean cut in, followed by a chuckle. “Thank God you answered. I was worried you might have changed your number.”

“It’s too much of a chore to change it.”

“I hear you.” Dean paused. “Before I say anything else, I need to know right away if your cell phone’s being tracked.”

“It’s not.”

“Good.”

“Just like that?” Wilson winced. “You trust that I’m not⁠—”

“I’ve trusted you all my life, Willy. Right now, you’re one of just a couple of people I can put my faith in. That being said, I’m sure you’ve been brought into the fold here.”

“I have.”

“Then you know I didn’t kill those agents.”

“Raab and McFadden,” Wilson nodded. “I know.”

“They tried to take me out, Willy,” Dean continued. “I was going to turn myself in, but those sons of bitches gave me no other choice.”

Dean’s voice sounded like it was dipped in steel. It was a tone Wilson hadn’t heard in years. The last time Dean spoke in such a disheartened manner was when he was addicted to booze and pills, and had just been served divorce papers.

“I’m trying to help you, kid,” Wilson said as he covered his heart with his hand. “The SAC out here, Lindo, thinks there’s more at play. We’re working together on this one.”

“That’s all well and good, Willy, but I’m not putting any stock in Lindo or anyone except you at the moment.”

“Tell me where you are.”

“I can’t.” Dean took a beat. “Especially not now. I’ve kind of ignited a powder keg here.”

“Dean …” Wilson squeezed his eyelids shut. “Work with me. The longer you remain in the wind, the harder this is going to be.”

“I can’t tell you where I am,” Dean said. “I will tell you that I’m working on getting a line on Erik Mason, albeit with a few setbacks. A man of your abilities will no doubt piece together things based on what I’ve just said.”

Wilson slapped his knee.

He’s in Paris.

My God.

He’s trying to find Mason.

“I’m risking a lot telling you this, boss,” Dean continued. “And I’m starting to realize that I can’t go on too much longer. I’m taking wild stabs in the dark trying to uncover the truth.”

Wilson nodded. He walked over to his computer. “Right now I’m working on trying to find out who ordered Raab and McFadden to kill you and how that ties to LeBlanc.”

“Has LeBlanc given you anything?”

“Nothing.” Wilson shook his head. “Unless I go the route of whacking him upside the head like you did to get answers, we can assume that LeBlanc has said everything he’s going to say.”

“He doesn’t know who broke him out of prison,” Dean said. “Whoever did it had the juice though. The son of a bitch who hooked Leroy LeBlanc up with an early release is suave, sophisticated, and somehow connected to Erik Mason.”

“Mason is dead.” Wilson thought back to his conversation with Lindo minutes before. “It appears that someone planted Mason’s print on the vic, Robert Jensen.”

“You’ve confirmed this?”

“We have.”

“I don’t get it,” Dean took a beat. “The guy I’m talking to right now told me that Erik Mason is alive.”

The comment triggered Wilson to sneer. “What do you mean?”

“I have to play this close to the chest for the time being, Willy. But it looks like Mason is still alive, and he’s got an entire crew working for him. From what I’ve gathered, based on the scuffle I just got into, he’s looking to take me out.”

A thought floated through Wilson’s mind. “That mission,” he said, “the one you were assigned to take out Erik Mason.”

“What about it?”

“Who gave it to you? The orders and assignments always came through me—every last one of them. I never gave you the order to take out Erik Mason.”

Dean said nothing.

“Talk to me,” Wilson pressed. “If we’re going to fix this, you need to tell me what you know.”

“Okay.” Dean breathed deeply. “Bob Bianchi gave me the order.”

Bob Bianchi.

He retired three years ago.

He’s in Rhode Island, last I heard.

“Bianchi,” Wilson said, his tone skeptical. “He gave you the order?”

“Back in 2012.”

“Why?”

“Bianchi alleged that Erik Mason killed one of our agents.”

Wilson couldn’t believe his ears. “Who?”

“Bianchi never told me. All he said was that the guy Mason killed was a friend of his, someone he held in high regard. I was never given a name.”

“You didn’t press Bianchi about it?”

Dean huffed. “Back then I was hitting it pretty hard, Willy. When someone ordered me to take someone out, I did it without asking questions.”

“But you didn’t kill people without rhyme or reason,” Wilson pressed. “We both made sure there was just cause.”

“A little kid killed in cold blood was enough reason for me.” Dean took a beat. “At least back then. I was half in the bag more often than not.”

Wilson swiped his hand across his face.

It doesn’t make sense.

Bianchi taps Dean to take out a guy who killed his friend?

Wilson scooped up his pen and scribbled the note Contact Bianchi on his pad. “I’ll look into it,” he said. “In the meantime⁠—”

“In the meantime,” Dean interrupted, “you need to work whatever angles you can. Find out anything and everything to help back all this up. I may or may not contact you again.”

Wilson’s grip on his cell tightened.

Because he’s got a line on Mason.

The kid’s about to march right up to Mason and take him out himself.

“Tell me where you are, Deano,” Wilson insisted. “There’s another way to make this right. If you can⁠—”

“I can’t, Willy,” Dean said. “I have to find Mason and bring him in. There’s no other way. Look, I don’t take pride in the fact that I’m operating from a playbook I stuffed away a long time ago. But the only way I can prove I didn’t kill Raab or McFadden is to find the guy who ordered them and Leroy LeBlanc to take me out.” He let his words linger. “And I need you, boss, to work things on your end so we can piece together the paper trail that substantiates all this.”

Wilson’s heart raced.

Just like the old days.

The Ballistic Blackwood days.

“You’re putting me in a tough spot, Deano. You’re asking me to keep Lindo in the dark while I work directly alongside him.”

“I understand,” Dean replied. “But I wouldn’t be asking you to go to the mattress like this if I didn’t think I could pull it off.”

Wilson hung his head. “I thought these days were over.” He looked outside. “I never thought we’d be back here again.”

“Me neither.” Dean held the line for a moment, his breathing audible.

Once more, Wilson paced around the room. He shared the silence with Dean as sunlight filtered through the window and cast a warm glow on his face.

“How’s Claire?”

“Dunno,” Dean grumbled. “She asked for space, so I’m giving her space.”

“Have you talked to Jeremy?”

“Not for a little while now.”

Wilson swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, kid. I know what you went through, what you put yourself through to get clean.”

Dean’s tone hardened. “Help me figure this out, Willy. I’m depending on you. And if something should happen to me …” His voice trailed off.

I’ll talk to Claire.

I’ll speak with Jeremy.

Before Wilson could sign off, the line went dead. He stared at the screen on his cell for a few moments. He wished he could snap his fingers and make Dean’s past and all the things he went through disappear.

You can’t.

What happened, happened.

All you can do is work with what’s in front of you right now.

Wilson scrolled through his contacts, hoping Bob Bianchi’s number was still there.

28

Using his credit card, Dean got a room at the Eiffel Rive Gauche. The space was modest but cozy with a clear view of the Eiffel Tower and the lively Parisian streets below. He paced the room, stared out the window, and mapped his surroundings in his head. He came up with a few exit plans in case Paris authorities stormed the hotel looking for him, the man who had participated in a deadly vehicle crash just hours before.

Need to think.

Stay aware.

Keep on the move.

He had only been in his room for half an hour when a knock echoed at the door. Dean took out the Glock from the Pelican case he swiped from the Audi, approached cautiously, and peered through the peephole. In the hallway was Shane Ditto, Dean’s $100k “employee.” He was shifting anxiously from foot to foot, clutching a bag and the burner phone Dean had given him.

Dean opened the door but kept the chain lock in place, his eyes scanning the hallway.

“Were you followed?”

“No.” Shane glanced left and right. “I don’t think so.”

Dean checked the hallway one more time before unfastening the chain. He motioned for Shane to come in and then quickly closed and secured the door before peering through the peephole for a final check.

“You got your ear to the ground out there, Shane? What’s the chatter right now?”

“It’s all over the news,” Shane huffed. “Cops arrested those two guys who tried to blow up your car and hit the police cruiser instead.”

The vivid images of the police car erupting into flames rumbled through Dean’s thoughts. “Who were they?” he asked. “Obviously, they were Mason’s men.”

“For sure. But the Paris Police Prefecture isn’t saying much, other than they have those guys in custody.” Shane paused. “What happens now?”

“I’m still focused on finding Erik Mason,” Dean said, recalling what Wilson had mentioned about the planted fingerprint. “If the guy after me is Mason.”

“How are you gonna do that?”

Dean dug out Gérard’s cell phone from his pocket and looked at the screen. “I still have a few moves I can make. But if the Paris Prefecture has ID’d me somehow, that might significantly hinder my ability to pull it off.”

“As far as I know, they haven’t,” Shane said. “The authorities don’t have your face in any of their databases yet, not STIC or JUDEX, and you’re not flagged in FPR either. They’ve got nothing concrete to ID you with. All anyone saw was a white guy tearing ass through Paris. It will be a chore for them to work with just that information.”

“You really have access to all those databases?”

“Hey, man.” Shane snickered. “I’m a petty criminal when you really boil it all down, but I’m clever.”

I’m safe.

In the clear.

At least for the time being.

“I called a friend of mine,” Dean said. “Someone I trust. He’s working on trying to help me make sense of all this.”

“He’s helping you track Mason?”

Dean scrolled through Gérard’s phone. There were many numbers on the call list, but no names were assigned to them. “I think I can get in touch with Gérard. Maybe I can lure him out somehow.”

“With what?”

“I’m working on that.”

Shane grinned. “Oh-kay.” He shot his chin at Dean. “How can I help?”

“Did you bring my stuff?”

The kid held up Dean’s bag.

“Take the rest of your money out of there and skip town for a while,” Dean instructed. “You did your part. Now go write your book.”

Shane widened his eyes. “That’s it? Look, man. I can help if you just⁠—”

“You’ve helped plenty,” Dean said. “You’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty here.”

“I can still make some moves.”

“What you need to do is move your ass out of Paris until this thing settles down.” Dean met Shane’s gaze. His tone was serious. “I’ve stirred up some shit here, Shane. I’ve got a target on my back, and the last thing I’m going to do is rope someone else into it. I’ve been down that road more times than I can count.”

Shane said nothing. His demeanor was like a child being told his friends didn’t want him on their kickball team.

“You’ve been a big help, kid,” Dean continued. “Just take the money, split town, and go do your own thing. You’ve earned it. As far as Bugsy Malone is concerned, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of when it comes to cutting ties with him.”

“How?”

Dean smirked. “Let me worry about that. For now, you need to⁠—”

Gérard’s cell trilled.

Dean held it up.

His gut told him that Erik Mason was calling.

“Keep quiet,” Dean grumbled. “This might be the man of the hour.”

Shane nodded and stood back as Dean waited three rings before he answered.

“What up?”

“Ah,” Mason greeted, his voice muffled and uneven. “There’s my guy.”

“That you, Mason?”

“Indeed it is.”

Is it?

Or is this guy screwing with me?

Wilson told me Mason’s prints were planted.

Dean replayed the memory of shooting Erik Mason twice in the chest.

There’s no way he survived.

Who the hell is this guy?

“Blackwood,” Mason snapped. “You still with me?”

“Still here.” Dean forced a more convivial tone. “How’s things?”

“I’m still a little pissed about nearly burning to death in a fire.” Mason’s tone turned hostile. “Among other things.”

“Let’s talk about it.”

“I think that’s a solid idea.”

“I’ll pick the place,” Dean said quickly.

“The fuck you will,” Mason said. “That’s not how this is gonna play out, Blackwood. You’ve got no leverage here.”

“Are you sure about that?” Dean slapped together a lie on the fly. “Your boy Gérard sang like a canary the second I started putting the heat on him.”

“Is that so?”

“Try me.”

“Blackwood, it concerns me little what leverage you may or may not have.” Mason was seething. “You and I have a lot to discuss, and we’re going to do it on my terms.”

“I could give a flying fuck into a rolling donut what you want, Mason.” Dean tightened his grip on the phone. “Sending LeBlanc after me is one thing. Nearly getting my dog killed in the process is a different story altogether.”

“Poor thing.”

“Enough!” Dean snapped. “What’s your pitch here, Mason? What do you want to do?”

“I’ll call you back shortly.”

“We’re meeting now.”

“We meet when I say we meet, asswipe,” Mason said. “No sooner, no later. Make sure you keep your phone charged.”

“This phone I’m calling from goes out the window as soon as you hang up. I’m brazen but not stupid. You’re trying to track me on this sucker as we speak.”

“Good instincts, Blackwood. They’ve served you well. Not for much longer, but I commend you for staying alive as long as you have.”

Dean rushed over to the nightstand beside the bed. He grabbed a notepad and pen from the drawer and quickly scribbled “public phone location, most foot traffic” before holding the note out to Shane.

Shane nodded, took the pen, and wrote “Gare de Lyon.”

Dean spoke into the phone. “Give me your number, Mason. I’ll call you back in one hour. That’ll be enough time for you to square your shit away.”

“Sure, Dean. My phone number is +33 1 45 67 89 01.”

With that, Dean ended the call, snapped Gérard’s phone in half, and tossed the two pieces into a trash can. “We need to move,” he said to Shane as he grabbed his bag. “I’m gonna scope out this place you wrote down before I call Mason.”

Shane shook his head. “No way.” He pointed to the window. “If Mason knows who you are, he’ll send his people to every location in Paris with a public phone to try to spot you.”

He might.

He will.

I have to assume that the guy who called, if it is Mason, knows exactly what I look like.

“You’re right,” Dean said, slapping together a plan. “He probably knows my face.” He looked at Shane. “But he doesn’t know yours.”

Shane sniffed.

Dean raised one eyebrow.

Erik Mason shoved his cell phone into his pocket, a twisted grin spreading across his face. The thought of finally getting his hands on Dean Blackwood was exhilarating. Now he could settle a score he had seethed about for years.

Mason paced the floor of his safe house, a two-bedroom apartment with a breathtaking view of the city. It was one of several he had set up in Paris. Three of his men were in the kitchen, waiting for their orders.

“We need to canvas every location in the city that has a public pay phone,” Mason told his men. “Blackwood has a few options—Gare du Nord, Gare de Lyon, the airport.”

Mason placed himself in Blackwood’s position, envisioning his every move. “He’ll want to be somewhere with heavy foot traffic to minimize the risk of drawing attention.”

“Gare de Lyon,” one of his men suggested. “It’s the busiest station.”

Mason gave a nod of approval. “Exactly. But we can’t put all our resources in one place.” He turned to the other two men. “I want you to hit the alarm—get every man we have on standby to cover Gare du Nord and the airport, as well as any other locations we can think of.”

“Two men per location,” one of the men chimed in. “That should be plenty.”

“Good,” Mason said, pausing as he analyzed the situation. “If this son of a bitch is still as sharp as I remember, he might try to throw us off at the last second.” A sly smirk crept onto his face. “He’s always had an overinflated view of his own cleverness.” He raised a finger. “There’s also the chance he’ll send someone in his place. A proxy. We need to watch for anyone acting out of character. Blackwood doesn't have real allies here, so whoever he sends—if he does—will stand out. It should be easy for you gents to spot someone’s nerves getting the better of them.”

“If that happens,” one of the men said, “what then?”

“Bring them to me,” Mason instructed.

The men scrambled.

Mason poured himself a glass of wine.

I'll get my hands on him soon.

He raised the glass to his lips, his eyes lingering on the burn scars etched into his hand.

I’ll burn him the way he burned me.

29

Bob Bianchi’s house sat off Newport Street in Jamestown, Rhode Island, a short walk to the beach and yacht moorings. The classic shingle style had six bedrooms, four baths, a chef’s kitchen, and tennis courts. The property—valued at $3 million based on Wilson’s online research—offered a breathtaking panoramic view of the Atlantic Ocean, Newport Bridge and Harbor, and the rugged cliffs of Fort Wetherill.

A palace fit for a king.

Kent Wilson paid and tipped his Uber driver and walked up to the black metal gate. He thumbed the tarnished button in the middle of the recessed intercom. The line rang twice. Bob Bianchi cordially welcomed Wilson, and the gates swung open.

Wilson walked 25 yards up the curved pathway that led to the front of the estate. As he stepped onto the porch, the front doors swung open. Bob Bianchi, former Deputy Director of the FBI, stepped outside, his arms open wide.

“Kent Wilson!” Bianchi fired off a hearty laugh. “Good to see you.”

The two embraced. During the minutes that followed, Bianchi led Wilson on a brief tour of the property, including the hot tub with its panoramic view of the ocean. Wilson couldn’t help but comment on the property’s grandeur and staggering number of amenities.

Bianchi nodded. He gestured to his wife, Louise, who was standing by the back door speaking in hushed tones to their live-in maid.

“Helps that I’m married to the second cousin of a Kennedy.” Bianchi’s chest seemed to get a little bigger. “I’ve done well for myself, but Louise is the one swimming in assets.”

Once the tour wrapped up, the two men adjourned to Bianchi’s office. The space was the size of a one-bedroom apartment, replete with towering bookshelves, an executive desk, and a vast array of framed photos adorning the walls—highlights of Bianchi’s career.

“You had quite the life.” Wilson studied the photos of Bianchi shaking hands, hugging, or glad-handing men such as Hal Moore, Buzz Aldrin, Ronald Reagan, George Bush—junior and senior—as well as a stable of celebrities like Harrison Ford, Alec Baldwin, Gary Sinise, and Timothy Dalton.

“That I did.” Bianchi nodded as he took a cursory glance at his photo collection. He slowly sank his bulky frame into the red leather high-back chair behind his desk. “Living out my golden years is fine and all, but I miss the daily grind of navigating the corridors of the DOJ.”

“Stop by the field office sometime,” Wilson suggested, half joking. “I’m sure there’s some sort of consultancy or advisory role a man with your credentials could step into.”

“I’m surprised you’re still an SAC,” Bianchi smirked. “Given your background in executive leadership, you could be holding a position as Deputy Attorney General or a senior advisor at the White House.” He shot his chin toward the photos on the wall. “Hell, Wilson, you could’ve had my old job by now.”

Wilson winced. “I like the grind just as much as you do, Bob.” He took a seat across the desk from Bianchi. “I’m exactly where I need to be.”

The pair shot the breeze for a couple minutes—mindless chitchat to catch up on old times. “Things are a lot more low-key than they used to be,” Bianchi reflected.

Wilson took that as a cue to bring up Dean. “Speaking of low-key, I’m wondering if you heard about what happened in Seattle.”

The glow on Bianchi’s face faded. “I figured that’s why you were here.” He sat up straight and propped his elbows on his desk. “I heard a little bit about it—just bits and pieces, mind you.”

“What do you know?”

“That two agents from the Seattle field office were murdered, and the Bureau is currently on the hunt for the suspect.”

Wilson cleared his throat. His countenance shifted from friend to FBI SAC. “Dean Blackwood,” he said, his voice heavy. “We’re certain he was the man who killed the agents.”

The color drained from Bianchi’s face. His chest sank. He sat back in his chair, staring out toward the water with a slack-jawed expression. “Blackwood,” Bianchi groveled. “Why am I not surprised?”

“That’s why I made the trek out here to see you.” Wilson slid his chair closer to the desk. “You, me, and only a handful of others knew about the division he was in.”

Bianchi said nothing. He continued to peer outside, his eyes flicking from side to side.

“Bianchi,” Wilson continued, his tone firm, “I came here because every lead, every piece of intel we’ve gathered, don’t align. This whole operation stinks, and there’s more to this manhunt than what’s on the surface.”

“Two dead agents. Blackwood with his finger on the trigger.” Bianchi swung his focus around, pinning it to the SAC. “You knew him. I knew him. I’m surprised Blackwood didn’t crack sooner than he did.”

Wilson directed a sharp look at the former deputy director. “Raab and McFadden, the agents who were killed, each received six-figure deposits to their personal accounts from an offshore company two hours before they were killed.”

Bianchi pursed his lips. He appeared either confused or skeptical. Wilson couldn’t tell.

“You confirmed this?” Bianchi asked.

“Delvin Lindo did,” Wilson said. “Raab and McFadden were his agents.”

“What do you think it means?”

“In the grander scheme of things? We can’t say for sure yet.” Wilson held up a hand. “And for the sake of transparency, I must clarify that I’m not here in any official capacity.”

“I had a feeling.” Bianchi paused before continuing. “I take it Lindo tapped you for some assistance as soon as this whole thing with Blackwood lit up.”

“That he did.”

“Makes sense.” The former deputy director gave a subtle gesture with his hands in acknowledgment. “You were Blackwood’s handler. You two were tied at the hip. You were the only one who could keep him in line back when the division was still around.”

Wilson nodded in confirmation.

“That division should have never been allowed to continue.” Bianchi blew out a sharp breath. “We procured results, took down a lot of bad people, yes, but three-quarters of the men we tapped to work undercover in that division either died or lost their minds.”

Wilson wanted to ask Bianchi about the mystery assignment he assigned to Dean, but the mention of the other agents in the shadow division temporarily diverted his attention.

“These other agents,” Wilson said. “I only met one.”

Bianchi held up a finger, his voice cinched. “Matt Rawlings. He worked that op with Blackwood in Vegas. It was the only time we partnered up two men in the division. I trust you remember the basic gist of what happened.”

Wilson nodded. “It was 2010. Rawlings and Dean were assigned to gather intel on a suspect named Michael Fowler. The op was a success. We caught Fowler, but …” A shadow fell over his expression. “Rawlings’ cover was blown during the meet-and-greet with Fowler. Dean had to—” Wilson narrowed his eyes, “adapt quickly to salvage the situation.”

Dean shot Rawlings in the leg when Fowler’s men found a wire on him.

To save his own ass, Dean had to pretend he didn’t know Rawlings was an undercover agent, so he shot him in the leg, beat him up, and made it appear to Fowler like he killed Rawlings shortly after.

“Were you aware of what happened after the op?” Bianchi asked. “With Rawlings?”

“He resigned, as far as I know.” Wilson waved his hand through the air. “Every agent in the division had their own handler, so I was never made aware of what happened to Rawlings once he left the unit. Aside from Dean, Rawlings was the only other agent in the division whose name I was aware of.”

Bianchi’s face turned cold. “Rawlings and his family were murdered.”

Wilson’s skin crawled. His heart skipped a beat.

“We were certain it was Fowler who came back to take out the agent who put him away for a stretch in FDC Pahrump,” Bianchi explained. “But we couldn’t tie him to the murders.”

“Jesus.” Wilson shrugged. “I had no idea.”

“After Rawlings and his family were killed, we tried to track down Fowler. We never found him.” Bianchi lowered his head. “What happened with Matt Rawlings was just one of many cases with loose ends that still feel like a blemish on my career.”

That’s why the division should have never existed.

We took down a slew of bad people, yeah, but at the cost of good men’s lives.

After rallying his composure, Bianchi bolted upright in his seat. “Why are you here, Wilson? I mean, I’m happy to assist any way I can, but if this conversation is going to be about the division, I’ll have to politely decline.”

“Bianchi, we never had a proper debrief after you ordered the division shut down. There was no after-action review or follow-up on the intel gathered, no declassification of the operational outcomes or lessons learned.”

“Because I wanted that division dead and buried, its ashes scattered to the wind.” Bianchi could barely contain his anger. “I never asked to oversee that operation. I inherited a black ops initiative run by two self-serving narcissists, Sloane and Freeman, who had ingratiated themselves with the powers that be at the time. Their whole thing was bypassing the usual channels—circumventing red tape, skirting oversight—and getting results without the scrutiny of Congress, the Senate, or anyone else who might start asking inconvenient questions. High-value targets, no accountability, no one asking how they got the intel or who got hurt in the process. It was a mess, and I was the one left to clean it up.”

The weight of Bianchi’s words landed hard on Wilson. He felt the same way. “Believe me, I’m not fond of revisiting uncomfortable topics. But unfortunately, this one can’t be left alone.” He adjusted his tie, taking a moment to steady himself. After a beat, he asked, “Does the name Erik Mason ring any bells?”

A coldness washed over Bianchi’s face. “What about him?”

“Apparently, Mason sent someone by the name of Leroy LeBlanc to take out Dean Blackwood.”

“Erik Mason is dead.”

“Mason’s dead because you sent Dean to kill him.” Wilson paused, assessing Bianchi’s expression. “At least that’s what I’ve been led to believe.”

Bianchi’s face flushed with indignation, his frustration evident but tightly controlled.

“I hate to put you on the spot,” Wilson pressed, “but I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask. According to Dean, you ordered him to eliminate Mason because Mason allegedly killed a friend of yours—an agent, one of our own. But you never gave Dean the agent’s name.”

Bianchi’s nostrils flared.

He puffed his chest.

Wilson, sensing the anger brimming in the former deputy director, worried what might happen next.

“Well, Wilson,” Bianchi’s voice was even and measured as he rose from his seat, “I think we’re done here.”

“Bianchi, I⁠—”

“We’re done here, Wilson. You know goddamn well that any conversations in regard to the division or the operations that took place while it was still in operation are strictly prohibited.” Bianchi yanked his focus off Wilson. He gestured to the door. “Now, if you don’t mind …”

Wilson paused.

He stood.

Four minutes later, after a brisk walk down Bianchi’s driveway, Wilson was outside the front gate of the estate, watching it closely.

What happened back there?

Bianchi bounced me without a second’s hesitation.

Wilson took out his cell and ordered an Uber. He shot a look over his shoulder toward the house and saw Bianchi in one of the top windows, staring at him like a rabid canine.

30

Shane Ditto had done many jobs at the behest of Bugsy Malone—dead drops, cash exchanges, package deliveries—the list was extensive. He had rubbed elbows with enough cretins and weirdos that eventually he got used to it. But something about placing a call to Erik Mason triggered a cold sweat and shakes the likes of which Shane had never experienced.

Calm yourself.

Take it easy.

Shane stepped into Gare de Lyon, the Paris train station bustling with activity. The hum of conversations and clattering footsteps filled the air.

This guy Mason might have people here.

I have to be careful.

God damn it.

Why the hell did I agree to this?

Shane remembered what Dean had told him before he left: “Relax. You’ll do fine. Mason doesn’t know your face. Just keep a watchful eye. That station is a busy place. Mason would be foolish to cause a scene.”

Shane glanced up at the massive clock above his head. It felt like a watchful eye, observing the throngs of commuters rushing to catch their trains.

“Okay,” he whispered as he approached a bank of pay phones. “Let’s do this.”

Shane used the credit card Dean gave him and called Mason. +33 1 45 67 89 01. He waited for a few rings.

You’re fine.

Don’t worry.

Just tell this guy where Dean wants to meet him, hang up, and get the hell out of here.

The line rang three more times before Mason picked up. Shane straightened his back.

“Mr. Mason?”

“Who are you?”

“I’m ….” Shane cleared his throat. “It doesn’t matter. Dean Blackwood wants me to give you the location where the two of you will meet.”

“I see.” Mason paused. “So where does the infamous Ballistic Blackwood want this rendezvous to take place?”

“Pont Neuf.”

“When?”

“One hour.”

“You know, I don’t think I want to meet at Pont Neuf,” Mason cackled.

Shane narrowed his eyes quizzically. Dean hadn’t told him what to do if Mason didn’t agree to the plan.

“What’s your name?” Mason asked.

“I’m not going to tell you.” Shane was trying his best to sound tough. “Look, you gotta meet Blackwood at Pont Neuf. Those were the instructions I was told to give you.”

“I like your accent.”

“What?”

“Your accent,” Mason said. “It sounds Southern.”

“I …” Shane blinked his eyes. He wasn’t sure what to say. “Look, are you going to meet Blackwood at Pont Neuf or not?”

“You have a Mississippi twang.”

“What?”

“I can hear it,” Mason said. “It’s practically bleeding through the phone.”

Nerves spiking, Shane cast a glance over both shoulders. Everyone around him was a threat. Not one person, not even the woman or the kid she was pushing around in a stroller could be trusted.

“What does my accent have to do with this?” Shane was pissed that Mason was even asking.

“It’s got fuck-all to do with it,” Mason spewed. “I was just making sure you stayed on the phone long enough.”

Shane felt something cold and hard being pressed into his spine.

His stomach tensed.

When he looked over his shoulder, he saw a grinning man with a beard.

“Bonjour,” the man greeted. “Mr. Mason would like to have a word.”

Shane’s body trembled.

His knees wobbled.

Oh fuck.

I’m never gonna make it out of here.

“He should have called by now,” Dean whispered to himself as he checked his watch.

Where the hell is Shane?

Right after Dean gave the kid instructions on what to do at Gare de Lyon, he checked into a room at the citizenM Paris. The plan they agreed on was simple. Shane would call Mason, give him the location of the meet, and then hop on the first train out of Paris. Once Dean confirmed Shane was gone, he’d make his way toward Pont Neuf.

Dean eyed his burner, waiting for it to ring.

He was supposed to call by now.

He should have called by now.

Dean debated ringing him, but he didn’t want to throw him off.

“Just like the old days,” Woody said. “You haven’t placed someone in harm’s way like this since⁠—”

Don’t.

“I’m just saying.” The figment of Dean’s imagination giggled. “You’re still the same guy you’ve always been.” Woody’s laughter grew louder. “I’ll bet you ten bucks this whole thing ends with you trying to hop on a moving plane again like you did that one time.”

For two minutes, Dean feverishly paced the room. He debated going to Gare de Lyon to see if Shane was okay, but he knew it was a foolish, ass-backwards decision that would compromise his OPSEC, one that was already paper-thin.

Come on, kid.

Where the hell are⁠—

The phone rang.

Dean answered.

When he heard Mason’s voice, he quickly knew what had happened.

“Twenty minutes,” Mason instructed. “Louise Café. Come alone. If you don’t abide by these instructions, the kid dies.”

Before Dean could ask for proof, Mason gave it to him. Shane Ditto’s muffled screams rang out in the background shortly before the call ended.

Dean sat on the edge of the bed.

“You really do know how to muck up a situation,” Woody taunted. “Don’t ya?”

Dean stood.

Grabbed the Glock.

Snagged the RGK-60KD hand grenade from the Pelican case, piecing together his plan on the move.

31

The moment Dean turned left down Rue Saint-Honoré and saw the Louise Café, he understood why Mason had chosen that location. It was right out in the open, exposed, with dense foot and vehicle traffic at any given moment.

The aroma of fresh coffee and pastries awakened Dean’s senses as he crossed the Rue Croix des Petits Champs, pausing for a Renault and a BMW to drive by. He did a full scan of his surroundings that were ripe with Parisian architecture, tree-lined streets, and a blend of boutique shops, backlit by the first rays of dusk.

Mason will definitely have eyes on me.

He did not come here alone.

Dean ambled slowly and cautiously toward the café patio. He flicked his eyes up to the buildings around him, keeping a close watch on the upper-story windows as a crisp breeze touched his skin.

“Our friend Mason definitely has snipers on overwatch, lad,” Woody said. “Sure as shyte.” His mood turned somber. “I give ourselves 20-to-1 odds of not walking out of here alive.”

I’m inclined to agree with you.

“Then let’s leave.”

We can’t.

“Because of the kid?”

Yes.

Thoughts of Shane Ditto bound to a chair with Mason’s people doing God only knows what to him shot into Dean’s mind.

He’s in this because of me.

“Don’t do this,” Woody pleaded. “You have no real loyalty to Shane. You don’t owe him a damn thing. Running the risk of losing our lives isn’t worth the price of saving his.”

I can’t leave him behind.

“Laddie, we can’t⁠—”

Enough.

Dean reached into his jacket pocket.

His fingertips brushed against the chilled steel of the small cylindrical object tucked inside.

I didn’t come here without a plan.

Ten yards from the patio, Dean slowed his pace. He counted the number of patrons, as well as the servers moving in and out of the doors to the café.

Two waiters.

Eight guests.

Dean scanned their faces. A smiling couple sipped cappuccinos at the table on his far left. An older man reading a newspaper was seated at the table directly to their right. Three men and a woman were clustered together at a table on the other side of the patio—friends, colleagues, or both—laughing over some amusing anecdote.

There.

Dean settled his sights on the man seated smack dab in the middle of the patio, his back to him. He wore an eggshell white suit. His head was turned down, gazing at what Dean could only figure was a cell phone.

That’s gotta be him.

Dean approached the man at an angle, carefully keeping his distance, making sure there was no weapon in his hand. He glanced over both shoulders, quickly scanning the area before positioning himself about 10 feet to the man’s left.

The man looked up.

Dean examined his face. A tight knot formed in his stomach. He recognized him.

“Bonjour, Blackwood,” the man greeted, his lips bowed up into a cool smirk. “How’ve you been?”

Son of a bitch.

Memories from a 2010 assignment flashed through Dean’s mind.

My partner. Matt Rawlings.

Dean stared deep into the man’s face. He was certain that despite some gray hair and wrinkles he was looking at his old partner.

On the sixth floor of the apartments to the south of the café, a sniper peered through his scope. He lined up Dean’s chest between the crosshairs. Once he had orders to kill him, he would swiftly pull the trigger.

“En attente du feu vert,” he spoke softly into his comms. Waiting for the green light.

For a brief moment, Dean forgot he was in a tactically disadvantaged position. He was too focused on Agent Matt Rawlings, his mind attempting to catch up with what his eyes were seeing.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Rawlings said, tracing his burn-scarred fingers through his chestnut-gray hair.

“I don’t …” Dean’s expression tightened. “I don’t understand.”

Rawlings motioned to the chair across from him. “Have a seat, partner. I’ll walk you through it.”

“You’re Mason?”

“According to the people who know me, yeah.” Rawlings reeled in the porcelain cup and saucer in front of him. “Now sit down. I’ll buy you something to drink. If you keep leering at me like this, people will think we’re in the middle of a dramatic showdown.”

With rubbery knees, Dean slowly sank down on the seat across from Rawlings. He snapped upright, instantly inspecting the patio—checking everything in all directions.

“If I wanted you dead,” Rawlings chuckled, “I would have already ordered one of my guys close by to do it.”

“Where is he?” Dean searched around, curious if Shane was being held nearby.

“Your little buddy is fine. It was a stupid move to get him involved, by the way. Then again, you’ve never had issues with collateral damage.”

Dean clenched a fist. Rawlings was correct in his assessment, and that pissed him off.

Rawlings looked down at the burn scars on his right hand. “I’ve been itching for this moment for a long time. I’m surprised I didn’t take the several opportunities I had to kill you sooner.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Rawlings’ face slackened into a cold, hard stare. “You really don’t know, do you? About what happened. Why I went out of my way to try to kill you.”

Dean cocked his head. “You’ve been pretending to be the real Erik Mason, correct?”

“What’s so confusing about that?”

“It just confirms that the real Erik Mason is actually 6 feet underground.” Dean squinted. “Why did you assume his identity?”

“That you don’t need to know,” Rawlings barked. “Why I chose to be Mason and how that factors into the bigger picture means shit. What does matter is what happened between us, Blackwood.”

Recollections of past events played back at high speed in Dean’s flawless memory—the case from 2010, the first and last time Dean was partnered up with a member of his classified undercover unit.

“I remember what happened,” Dean said.

The muscles in Rawlings’ jaw tightened. “Tell me what you remember.”

“We both know what⁠—”

“Tell me!”

Dean took a deep breath and then briefed the operation. “You and I went deep undercover as gun runners in Vegas, infiltrating the local underworld to get eyes on Michael Fowler, a high-value target flagged by the Bureau. The objective was clear—build sources, gather actionable intel, and set up a takedown. Standard OPSEC, no loose threads.”

“Very good,” Rawlings said, his words glazed with a chortle. “Your memory’s still as sharp as ever.”

“It is.” Dean inched closer to the table. “And clearly you’re still pissed off that I had to sell you out after Fowler’s guy found that wire on you.”

Dean took a breath and continued. “It was a fuck-up of colossal proportions. That night you and I finally got a sit-down with Michael Fowler, you insisted on wearing a wire. One of Fowler’s muscles patted you down and found it stitched into your jacket. I had to pretend to be as shocked as they were that you were an undercover agent. I did the only thing I could think of at the time to make sure both of us didn’t end up dead—or worse.”

I told Rawlings not to wear the wire.

It was a stupid move on his part.

Premature.

He just didn’t want to listen.

“I saved your life that night, Rawlings. If I didn’t⁠—”

“Shoot me in the leg?”

“If I hadn’t, Fowler and his guys would’ve torn your ass apart. I saved your life.” Dean pressed his finger into the table. “I told you we weren’t ready for audio or video surveillance on Fowler. This was just a meet-and-greet, not an op. But you, in all your wisdom, decided to go in wired up anyway.”

“The SSA approved it,” Rawlings said. “And I was running the lead on the case. I didn’t need your approval.”

“I stressed to both of you assholes that wearing a wire was a premature move,” Dean snapped. “We weren’t in a position for full surveillance, and if it went south, we didn’t have backup. I had no other choice.”

“You pistol-whipped me, shot me, and threw me in the back of a trunk.” Rawlings’ face was bright red. “You completely destroyed my undercover career so you could save face in front of Fowler and the Bureau.”

“So that’s what this is about.” Dean shook his head, incredulous. “You’re pissed off at me because your career got flushed down the toilet.”

Rawlings’ eyes narrowed to slits.

He straightened his back.

His gaze seethed with pure hatred.

“You really don’t know,” Rawlings whispered. “Do you?”

“Know what?”

A few moments ticked by. Rawlings was sizing up Dean, his anger intensifying. He took a deep breath to settle his nerves and then continued.

“You’re either lying,” Rawlings said, “or they never told you.”

“Told me what?” Dean shrugged. “What the hell are you trying to say?”

Rawlings tapped his finger on the table. “I don’t care what happened to my career. Hell, I wasn’t even pissed at you for shooting me in the leg.” He leaned over the table, his tone calloused and uneven. “I wanted you dead because of what Fowler did to my family six weeks after that op went south.”

Tears welled up in Rawlings’ eyes.

32

Dean froze as he listened to the sickening story he had never heard before. Rawlings’ face had turned pale, glossed over with haunting memories.

“I left the Bureau six weeks after that op went south,” Rawlings explained. “I was done. Honestly, I felt that getting shot by you was a sign. I didn’t want to put myself in harm’s way again.” His gaze drifted. He fixed it to the billowy skies overhead, projecting his past up to who knows where.

“I figured I’d slow down,” Rawlings went on. “Do something simpler. Run a bike shop—Stephen King kind of shit. My wife was all for it.” Rawlings flashed a lopsided grin. “She was happy to have me home.” He paused briefly. “So was my little girl.”

Nausea settled in the pit of Dean’s stomach.

He knew without hearing more what happened next.

“Michael Fowler was taken into custody three days after you and I met with him during that op,” Rawlings explained. “His sleazeball stable of attorneys managed to cut him a deal.”

I know.

He was sent to FDC Pahrump.

A measly two years.

Released from his cage and sent back into the world in a blink.

Dean fastened his eyes on Rawlings.

But someone killed him a year after he was sprung.

Rawlings ripped his focus off the sky and swung it around to the table. “Fowler still had his contacts on the outside. He started paying people to find out who I was.”

“Who we were,” Dean corrected. “We were in that op together. If Fowler was coming after you, it’s only natural to assume he was looking for me too.”

“Wrong.” Rawlings shook his head. “Fowler apparently did a deep dive on you and found nothing more than layer after layer of your cover identities. As far as he knew, Dean Blackwood didn’t exist.”

But that wasn’t the case for you.

Dean’s hand trembled.

Fowler found out who you really were.

A tensed-up Rawlings kneaded the muscles in the back of his neck. “Fowler cracked my cover. Tracked down my real identity through cross-referenced intel and low-level informants. He dug into my background, hit every possible leak, and pieced it together. Meanwhile, you,” Rawlings scoffed, “well, your op was clean. No trail, no chatter, nothing to expose your true asset profile. It’s all about compartmentalizing the data, keeping the comms encrypted, and avoiding any OPSEC slip-ups.” He pointed at Dean. “The folks in our old division handling your end of things didn’t leave one vulnerability.”

Dean said nothing.

“The Bureau always saw you as their ace in the hole, Blackwood.” Rawlings’ upper lip twitched, a flicker of disdain passing over his face. “You were their golden boy, the cat with nine lives. Somehow you always landed on your feet. Too valuable an asset to risk. Me? I was just another expendable agent, a cog in the machine.” He shrugged, the bitterness clear in his voice. “Guess not all of us were given that kind of protection.”

Rawlings closed his eyes. Every part of his body relaxed. To Dean, it was an eerie sight like a soul leaving a person’s body when they’re on the brink of death.

“Fowler’s boys found me,” Rawlings said. “He found my family.” He snapped his eyes open, staring directly at Dean. “And I’m going to refrain from providing you with a more colorful explanation of what they did to my wife and daughter right in front of me.”

A lump grew in Dean’s throat.

My God.

He registered the pain in Rawlings’ eyes.

Unfathomable.

“By all accounts, I should have been dead,” Rawlings went on. “Fowler’s guys shot me twice in the chest, hoping I would bleed out while they set fire to the house. For a moment, I nearly gave in. I just stared at the bodies of my wife and daughter while everything around me burned, waiting for my moment to die.”

Dean stared silently. He couldn’t hear the laughter and chatter at the other tables.

“I thought about tapping out and leaving this world with my family right then and there. I wanted to.” Rawlings held his head high. “But I didn’t. I wanted to find Fowler and the men he sent to kill my wife and daughter. That gave me reason to live.” He laughed, seemingly amused. “I crawled out of that place, bleeding, burned, and barely clinging to life. Somehow I survived.” He shot his chin at Dean. “As far as the Bureau and the local cops knew, I burned to death in that fire.”

Everyone thought Rawlings was dead.

There was a funeral for him.

That made him free to go after Fowler and take him out without anyone knowing it was him.

“It felt good once I finally got my hands on Fowler,” Rawlings said, fiddling with his coffee cup. “Righteous is the best word I can think of to describe it. Same for Fowler’s men. Once I was finished, I thought I could let it go, maybe die peacefully in my sleep if I willed it hard enough.” He raised his shoulders. “But I couldn’t. Something still lingered in the back of my head.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed.

Rawlings nodded slowly, wagging a finger as he spoke. “You. The man who compromised my identity. But you were just too damn hard to track down. Those assholes at the Bureau made sure your whereabouts were buried, locked down tight. I tried—believe me, I did—but I couldn’t find you. So I kept myself busy waiting for the day when you would rear your head.”

“So you started a criminal enterprise.” Dean slapped his hand on the table. “You assumed the identity of some sadistic prick I killed so you could carve out a little operation for yourself.” He squared his shoulders and leaned forward. “Tell me I’m right so far.”

“Ten points to you, Blackwood.” Rawlings sat back in his chair, his grieving demeanor replaced with a surly confidence. “And it was easy to use what I knew from my time in the division to build, as you called it, a criminal network.”

“The files from the division were sealed or destroyed. What we did was never made public,” Dean reminded Rawlings.

“All I needed was to tap into some willing contacts inside the Bureau who would unseal them,” Rawlings explained. “Once I pulled that off and learned about Erik Mason through my sources, accessing his ID and making it my own was easy.” He winked. “Every goddamn agency from the Feds to the CIA to Interpol has been chasing the shadow of a dead man, a man you killed.”

Dean sat back in his chair, processing the information, stringing together the narrative. “Robert Jensen,” he said. “He was helping you, right?”

“Among others.”

“Who else?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Rawlings steeled himself. “As of today, all that shit is a mute point. I’m finished with my business dealings. I’m done being Erik Mason. I’ve padded my accounts. I can go anywhere and be anyone I want to be.” His eyes shimmered. “All that’s left is taking you out.”

“Leroy LeBlanc?”

“What about him?”

“You broke him out of prison. You sent him after me.”

“Why, goodness gracious, Blackwood.” The whites of Rawlings’ eyes widened to comic proportions. “You’re doing a swell job figuring this whole thing out.”

“Why send LeBlanc?” Dean asked. “Why didn’t you just come after me yourself?”

Rawlings shrugged. “Frankly, I was too busy here in Gay Paree to make the trip to your cabin in the woods. So I pulled some favors, contacted LeBlanc, and instructed him to go after you at my behest. You got my note, didn’t you? I had to draft it four times to get Mason’s handwriting correct.”

“You’re not answering my question.” Dean squinted. “Why send LeBlanc?”

“For crying out loud, Blackwood.” Rawlings sighed deeply. “There were so many people you rubbed the wrong way while you were working undercover—agents and regular people alike. The same went for LeBlanc after you took him down. He had a beef with you, so I tapped him to go after you.”

“You could have gotten someone better to kill me,” Dean said. “LeBlanc is a low-rent scumbag, nothing more than a deranged sex criminal who deserved a bullet instead of a prison cell.”

“Did you ever think it was odd that LeBlanc never had fingerprints?” Rawlings stuck out his lower lip. “I mean, that sounds to me like someone attempting to conceal who they really are—maybe a former agent in the same undercover division we were in.”

Bullshit.

No way.

Rawlings is just blowing smoke up my ass.

“You’re full of shit,” Dean hissed. “No way was LeBlanc in our division.”

“According to the Bureau, he was.” Rawlings held up a finger. “This was back when he was called John Pritsker. I guess Pritsker ended up really getting into his undercover role as Leroy LeBlanc and ended up going to work for the real Erik Mason full time.”

That’s why the Bureau assigned me to capture LeBlanc way back when. He was one of us.

Dean’s head throbbed.

The Feds wanted me to help take down an agent who went rogue so they could cover their own asses.

“Makes more sense the more you think about it, doesn’t it?” Rawlings said. “Honestly, you should’ve killed LeBlanc—excuse me, Pritsker—a long time ago. Men like him are dogs. You can’t trust a guy who so willingly crossed over the line to the dark side.”

Dean huffed. “Hypocrisy at its finest there—uh, Mason.”

Rawlings laughed. He held up his hands. “You got me there.” He flicked his wrist, moving on. “Anyway, once I got word from my source in the Bureau that LeBlanc was Pritsker, that he went rogue and ended up working for the real Erik Mason, I thought sending him to kill you with a little note from me would be the end of our little … well, let’s call it ‘tiff.’”

“LeBlanc failed.”

“That he did,” Rawlings grunted. “But his failing to take you out ended up working out well in the long run. You found your way to Paris. You came looking for me, just like I figured you would. I saw that as a sign that God or destiny or the entire cosmos was allowing me my chance at retribution.”

“So here we are,” Dean said, accepting the theory brewing in his mind. “I’m right where you want me to be. You have the chance to take me out. I guess you might as well take it.”

“I thought about that.” Rawlings shifted his weight. He cut a look toward the building on his left. “I was going to kill you and be done with it, but then it occurred to me that I might be wasting an opportunity here.”

“Which is?”

Rawlings clapped his hands and let out a loud cackle. “Your family, Blackwood. Your ex-wife Claire. Your little boy Jeremy. Killing them will make us square once and for all.”

33

It took every bit of human restraint for Dean not to vault over the table and choke the life out of Matt Rawlings.

Take it easy.

Breathe.

Don’t do anything stupid or you’re dead.

“And you can’t put up a fight,” Woody added, “if you’re a corpse.”

Dean tamped down his rage. He controlled his breathing. He tried to maintain a neutral facade. “Rawlings,” he said. “If my family⁠—”

“They’re safe. For now, at least. I’m not going to kill them right away. First, I have to make sure you’re alive and locked away in a cage.”

Dean sneered. “How do you plan on pulling that off?”

“You’re buddy Shane,” Rawlings explained. “In less than an hour, Paris authorities will find his body, and the evidence left behind will implicate you in his death. That, coupled with your less-than-sterling reputation, should keep you locked away until the rapture. Once that’s done, I’ll tend to your family.”

Son of a bitch.

Dean clenched a fist.

Tell me he’s not going to do what I think he’s going to do.

“Once you’re locked away for the rest of your natural life,” Rawlings continued, “your family will be torn apart limb by limb. I’ll be sure you receive word of it, perhaps even evidence.” His eyes shimmered. “That, I feel, will be enough retribution for what you, my dear partner, put me through.”

Dean knew he had to keep his composure. He had to devise a plan, even if it cost him his own life.

I won’t allow my family or Shane to die because of me.

Dean scooted his chair closer to the table and put his hands on his lap. With careful precision, he slipped one hand into a pocket, not making any movements that Rawlings could notice.

“I want to hear Shane’s voice,” Dean demanded.

Rawlings winced. “He’ll be dead in a few minutes anyway.”

“Please.”

“What for?”

So Shane can shout out where he is.

So I can ping his location, you demented fuck.

“I want to apologize to him for getting him involved in this.” Dean adopted a sorrowful expression. He needed to convince Rawlings that he was waving a white flag. “I owe him that much.”

“That’s a first,” Rawlings said. “You never gave two shits about innocent bystanders getting caught up in the crossfire before.”

“That was never the case.”

With a heated stare, Rawlings leaned over the table. He held up his hand, making sure the burn scars were right in front of Dean’s face. “Case in point.”

Dean’s hand clamped down on the smoke grenade in his pocket.

“We’re done here, Dean,” Rawlings muttered as he took out his cell. “After I make the call, you’re going to sit tight here until the police arrive.”

Dean surveyed the building on his left, his eyes darting to the upper floors.

The sniper is in place to make sure I stay put.

He slid his thumb through the ring on the smoke grenade in his pocket.

I need to get out of here.

I need to find that kid.

“Good luck with that,” Woody remarked. “You don’t know where he is. Even if you do, you’ll have to hotfoot your way across Paris with God only knows how many cops in tow.”

Shut up, Woody.

I’ve got this.

Rawlings, phone to his ear, ticked down the volume of his voice. “Je viens d'entendre des coups de feu. Je crois avoir entendu quelqu'un se faire agresser.”

Is he on the phone with the cops?

No clue what he’s saying.

Dean’s breathing hitched.

Son of a bitch.

If he’s calling them about Shane, he’ll have to give them an address.

“Oui,” Rawlings said. “13 Rue d'Aboukir.”

That’s it.

13 Rue d'Aboukir.

Rawlings ended the call.

Dean slowly pulled the grenade out of his pocket, making sure it stayed under the table.

“Well,” Rawlings said, grinning smugly, exuding all the confidence in the world. “I guess that’s that.” He retrieved the cloth napkin in front of him and dabbed the corners of his mouth. “I’ll leave you a few euros so you can have a cup of coffee while you wait. I always thought the last exchange between us would have a little more pomp and circumstance to it, but …” He shrugged, his voice trailing off.

Get ready.

Dean smiled. “I have to give you credit for leaning in hard to the whole archvillain bit, Rawlings. You’ve really come a long way since that thing in Vegas.”

“Can’t say the same for you,” Rawlings retorted. “You’re still as bold, brazen, and stupid as ever.” He motioned to Dean’s face. “But your complexion looks better since you quit drinking. I suppose that’s something.”

Dean laughed heartily. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that every person has core traits they can never fully escape.”

“Oh, yeah?” Rawlings stood. “What’s mine?”

“Arrogance.” Dean pressed his heel into the floor and pushed his chair back. “You still think you can control the outcome of any situation, just like you did in Vegas. The last time that happened⁠—”

Dean yanked the pin and let the grenade fall under the table at Rawlings’ feet.

“—someone smoked you out.”

Rawlings’s eyes flickered with panic.

Dean turned, dove to the floor, and covered his head.

The RGK-60KD detonated with a flash, releasing a thick cloud of smoke and aerosol in all directions. The smoke quickly accumulated and spread, choking the air as patrons hacked and wheezed, visibility disappearing beneath a suffocating blanket of fog.

Dean squeezed his eyelids shut and pushed off the ground. He picked up the table and slammed it into Rawlings, knocking him to the floor and pinning him beneath it. Rawlings was in a daze. Dean quickly patted him down and took his SIG.

“Hang tight, Rawlings,” Dean grumbled, choking on the smoke as he snapped a picture of his face. “This ain’t over yet.”

Dean leapt over the table, leaving a semi-conscious Rawlings on the floor. He charged out into the street, sprinting north through the thickening smoke and away from the scene at full speed.

Maneuver your way out of here.

Keep your movements unpredictable.

Dean glanced up at a building.

You’ve still got eyes on you.

The sniper’s vision of the café was now obscured by the cloud of thick smoke. He never saw Blackwood pull the pin on the grenade.

“Merde,” the sniper muttered, scanning the terrain through his scope. “Where the hell is he?” He spotted Dean for a second, but then he was gone as quickly as he had appeared.

“Fils de pute.” Son of a bitch.

The sniper quickly disassembled his rifle, took out his cell phone, and dialed Mason’s number. “Mason” answered after one ring.

“Boss,” the sniper said. “Blackwood got away.”

“No shit.”

“I can run after him. I think I know which direction he fled.”

“Forget it,” barked “Mason” who was wheezing and coughing. Call the apartment and tell them to take Blackwood’s friend to Le Bourget Airport. I’ll meet them there, and we’ll leave Paris as soon as possible.”

34

For the second time that day, Dean fled from police and bad guys through the streets of Paris. He headed north, pulling up the mental map he had memorized days before.

Rue d’Aboukir.

That’s to the north.

A two-minute drive.

A fifteen-minute walk.

Dean’s lungs burned as he quickened his stride.

Ten minutes if I can keep up this pace.

Behind him, sirens rang out in the distance. If the police were en route, calls were likely to go out about a guy fleeing a scene at Louise Café.

I’m running out of time.

Shane’s running out of time.

Dean pulled out his cell as he jogged to the right down Rue du Bouloi.

Need to get all hands on deck.

Dean’s feet slapped against the cobblestones as he punched in Kent Wilson’s number, weaving past dimly lit cafés and ancient stone buildings, the Palais Royal looming ahead.

Come on, Willy.

The sirens grew louder, closing in on the scene.

Pick up.

Kent Wilson stood in Lindo’s office, sipping a fresh cup of coffee. He was taxed from his journey to Rhode Island and back to Seattle.

“We’ve confirmed that the payment Raab and McFadden received came from a Swiss account,” Lindo said from behind his desk. “After working with the DEA and Interpol, we traced the original deposit to a Paris-based account. The funds were funneled through multiple shell companies and routed via offshore entities to cover their tracks.” He flipped through a few papers. “Our cyber people flagged the IP jumps and connected the dots—ultimately revealing the money’s origin. The real surprise?” Lindo flexed his brow. “It all points back to Paris.”

Paris.

Wilson narrowed his eyes.

Where Dean is.

Christ, I hope he’s all right.

“Clearly, this all ties to the murder of Robert Jensen. How and why is the question.”

Wilson felt the phone inside his pocket buzz. He let it go to voicemail.

Lindo nodded, his tone growing grave. “It’s possible Jensen might have contributed to his own murder.”

Wilson widened his eyes. “How so?”

“I did a deep dive on Jensen,” Lindo explained. “Our financial crimes unit ran a full analysis of his accounts and looped in our intel guys. Turns out that Jensen, like Raab and McFadden, was sitting on a personal account with over $300k. We traced the transactions through covert channels. Nothing on record, but it’s there.”

Wilson paused, processing the information. “Someone was paying Jensen off. What for?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Lindo replied, sitting on the edge of his desk, his gaze hardening. “I also had forensics pull Jensen’s call data. He’d been making regular comms with someone in my own unit.”

“Who?”

Lindo flared his nostrils. “A man named Tom Dietz.” He struck his fist on the desk. His jaw muscles tensed. “Son of a bitch works for me. According to the call logs, Dietz was in regular contact with Robert Jensen.” He hung his head, a man teetering on the edge of defeat. “They’re all tied to this somehow—Raab, McFadden, Jensen, Dietz. How and why, I don’t know. But you can be damn sure I’m gonna find out.”

Wilson’s cell rang again.

He took it out of his pocket and answered it with a swipe, pressing it to his ear. “Go ahead.”

“Willy!” Dean shouted, his breathing ragged. “Listen closely. I don’t have long.”

Holy shit.

Wilson shot a furtive glance at Lindo and held up the “one minute” gesture.

Bad timing.

“I can’t talk right now,” Wilson said into the phone, evening his tone so he didn’t arouse suspicion. “Call me later.”

“Are you with Lindo?”

“Correct.”

“Put the call on speaker.”

“I can’t⁠—”

“Do it!” Dean snapped. “Time’s running out. All bets are off. Tell Lindo you’re talking to me. Bring him into the fold.”

Across the room, a worried Lindo rounded his desk. “What’s going on?”

Wilson’s mouth opened. No words came out.

“Now, Willy!” Dean shouted. “There’s no time.”

God almighty.

I suppose this moment was bound to happen sooner or later.

“Lindo,” Wilson said, his tone hardening. “I’ve got Dean Blackwood on the line.”

Lindo’s expression was equal parts shock and anger. “What are you talking about?”

Wilson put the call on speaker.

Dean’s voice crackled through the line. “Listen up,” he panted. “Time’s critical. Whatever happens to me is immaterial.”

“Blackwood,” Lindo shouted, pinning a heated gaze on the phone in Wilson’s hand. “If you don’t tell me where you⁠—”

“I’m in Paris. I’ve been tracking Erik Mason. Two minutes ago I had a face-to-face with him.” Dean sucked in a sharp breath. “But Mason isn’t Mason. He’s Matt Rawlings.”

Wilson’s mouth dropped open. “Rawlings?”

“I can confirm it.”

“Bullshit,” Lindo seethed. “Whatever you’re up to, wherever you are, it ends right now.”

“Shut the fuck up and listen!” Dean screamed. “Look, someone is in trouble. A friend of mine. Rawlings’ people have him. If I don’t get to him in the next few minutes, he’s dead.”

“Dean,” Wilson said. “Are you sure it’s Rawlings?”

“Check your phone,” Dean spouted.

The cell in Wilson’s hand buzzed—an incoming text.

Wilson opened it and saw the face of Matt Rawlings lying on his back, a laceration on his cheek and the air full of smoke.

“My God,” Lindo whispered as he took a closer look at the photo. “That’s him.” He flicked his eyes up at Wilson. “That’s Rawlings.”

“He assumed Mason’s identity,” Dean explained, his words clipped and fast. He was running out of breath. “The Bureau thought Rawlings had burned to death in that fire when his wife and daughter were killed. But he survived and decided to go on a revenge tour. He took out Michael Fowler after he got out of prison and whacked the men who killed his family. Then he set up some kind of criminal enterprise and took on Erik Mason’s identity. Robert Jensen and others were involved in his little operation.”

Wilson clenched a fist.

That’s how Rawlings got access to Erik Mason’s prints.

Someone in our ranks was giving him access.

“Where is Rawlings now?” Lindo asked.

“I left him at the Louise Café, but he’s probably gone by now. I’m out of time here, guys. I gotta go.”

“Dean—”

“No time, Willy.” Dean exhaled sharply. Wilson registered the wallop of sirens in the background. “I have Rawlings’ phone,” Dean added. “I’ll find a way to get it to you. Whatever is on it might help back up this story. I just needed you guys to know that Rawlings is behind all this. If something happens to me, find Rawlings.”

The call ended abruptly.

“Wilson,” Lindo paused to collect his thoughts. “Call FBI Director Richard Womack. He needs to know about this. And we need to contact the embassy in Paris. If Blackwood’s telling the truth⁠—”

“He is,” Wilson interrupted. “You saw the picture.”

“Then let’s move fast.” Lindo grabbed his jacket and hustled toward the door. “This operation just shifted. We’re no longer hunting Blackwood. We’re hunting Matt Rawlings.”

35

Dean hoped he had given Wilson and Lindo enough information. And he hoped they believed him. He hoped they would put the pieces together and find Matt Rawlings.

He pocketed the phone and turned left down Rue Coquillière, a narrow street lined with small shops.

If I don’t make it, they have plenty to clear my name.

I’ll never get to tell Claire I’m sorry.

I won’t get the chance to hug Jeremy.

Dean increased his speed.

He held his head high.

At least they’ll be safe.

Dean’s lungs were on fire. Every muscle in his body burned. He kept up his sprint, referring to the map in his head and calculating that he was four to five minutes away from where Shane was being held at 13 Rue d’Aboukir.

If he’s even there.

I don’t know for sure.

Just ahead of Dean, a police cruiser screeched to a halt where the road intersected with Rue Hérold.

The officer got out of the cruiser and moved his hand toward his holstered service weapon. “Arrêt!” he shouted. Stop!

Dean ran faster, pumping his arms as he veered toward the cruiser’s hood.

The officer drew his weapon and raised it.

Dean pushed off the ground, soared over the hood, and slammed his feet into the officer’s chest. The man’s body jolted backward and landed on the pavement with a sickening thud.

“Sorry,” Dean muttered, jumping into the cruiser, slamming it into reverse, and spinning it around.

Hang on, Shane.

I’m coming.

A sweat-slicked Shane sat on the edge of the bed in the cramped apartment at 13 Rue d’Aboukir. He stared at his captor—a 6-foot-tall, bald man in a silver-toned suit.

“Oui,” the bald man said, speaking into his phone, his sights on Shane. “Dès que j'en aurai fini avec lui, où vais-je?” As soon as I’m done with him, where do I go?

Oh fuck!

Shane’s hands trembled.

He’s gonna kill me.

I’m never gonna write that book.

Shane clenched his fists to fight off the shakes and then snapped his gaze away from the man and over to the small balcony on his right.

Mom was right.

I smoked too much weed in high school.

I should’ve just stayed in Alabama and gone to community college.

I’d be working at Walmart by now, but I wouldn’t be dead!

“Le Bourget?” the man asked. He nodded and then terminated the call.

With a sigh, he took out his Glock 17 from his hip holster and chambered a round.

“Désolé.” The bald man shrugged and switched over to English. “Nothing personal.”

Shane backed away.

The man raised up his weapon.

Fight, Shane Ditto!

You gotta write that damn book!

Shane screamed like a banshee, bolted off the bed, and charged at his captor who had the barrel of his gun leveled at him. Shane’s every step was fueled by desperation.

Dean parked the highjacked cruiser by the curb and glanced at the building on his left—13 Rue d’Aboukir. He threw open the car door and sprinted toward the entrance, Glock in hand. He silently bartered with the man in the sky and told him he was willing to trade his life for Shane’s if⁠—

Dean heard someone scream overhead.

He looked up.

A bald man in a silver suit was tumbling over the balcony on the top story of the building, limbs flailing as he rattled out his death throes.

“What the fuck?”

Dean moved out of the way.

The man slapped against the pavement, the wet smack of his flesh and sickening crack of his bones filling the air.

Dean whipped his head around, examining the twisted, mangled body.

He shot a glance above him.

Shane was peering over the balcony, gazing down at the scene with a dumbfounded expression on his face.

“Holy shit,” Shane mumbled. “That actually worked.”

Dean ran to the front door of the building and slammed it open with his shoulder. He bounded up the stairwell, skipping steps and clearing corners as he went. At the top floor, he called out to Shane. The kid’s voice echoed back, guiding Dean toward the room at the end of the hall on the left.

The door whipped open.

Dean swung up his Glock.

Once he laid eyes on Shane, he lowered his weapon and grabbed him by his shoulders.

“You okay?”

“I’m good. Yeah. I’m good.” Shane shook uncontrollably. His adrenaline was spiking. “I just …” He took Dean inside and showed him the balcony. “Shit! The guy pulled a gun on me, and I tried to tackle him. He was gonna kill me.” Shane was talking at a rapid-fire pace, his words mumbled and frantic. “We fought. It was nuts. He tripped. I pushed the dude.” Shane pointed at the balcony. “I just pushed him. He tripped, and then he⁠—”

“You’re okay though?” Dean said, examining Shane for wounds. “You’re not shot or anything?”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.” Shane took a deep breath. “I’m good.”

The two of them left the apartment, racing down the stairs to street level. Dean was hobbling now, his knee acting up.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean grumbled as he stepped out of the apartment building. “It’s flaring up.”

Shane placed his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“Old injury.” Dean gritted his teeth.

Not now.

You don’t have time.

Sirens were gathering in the distance.

We gotta move.

“What about this guy?” Shane asked, motioning to the blood-soaked body sprawled on the sidewalk. “What do we do?”

“We wait for the cops.” Dean leaned against a wall. “I’ve done all I can do.”

“We’re gonna get arrested.”

Dean leaned over, rubbing his knee. “I’ve got some friends back home looking for the bad guys. I’ve got a wealth of information to give them. We might sit in a cell for a while, but I think we’ll be okay.”

“Shit,” Shane hissed. “I guess I can live with that.”

“You need to run.”

“What?”

“I’ll cover for you, kid.” Dean flashed Shane a big smile. “Just go. I’ll make sure no one comes looking for you. Don’t worry about me.” He shot his chin in the direction of the sirens. “I can handle the fallout.” He swung his attention back to Shane. “Go write your novel. Send me a copy once it’s finished.”

“I can help you, man,” Shane said, gesturing toward the gathering sirens. “Hell, the guy who fell off the balcony said something about an airport. Maybe this Mason guy is there.”

In an instant, Dean forgot about the pain in his knee. “He mentioned an airport?”

“Yeah.”

“Which one?”

“Le Bourget, I think. I heard the guy say it to someone on the phone before I pushed him over the balcony.” Shane examined the corpse a few paces away. Green hues tinted his expression. “Shit.” He bent over, bracing his legs. “I think I’m gonna puke.”

Rawlings might be fleeing.

If he’s still got his wits about him, he’ll cut his losses and get the hell out of Dodge.

“Do me a favor, Shane,” Dean said as he half-hobbled his way to his commandeered police cruiser. “When the cops get here, tell them everything that happened. Tell them the whole story, and then tell them they need to contact Kent Wilson and Delvin Lindo at the FBI field office in Seattle, Washington. Tell them everything that happened.”

“Where are you going?”

Saying nothing more, Dean got in the cruiser, slammed the door, throttled the engine, and peeled off down the street as the last rays of sunlight slunk away over the horizon.

36

Dean scanned the runways of Le Bourget Airport through the police cruiser’s windshield. The area was surrounded by fields and some industrial areas, which gave it a more spacious, less congested feel than larger airports.

Three main runways ran east to west.

A smaller runway ran north-south.

The terminal was on the west with several hangars and aviation facilities clustered around it. Outside one of them were three men in suits approaching a Bombardier Challenger 300 airplane.

That’s him.

Dean increased his speed.

That’s gotta be Rawlings.

“Well, lad,” Woody said. “What now? Are you gonna drive right onto the tarmac, confront Rawlings, and shoot it out with him?”

Maybe.

“Wilson and Lindo know who Rawlings is,” Woody reminded Dean. “They know what he’s up to. Why don’t you let them handle it?”

Because Rawlings knows about my family.

Dean approached the front gate outside the tarmac, took out his Glock, and pressed it against the cruiser’s side panel.

If Rawlings gets away, he might go after Claire and Jeremy.

“Still putting your family in harm’s way after all of these years,” Woody groaned. “No matter how hard you try.”

Shut up.

“You’ll never change, Deano. This is your life—a revolving door of chaos.”

Once I’m done with Rawlings, it’s over.

“Is it?” Woody huffed. “I’ve got a feeling that if we survive this, it’ll just be the start of your return to the good ol’ days.”

It won’t.

Dean slowed the police cruiser and rolled down his window, eyeing the guard shack on his left.

I won’t allow it.

A guard poked his head out, appraising the police car. He stepped out, his head tilted, a quiet doubt in his gaze.

“Monsieur,” the guard said as he walked up to the driver’s side. “Puis-je vous aider?” Can I help you?

“English?”

“Oui.”

“Several men came through here.” Dean gestured toward the men boarding the Bombardier Challenger 300 on the tarmac. “I need to speak with them.”

“Sir, I cannot⁠—”

Dean pointed the Glock out the window, the barrel aimed low.

The guard gasped and immediately raised his hands in surrender.

Rawlings ordered his men, Issac and Hugo, to leave their bags on the tarmac. There was no time. The pilot said the belongings could be stowed behind the cockpit, but when Rawlings pointed a gun in his face, the pilot willingly backed off.

“Start the goddamn plane,” Rawlings hissed. “I want this fucking thing airborne in the next two minutes.”

The pilot nodded and hustled into the cockpit.

Issac and Hugo stood guard at the bottom of the steps, scanning the terrain for threats.

Rawlings checked his watch.

Get in the air.

Hide out for a few.

Then we’ll track down Blackwood’s family and⁠—

“Mason!” Issac shouted as he chambered a round into his SIG P938. “Là-bas!” Over there!

Rawlings, standing at the top of the plane’s stairs, spun around. A police cruiser 100 yards away was speeding down the tarmac toward the plane, its lights blazing and sirens blaring.

“Motherfucker,” Rawlings grumbled as he spotted Dean Blackwood behind the wheel. “Gotta give the guy credit for his tenacity and creativity.” He shouted at Isaac. “Put him down for chrissakes.”

Rawlings scampered into the aircraft.

Issac and Hugo raised up their weapons and took aim at the police car’s windshield.

Dean saw Rawlings’ men, weapons drawn. Without hesitation, he jammed his foot harder on the accelerator, pushing the vehicle to its limits. Injuries to himself be damned, his plan was to reach top speed before bailing out and crashing the vehicle into the airplane.

The Challenger’s engines roared to life.

Its staircase retracted with a metallic hiss.

Just outside the plane, Rawlings’ men opened fire. Seven rounds tore through the cruiser’s windshield, shattering the glass.

Dean ducked below the steering wheel, his left hand thrusting the Glock out the driver’s side window. He fired blindly, but the shots found one target, dropping the goon on the left.

Now.

Go.

Dean kicked open the driver’s door. Gritting his teeth, he launched himself out of the cruiser, hit the pavement, and rolled with practiced precision.

His body twisted as he tucked his head.

He kept his limbs tight to his torso to absorb the impact.

Despite the controlled roll, Dean’s tender knee took the brunt of the hit. He also felt the sharp crack of some ribs as he rolled six times before coming to a stop.

His palms and elbows scraped against the asphalt.

His left cheek ground into the pavement, but he instinctively kept moving—tuck, roll, get back on his feet again.

As Dean came to a stop, he snapped his head left just in time to see the cruiser slam into the second goon, sending him airborne like a ragdoll before he crashed hard onto the tarmac.

The cruiser veered wide, missing the plane by mere inches.

“Oh, come on,” Woody groaned. “Seriously?”

A battered, aching Dean surged to his feet.

Summoning every last ounce of strength, he broke into a sprint, chasing after the plane.

37

Ignoring the pain searing through his body, Dean sprinted toward the plane’s starboard wing, careful to avoid the blast of exhaust as he closed the distance.

Stop that plane.

Do whatever you can.

Dean drew his Glock.

The Challenger’s ramp opened a little.

Rawlings peeked out, swung up his sidearm, and fired six shots.

“Shit!”

Dean ducked to the left as the flurry of bullets whizzed past his head and chewed up the asphalt beneath his feet. He returned fire as he sprinted around to the port side of the plane.

Am I really gonna do this?

Dean spit the blood that had gathered in his mouth onto the tarmac.

Shit.

He dashed frantically toward the port side wing.

I’m really going to do this.

“I knew this would happen!” Woody hollered. “You owe me ten bucks!”

A fuming Rawlings slammed the ramp shut and hurried toward the cockpit, his footsteps echoing in the cabin. He overheard the pilot and copilot scrambling to adjust. Their voices were strained as they fought to counter the chaos unfolding outside.

Whatever issues Rawlings had with Blackwood and how much he wanted him dead no longer mattered. He just needed to get the fuck out of Paris.

“Hey, asshole.” Rawlings kicked the back of the pilot’s seat. “Get this thing in the air.”

“Engines are spooled, flaps are set, and takeoff thrust is ready.” The pilot shot a glance over his shoulder. “I’ll push the throttles forward, and we’ll be airborne in less than a minute.”

Rawlings pressed the gun into the back of the pilot’s head. “You’ve got thirty seconds.”

The heat from the plane’s exhaust blasted Dean in the face, scorching his skin as he dodged to the side.

Fuck!

He squinted against the heat and wind as he closed in on the port wing, fully aware that he might be living out the last few minutes of his life.

Dean stuffed his Glock in the back of his pants.

He raced closer to the wing.

The aircraft inched forward.

With everything he had, Dean leapt onto the port side wing and found a grip on the wing’s forward spar, holding on tight as the plane sped up. The wing’s surface was slick, but the solid structure gave him just enough leverage to hold on.

The Challenger’s nose lifted, and the wheels left the tarmac.

“Sweet baby Jesus!” Dean screamed, the wind batting him in the face. “What the fuck are you doing, Blackwood?”

On Dean’s right, Rawlings pressed his face against the window, his teeth bared in a snarl. Despite the deafening roar of the engines and the fierce wind tearing at him, Dean was sure Rawlings was cussing, his fury palpable even through the glass.

Dean shot a glance at the port side engine.

He peered over the wing and saw that the aircraft had climbed to about 50 feet, the tarmac below rapidly shrinking as the plane continued its ascent.

All right.

Dean drew his Glock from the back of his waistband, his other hand keeping a vice-like grip on the spar.

Fuck it.

Rawlings’ eyes widened in disbelief.

Dean leveled the Glock at the port-side engine and mouthed “fuck you” at Rawlings before unloading the entire magazine into the turbine.

With a final, defiant glance at Rawlings, Dean released his grip on the wing and hurtled toward the ground.

Rawlings pressed his face harder against the window, his expression twisting into confusion and disbelief as he saw Dean fall.

The port-side engine sputtered, coughing smoke before it flamed out completely.

Alarms went off.

The pilot shouted obscenities, and the copilot yelled at Rawlings to brace for impact.

Rawlings smirked.

He shook his head.

As the plane lurched and swerved, plunging nose-first toward the tarmac, Rawlings pressed his face into the nearest seat, squeezed his eyes shut, and willed himself to relax.

I should’ve burned in that fire.

The haunting faces of his wife and daughter flashed before his eyes.

I should’ve died with them.

Rawlings’ body lurched to the left as the plane veered uncontrollably.

The moment Dean let go of the wing, gravity seized him with a violent tug. He dropped 50 feet, the wind howling past his ears as the earth rushed to meet him. He closed his eyes, accepting his fate.

He heard a deafening explosion.

Felt a searing heat.

The last thing he remembered was the day his son was born.

I’m sorry, buddy.

He remembered the first time he ever kissed Claire.

I’m sorry to you both.

Dean hit the grassy embankment at the side of the runway with a sickening thud. The earth gave way just enough to cushion the blow but not enough to prevent the sharp, jolting pain shooting through his body.

His legs buckled beneath him as he rolled.

The world spun for a moment, the smell of jet fuel mixing with the sharp scent of fresh earth.

“You’re alive, you dumb shyte,” Woody said. “Well. Fackin’. Done.”

Dean turned up his head.

His vision narrowed.

His consciousness faded.

Using the last of his strength, Dean scanned the scene and caught sight of the mangled, crumpled remains of the plane. It had slammed into a fuel tanker, the impact leaving a trail of destruction as flames quickly engulfed the wreckage.

Second time Rawlings died in a fire.

Dean’s eyelids fluttered closed, his vision fading to black.

Ironic.

38

It had taken three weeks for Dean to adjust to using his left hand for everything—eating, opening doors, lifting a toilet seat. With a spiral fracture in his right arm, he was forced to rely on his left arm and hand. The cast and sling on his right arm complicated matters further, making it hard to maneuver with crutches due to multiple sprains and a wrenched knee.

“How are you feeling?” Wilson asked, seated across from Dean in a Portland diner. He blew the steam on his hot cup of coffee, his eyes skimming the parking lot.

“Really?” Dean held up his cast. “I’m nursing a concussion, three broken ribs, a busted arm, and a wicked flare-up of that shit knee of mine.”

“So, no good?”

“No, Larry David.” Dean shook his head as he hooked his left fingers around his coffee mug. “Far from it.”

The two men sat in silence. The only sounds were the clatter of dishes in the kitchen and the faint hum of conversations from other patrons. Despite the aches and bruises, Dean allowed himself a brief moment of relief. He was back on US soil, and for now at least, he was free from the constant danger and chaos that had followed him to Paris.

Dean fixated on Pat Boone’s “Moody River” cueing up through the speakers in the diner.

“Too bad you couldn’t get Rawlings alive,” Wilson grumbled. “Would’ve helped a lot to get that son of a bitch in an interrogation room to clear up some of the gaps in the narrative.”

“Maybe he’ll find a way to resurrect himself a few years down the line, like Mason.” Dean smirked.

It was a dry joke, one meant to cut the tension.

The body pulled from the Challenger wreckage was identified through dental records as Matt Rawlings.

“If you’re up for it,” Wilson said, “I want to debrief you on everything.”

“I just got off an eleven-hour flight from Paris.” Dean massaged his stiff, tender neck. “Can it wait until the official debrief?”

“There’s not going to be one.”

“What are you talking about?”

Wilson leaned over the table, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “I’ll explain in a moment. The short version is that Lindo and I uncovered a wave of corruption, one that I’m sorry to say extends all the way back to former Director of the FBI Bob Bianchi.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “How the hell was he wrapped up in all this?”

“Bianchi was working with Rawlings. After Rawlings faked his death, he managed to bribe and cajole a list of several agents to assist him with his little criminal enterprise. Bianchi was one of them.”

Jesus.

Dean shook his head, his temper flaring.

“Rawlings paid Bianchi to feed him information,” Wilson explained. “Bianchi was the one who helped Rawlings assume Mason’s identity.”

“Makes sense. Bianchi inherited the division Rawlings and I were in.”

“And LeBlanc, aka John Pritsker.” Wilson snickered. “Once we told him that Bianchi had been implicated, Pritsker started singing. Everything we learned, Pritsker corroborated.”

“Bianchi had access to every file, every person, and everything that came through that division,” Dean said. “It was the perfect setup for keeping Rawlings’ operation under wraps and making sure no one connected the dots.” He squinted. “Why did Bianchi flip? What incentive did he have to turn to the dark side?”

“Bianchi knew Rawlings could blow the lid off of what happened in the division when it was still around,” Wilson said. “Rawlings essentially threatened to expose Bianchi if he didn’t play ball. The choice was simple. Bianchi had to either assist Rawlings and receive a hefty little payoff or he could have his ass thrown to the wolves.”

“What did Rawlings know?” Dean shrugged. “I mean, I know we bent rules at the division, but what exactly did he have on Bianchi that would make him get in bed with him?”

Wilson’s lips pressed into a fine line. “I’ll get to that in a moment. Going back to what I was saying, after we uncovered enough to confront Bianchi, we got him talking. We had him dead to rights with charges—corruption, wire fraud, conspiracy to launder illicit funds through foreign entities, and abuse of classified access.”

“How did you manage to uncover that Bianchi was in on it?”

“Transaction records, intercepted communications, and financial forensics,” Wilson stated. “We even had his offshore accounts flagged, and his personal assets were traced back to Rawlings. His defense team was scrambling, trying to cover every angle, but we put the pressure on. The threat of asset forfeiture and the fact that we had his entire operation mapped out forced his hand. His lawyers couldn’t protect him from the evidence. Once we had him on the ropes, Bianchi cracked.” Wilson held up his coffee cup like he was making a toast. “He gave up everything.”

“What about Jensen?”

“Rawlings had Jensen in his pocket.” Wilson lowered his voice. “Jensen was working out of the U.S. Embassy in Paris—a perfect mole. He helped Rawlings launder some of his illicit gains through diplomatic channels, using his access to keep things off the radar. Jensen made sure financial transactions never triggered the usual red flags. He smoothed over any concerns with the right people, passing information and shutting down inquiries before they even started. He was running interference for Rawlings the whole time.”

“Why did Rawlings kill Jensen?”

“Jensen had a change of heart, it appeared.” Wilson rolled his eyes. “We uncovered a personal email he sent to, of all people, Bob Bianchi. In many ways, the email was Jensen tendering his resignation.”

Dean nodded, piecing it all together. “So when Bianchi learned that Jensen was getting cold feet, he sent Rawlings after him.”

“That’s right,” Wilson confirmed. “Rawlings then decided the time had come to shut down the operation. When it became clear that Jensen might rat them out, Bianchi and Rawlings took that as a sign to shut down the operation and shut down Jensen.”

Dean thought for a moment. “Then Rawlings, in a last act to get even with me, sent LeBlanc—Pritsker—to get rid of me.”

Wilson nodded. “Rawlings thought springing LeBlanc from prison and siccing him on you would wrap everything up, that it would even the score between you two after what happened in Vegas. Whether LeBlanc succeeded or not didn’t matter. He wanted all roads to eventually point to Erik Mason, or at least that’s how it was meant to look. That’s why Rawlings went to those lengths to plant Mason’s fingerprint on Jensen after he killed him.”

“And Dietz?” Dean said. “You told me earlier that shithead was in on this too.”

A bleary-eyed Wilson nodded again. “Dietz was recruited by Jensen. We confirmed that during a three-hour interrogation with Dietz. Once LeBlanc failed to kill you, Rawlings and Bianchi were worried you’d do exactly what you ended up doing.”

“Go to Paris, find Mason, and try to take him myself, right?”

“Exactly.” Wilson grinned. “In a bid to take you off the playing field for good, Dietz was tapped by Bianchi to recruit Raab and McFadden to take you out. When they agreed to do the deed, six figures were transferred into their personal accounts.”

“All these guys got a little sloppy,” Dean surmised. “They made things too complicated. Rawlings and Bianchi and all the other pricks had to know the moves they made ran the chance of blowing back on them, even if LeBlanc succeeded in killing me.”

“Greedy men making stupid moves,” Wilson said. “It’s not the first time this has happened. Sure as hell won’t be the last.”

For the next few minutes, Dean and Wilson sipped their coffees, allowing the information to digest. Wilson then explained that this conversation would be the last time there would be any discussions about Bob Bianchi, Matt Rawlings, Leroy LeBlanc, or Dietz.

“Why?” Dean asked. “You haven’t made that clear.”

“Corruption at this level?” Wilson shook his head. “Director Womack doesn’t want this out in the open. What we’ve uncovered isn’t just about one bad apple—it’s dozens of agents involved in a scheme you found. The fallout from this would be catastrophic. The kind of damage it would do to the Bureau is incalculable. It would shatter whatever trust the public still has in the system.”

So it goes away.

Like it never happened.

“This will all be handled internally,” Wilson continued. “The proper parties will be held accountable. Whoever was involved will disappear, and the story will never come out.”

Dean flashed a glare at his old handler. “And you’re okay with that?”

“You should be too, kid. No one will be calling on you to answer for all the rules you bent or the laws you broke. You’ll go back to your cabin, sift through your reports, and act like this never happened.” Wilson paused, sizing up Dean. “I don’t need to tell you the kind of shitstorm that will get stirred up if either of us speaks about this once we leave this diner.”

It’s better that way, better that it stays buried.

I don’t need the headaches.

I just want things to go back to the way they were.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Dean added, “something you didn’t explain completely.”

“Ask away,” Wilson replied. “Just know that once we’re done here, all this never happened.”

“Bianchi.” Dean rested his elbow on the table. “What did Rawlings have on him that was enough to make Bianchi turn into a traitor?”

Wilson swallowed hard.

He took a breath.

“John Pritsker,” he said. His tone was heavy with regret. “Matt Rawlings. Erik Mason.” He shrugged. “What do they have in common?” He pointed to Dean. “You were the man who took them down.”

“And?”

“And the same applied to Leon Winslow, Devon Draven, and Vic Fillmore.”

Winslow.

Draven.

Fillmore.

Dean recalled their faces—the men he was assigned to take down at the behest of the Bureau. “Those guys had nothing to do with Mason,” he said. “Nothing at all.”

“They did not.”

“Then why are you bringing them up?”

“You killed all three of them,” Wilson repeated. “And if you still remember things as well as you do, then you’ll recall that you took all of them out within two years of each other.”

“I know.”

“Well, what you don’t know is that Leon Winslow, Devon Draven, and Vic Fillmore were aliases.” Wilson narrowed his eyes. “They were the cover identities assigned to agents who worked in the same division you were part of.”

Dean’s stomach flipped.

His palms glazed with sweat.

“For the love of God,” he whispered. “I was tasked with taking out rogue agents in my own division?”

“At the request of Bob Bianchi,” Wilson said. “When the time came to dissolve the division since the majority of its agents had gone rogue, Bianchi tasked you with taking them out. He just never told you they were your own people. He led you to believe they were bad actors who simply needed to be put down.”

Because he knew I could pull it off.

He trusted that I would save his ass, that chances were high I would die trying.

Dean closed his eyes.

And if something went wrong, if I didn’t succeed, Bianchi would terminate me or throw me in a cell because of my less-than-sterling reputation.

“Dean, that’s what Rawlings had on Bianchi,” Wilson continued. “Rawlings leveraged the fact that he knew Bianchi sent you to put down three of our own under false pretenses. Rawlings knew that if he exposed Bianchi for that …” He shrugged, his voice trailing.

Dean said nothing, his mind a chaotic blur of thoughts.

“I’m sorry to break it to you, kid,” Wilson said. “If it’s any consolation⁠—”

“Just pay the tab, Willy.” Dean grabbed his crutches, stood, and hobbled away. “I’m going home.”

Saying nothing more, Dean left the diner. His mind raced, the weight of everything he'd learned pressing down on him. His past, everything he thought he understood, now seemed uncertain, shifting under his feet like sand.

“You left the life, but the life never really left you,” Woody gibbered. “Probably never will.”

Dean made his way to the truck in the center of the parking lot—Cliff Bazz’s ride. His sponsor and long-time friend sat behind the wheel, thumbing the screen on his phone. When Bazz noticed Dean approaching, he slid out of the truck, flashed a grin, and ran around and opened the passenger door.

“Hey, Deano,” Bazz greeted. “Everything good?”

“Yeah.” Dean tossed his crutches inside and hoisted himself in, wincing as he shuffled his way onto the passenger seat. “Just peachy.”

Bazz got back in the driver’s seat and started the engine with a quick turn of the key. He glanced over at Dean. “Where to?”

“Home,” Dean answered quietly.

The truck jerked forward, leaving the parking lot and making its way onto the highway.

“Well,” Bazz said, glancing over. “You wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“You sure? I mean, a lot happened and⁠—”

“Just take me home, Bazzy.” Dean leaned his head back. “It’s behind me. All of it.” He shot a serious look at his friend. “I don’t want it brought up ever again.”

“Okay.” Bazz switched on the radio, scanning the channels until he landed on a rock station. “Let’s just get you home.”

Dean stared out the window, his gaze distant, lost in thought. He had always believed he knew who he was—just a guy who’d killed bad people, the kind who deserved it. Dean wondered if he had it all wrong.

I wasn’t just a soldier doing the right thing.

I killed people in my own circle—people who were just as lost and broken as I was.

“Eminence Front” by The Who drifted through the cab’s speakers.

Bazz grinned, cranked the volume, and shot Dean a glance. “Best song they ever made.” He nodded to the rhythm.

Dean’s phone buzzed.

He pulled it out of his pocket.

A text from Claire.

Let’s talk tonight, it read. It’s been long enough.

Dean tightened his grip on the phone. Claire’s text hung in the air. Was she implying that the dust had settled? That enough time had passed? That things had cooled off enough for him to come back into their lives? Was she ready for him to reunite with her and Jeremy?

The dust hasn’t settled.

Things have heated up.

My life is in a worse state of disarray than it was before.

Dean attempted to reply but couldn’t find the right words.

“Pretend it never happened,” Woody suggested. “Act like you never went to Paris. Go see your kid. I mean,” he laughed, “what are the chances something this insane will ever happen again?”

Woody, you’re thinking that something like this will actually happen again.

“You got me,” the leprechaun’s laughter bubbled up, louder now. “And yeah, it will. You’ll heal, put it all behind you, and try not to think about it. Rest assured that Ballistic Blackwood will return—sooner rather than later. It’s who you are. It’s the person you will always be. This little stopover in Paris? It wasn’t our last foray into trouble, laddie. Not by a long shot.”

Dean ripped his gaze away from the highway, his jaw tightening.

His eyes locked with Woody’s.

The little bastard flashed a smug grin and winked.

AUTHOR’S NOTES

Thank you for reading Shadow Kill, book 1 of 8 in the Dean Blackwood series.

Be sure to check out Book 2, Drive To Kill. I’ve included a sneak peek on the next page.

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Click here to leave a review or go to: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DTFJY1GN

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DRIVE TO KILL - SNEAK PEEK

Paul Kubon couldn’t shake the feeling that he was going to die.

A sedan had been tailing his pickup for more than ten minutes along the dim, foggy mountain highway that led to his cabin in Big Bear.

The vehicle was now right on his bumper. The driver flashed his lights and drummed a three-note blast of his horn.

Kubon slowed down and pulled over when he saw an overlook on the right. He’d driven past it countless times. He knew these rugged mountains as well as he did himself.

Easy, Paulie.

He reached over and grabbed his Glock 17 and LAPD detective shield from the glove compartment.

Eeaasy …

The sedan cozied up alongside him, its passenger window rolling down.

Kubon drew a breath and nuzzled the business end of his weapon into the side panel.

He eased down his window halfway, drawing a huge breath as he slid his right index finger against the Glock’s trigger guard.

“Hey, buddy,” Kubon greeted, followed by a tilt of his chin. “What’s up?”

Kubon got no answer, only a muzzle flash and the simultaneous crack of the driver’s weapon.

His head snapped to the right.

Searing heat spread across the left side of his face.

Another blast. This time the bullet found its mark, tearing through Kubon’s neck with brutal precision.

Kubon pawed at his neck, quickly recognizing the sticky substance now all over his left hand.

Blood quickly pooled in his throat. Would he choke to death or just bleed out?

He knew he was a dead man, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

The man in the sedan opened his car door and rolled out slowly from behind the wheel. No hurry. He knew he had accomplished what he came to do. He sauntered over to Kubon’s door and opened it.

“Hey, Paulie,” he chortled, loud enough for a slight echo to say it right back to him. “You doing all right there?”

Kubon looked at the man.

Closed his eyes.

Clenched a fist.

Then his ears registered another gunshot before his world went utterly black.

The killer wrenched Kubon’s steering wheel hard to the right and found a heavy rock. He put Kubon’s lifeless foot on the accelerator and placed the rock on top of it. He threw the shifter into drive and quickly shuffled out of the way as the truck hurtled forward, picking up momentum as it raced toward a steep drop-off.

The deafening crash of twisting metal and scraping rock echoed again and again throughout the beautiful but treacherous San Bernardino Mountains. The truck and its lifeless driver tumbled into the darkness and rolled out of sight.

The killer nodded.

Spit on the ground.

Got in his sedan and made a U-turn.

When he finally had cell service, he punched in a number and heard someone pick up after a single ring.

“Kubon’s out of the picture. One down.”

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