PARADISE KILL

FBI MYSTERY THRILLER

DEAN BLACKWOOD

BOOK 4

SAM JONES

Copyright © 2024 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.

Unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this book, in whole or in part, by any means—physical, electronic, or otherwise—is strictly prohibited without the express written permission of the author. If you wish to quote or reference any part of this work, please reach out to the author at info@authorsamjones.com.

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

INTRODUCTION

Never cross the CIA. 

And definitely don’t piss off the assassin sent to kill you.

Florida’s more than gators and pythons. It’s where the CIA plans to end me and my buddy Bazz.

Bazz is ex-CIA. I’m ex-FBI. Together, we've got enough baggage to start our own airline.

I was enjoying some much-needed R&R until a mysterious flash drive appeared. A drive the CIA would kill to keep secret.

I’m supposed to be retired. And running through steamy Florida isn’t my idea of fun. 

But when bullets start flying and bodies start dying, the hunter becomes the hunted.

In this game, it’s kill or be killed—and Florida’s about to become ground zero.

PROLOGUE

OAHU, HAWAII

On a warm Saturday night, death came for John O’Neill.

Someone was in his house. The second his flip-flops smacked across the welcome mat outside the front door, he could feel an unknown presence.

An intruder was inside.

Watching him.

Waiting to strike.

John’s hand drifted toward the 1911 Colt stuffed into the back of his board shorts; the full moon glinted off the weapon’s cold blue steel. Waves crashed along the beach behind the house, muffling unwanted noises.

He gripped the gun by its handle.

Took it out.

John thumbed the safety to the firing position and decided to move inside through the rear of his one-story, Renaissance-style dwelling. The voice in his head pounded against the back of his skull, unhelpful and loud. It was only a matter of time, John Boy.

You knew this was going to happen sooner or later.

John slunk around the house toward the backyard.

The second you mailed the package to Maddy, you knew what was coming.

You took a fool’s gamble, old man.

You knew there would be consequences when you decided to tell the world what really happened.

Sweat slicked John’s palms as he moved down the eastern side of his beachfront real estate. He crouched low, his head ducking under the windows, his eyes sweeping the side yard. The beach, twenty yards away from the back door, was free of souls, the ebb and flow of the waves licking the shore and the whispered caws of a pair of parrotbills prickling his ears.

John stopped near the gas meter.

His body hugged the warm wall.

He willed his mind to clear.

Then he stood upright with the Colt gripped in both hands and focused on the rustling of the Hala trees ten paces away from his back door.

Focus your senses.

Listen.

Pinpoint what’s out of place.

John glanced toward the window just over his shoulder; one of two on the eastern side of the house that looked into the living room. The blinds were drawn just as he had left them before he headed out for his nightcap at the Lewers Lounge, and the pair of lights he always left on—the table lamp near the recliner and the one in the kitchen—were still on.

John craned his neck and peeked through the blinds. No shadows. No furniture out of place. Everything appeared just as he had left it an hour ago. He relaxed for just a moment. Is his paranoia getting the better of him?

Come on, John Boy, the older man thought as he wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. You’re starting to lose it…

He lingered, back door in sight, in reach.

Counted down three minutes in his head.

Nothing changed.

A headache pulsated in the back of his skull. The undefined ill feeling that haunted John the past twenty years redoubled inside him.

Fuck it.

He chalked the emergency siren ringing in his head up to nothing but a false alarm.

He relaxed his tense posture.

Shook his head.

Then he thumbed the safety on his Colt, fished out his keys, and went about starting the process of calling it a night. He kept the Colt gripped in his right hand; as his old handler at the Agency had always said, “Better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it.”

Ten seconds after stepping into his house, John drew the shades. He switched off the lights. Then he poured himself one last glass of bourbon, pulled out the burner flip-phone he’d purchased a week prior, dialed one of two numbers, and heard it go straight to voicemail.

“Bazzy,” John grumbled. “I need you to call me, buddy.” He did a scan of his living room, his heart oddly still racing, part of him worried that someone was hiding in the shadows. “Something feels off. I’m gonna split tomorrow morning. I’m not sure where, but I don’t think it’s safe here anymore.” He lowered his voice. “I sent everything I have to Maddy like I told you I would. She has everything—all of it.” John’s eyes darted around the room erratically. “I’m going off the grid, my friend. I’ll link up with you later. Don’t try to find me—I’ll find you.” He took a pause. “I should have let this go. I should have never looked into this. I raised too many flags.” He resisted the urge to weep. “I should have let the truth stay buried.”

John terminated the call, snapped the flip-phone in half, and tossed the pieces in the kitchen bin. After he downed the last of his bourbon, he moved into his bedroom, still gripping the Colt firmly in his left hand. He packed his belongings into his suitcase, silent and fast.

John figured if You-Know-Who was out there, if he had truly stepped out from the shadows and was taking up his old hobbies once again, the wraith would track him down quicker than a newborn giraffe learning how to walk. It was You-Know-Who’s gift, his sick and twisted yet graceful ability to snatch life from the living with ease—and John knew once You-Know-Who came for him, he would never see it coming.

Focus now, John.

The older man cracked his knuckles.

Get out and get moving.

John rifled through his dresser.

Scooped up a pile of clothes.

Then he jammed article after article of clothing into his suitcase suitable for cold, warm, and hostile weather.

Did Maddy leave? he wondered.

Is she safe?

If she listened to what I told her to do, she'd be far away by now.

If she did what I said, even I won't be able to find her.

Of all the sins John had committed, not being as present as he should have been in Maddy’s life aggrieved him the most. The things he had done in the name of patriotism, country, and the Constitution—all of that—was bad enough, but missing out on the formative years of his daughter’s life was something he could never come to terms with. John promised himself that he’d make more of an effort in recent years—but once he’d uncovered the truth, the dirty little secret he’d buried twenty years ago in Miami, everything changed. His new life had to be put on hold in favor of dusting off his Agency-gifted black hat and donning it once again.

John’s nostrils flared as he zipped up his suitcase.

You can’t think about that now.

You have to run.

You have to wait until this all blows over before you can ever see Maddy again.

You made a choice, old man, and that choice requires sacrifice.

John told himself to focus, to not think about his personal bullshit and slip into that drone mode he learned about back at the agency, the retired agent’s head held high as he sensed that familiar, ice-cold chill pumping through his veins.

He walked to the nightstand beside his bed.

Picked up his copy of Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations.

Then John retrieved the passport nestled in the back flap; a top-shelf forgery that could get past any customs agent in any part of the world with the name “Richard DuPont” printed under a picture of his face.

John stuffed the passport in his back pocket.

Press-checked his Colt.

Then he shouldered his bags, made his way to the living room, and headed to the door. As John did one last scan of the place he’d called home for the past decade, he acknowledged his gratitude, and put it all in his rear-view mirror.

Then John heard it; the scraping against the oakwood floors behind him.

The temperature in the room dipped.

The muscles in John’s body tensed.

A single droplet of sweat slid down his aged cheek.

Even though his eyes were on the front door, John could sense the man that was standing behind him, the intruder’s eyes boring into the back of his head.

“Not bad,” John said.

A moment passed.

Feet shuffled behind John.

Then the click of a gun hammer being cocked back echoed through the foyer.

“Bazz,” the unseen intruder said. “Where is he?”

“Dunno.” John shrugged, the fingers on his right hand splaying. “And I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

Another moment passed.

“I’ll let you make a move for your piece,” the intruder said, “if that’ll make you feel better.”

John’s thought about how quickly he could whip out the Colt. “Don’t think it’ll do me much good.”

“It won’t.” The intruder said arrogantly. “But you were never a guy who planned on going out on his knees, John—don’t change that on my account.”

“Go out with some dignity, huh?”

“Something like that…”

John’s hands trembled as he came to terms with what was about to happen.

He expressed a silent, heart-rending apology to his daughter.

Then he breathed deep, made a move for his Colt, and the last thing he heard before his world cut to black was the clap of the nine-millimeter round that punched through the back of his skull.

1

Dean slid the white envelope across his desk, over to Erika. He didn’t intend to make the display so theatrical, but considering the nature of the photos inside of it, he felt that slapping down a series of snapshots of Erika’s husband playing doctor/nurse with a woman twenty years his junior required discretion.

“Before you open that,” Dean said, “I want to stress that what I found confirms the suspicions you had, Mrs. Quint. That being said, while I have provided you with proof,” Dean glanced out the window to the vacant bullpen of his private investigation firm, “perhaps it’s best for your sake that you just take my confirmation at face value.”

Erika cleared her throat and flexed her brow like she was batting the comment away. Speaking in a hoarse tone, she said to Dean, “I need to see what this ungrateful son of a bitch has been up to so I can know for sure.” She winced. “What’s that thing called? That whole ‘if you don’t see a tree fall in the forest, was it ever really there’ thing’?”

Dean nodded. “I know what you mean.” He perched forward in his chair. “But I’ve seen the tree falling first-hand myself, Mrs. Quint.”

A beat ticked by as Erika held the envelope in her hands, weighing it and considering it. “Does it ever get to you?” she asked. “Seeing people being unfaithful to their significant others for a living?”

Dean sat back. “I’ve had good days and bad,” he said, “like anyone else, I suppose.” He swiped his hand across the table like he was brushing Erika’s inquiry aside. “But we should focus on the more important issue here, the next steps that you need to take, specifically.”

“I’m inclined to take the snub-nose Ron has stored in his safe and put a bullet in his fat little head, if we’re being honest.”

There were plenty of clients Dean worked with who had expressed similar sentiments. Thanks to his FBI training, he knew how to spot when someone was blowing hot hair—but Erika wasn’t. The moment she vocalized her intentions to kill her cheating spouse, Dean knew she meant it.

“Mrs. Quint,” Dean said. “I want to⁠—”

“Erika,” the woman replied, her incensed state of mind reflected in the bite in her tone. “The last time I went by ‘Mrs. Quint’ was the second before you handed me those photos.”

“I can only imagine what you must be feeling right now.”

“Do you know what it’s like to wake up every morning for the past six months knowing that the man I took a gamble on is doing…” Erika closed her eyes, “doing what he did? Do you know what it feels like to be,” her eyes probed the ceiling for the words, “tortured by a thought?”

Vivid recollections of Dean’s past trampled through his mind like race horses being let out of a gate. “Every day,” he said. “I was diagnosed with something called eidetic memory when I was a kid. Technically, that’s not what it really is, though.” Dean flashed a hint of smirk. “Let’s just say I’m able to play back any memory with HD clarity.”

The intrigue was apparent on Erika’s face, her mouth pursed and head cocked to the side curiously. “That’s a real thing?”

Dean nodded. “I had a slew of doctors and shrinks poking around inside of my brain for years trying to give it a name. They called it ‘eidetic memory,’ but I think it was just a cop-out because they couldn’t figure out a fancier term for it. I just call it my Home Movie Collection.”

Erika, her gaze tense with skepticism, leaned in toward the desk. “If that’s true,” she studied me, “then what was I wearing when we first met?”

Dean blinked as he started up the hard drive in his head. “Levi jeans,” he said. “And a Van Halen t-shirt. There was a hole in the back near your neckline about the size of a cigarette burn. You also had a cup of coffee from Starbucks—black with one pump of vanilla sweetener. The barista misspelled your name—they spelled Erika with a ‘c’ instead of a ‘k,’ and the first thing you said to me was, ‘It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Blackwood,” before you dropped your purse because your hands were shaking.”

A perplexed expression radiated across Erika’s face.

She said nothing.

Then she sat back, looked at the envelope in her hand, and traced her thumb across the flap.

“Erika,” Dean said, “I’m not going to tell you that everything is going to be alright. I’m not a therapist, but what I will tell you is that what you’re considering right now, what you told me you think you want to do to your husband⁠—”

“Is a bad idea?”

“To say the least.”

“But you understand why I’m thinking about it.” Her eyes were guarded.

“I do,” Dean said. “Believe me.”

“So,” Erika drew a shallow breath “you’re not going to feign being a therapist, but you will moonlight as a priest?”

Dean looked the sad woman deep in her eyes. “I’ll tell you about the people who have been in your situation before,” he said, “the ones who did decide to pull the trigger. When they followed through with it, the rest of their life was spent in a cramped room with no windows. And trust me when I tell you that the torture of living through that is far worse than any sense of justice they got from the crime they committed.”

Erika winced, the color draining from her face, letting Dean know that she was taking what he said seriously. After a few moments, she buried her face in her hands, her back heaving up and down in silent, tearless sobs.

“Everything is in my husband’s name,” Erika whispered, looking up. “Everything. The house, the cars, the money.” She tugged on her blouse. “God, even my clothes don’t belong to me.” She threw up her hands. “What am I going to do? Confront him? Even Andrew admits to the affair.” Her gaze drifted. “I’m on the streets. I’m right back where I was when I decided to marry him. I’ll have nothing.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Dean replied. “The moment I took you on as a client, I took you on as my responsibility.”

“That was back when I could pay you, Mr. Blackwood.” Erika’s posture slackened. “I’m sure you figured that out once I let you dig into mine and my husband’s finances to try and sniff out his affair. You know that I have nothing.”

“I know,” Dean said. “But if there is one thing I can do to offer you some comfort—I’m not going to charge you a single penny for the legwork I put in.”

“Why not?”

“My reasons are no different from yours, Erika. I suppose I want to see Andrew get what’s coming to him just as much as you do.”

Erika pinned an unblinking stare to Dean. Then she stood, arms wrapped around herself, and wandered over to the window looking out to the bullpen. “You sound like you have a plan.” She glanced at Dean over her shoulder. “Unless I’m interpreting you wrong.”

“You’re not.” Dean rose, slipped his hands in his pockets, and inched his way toward his client. “I have a lot of friends in high places, people that can help with…” He grinned. “Well, let’s just say we can tee up your soon-to-be ex-husband with a shipload of blowback that’ll have you owning everything down to his socks.”

“Shipload,” Erika clarified, “or shitload?”

Dean chuckled. “Let’s go with the second.”

A whiff of laughter shot out of Erika as she dabbed the tears under her eyes, straightening her back as Dean saw a bit of her color return.

“The day I hired you,” Erika said, “you asked me why I chose you out of other PIs. I’m sure you remember me asking.”

Dean did.

He remembered everything.

“An old client of yours who recommended me to you,” Erika went on, “well, she said that you cut your clients slack, that when push comes to shove, if taking a hit to your bottom line means someone is getting justice, you don’t blink an eye.”

Dean said nothing.

“I guess I’m asking why.” Erika shrugged. “Why do you care more about the end result than the final paycheck?”

It was a question Dean had asked himself plenty. “Right is right,” he said. “It’s really that simple.”

A moment passed.

Erika wrapped her arms around Dean and pulled him into an embrace.

Minutes later, she went home to pack up her belongings, and Dean started making phone calls to his friends in high places to start the process of making Andrew Quint’s life a living hell.

2

The smell of sizzling meat on the barbecue lapped at Dean’s nostrils. His old man was still the designated grillmaster, but after Dean had scooped up a thirty-inch Bison Premium charcoal grill six months ago, he spent every other Saturday perfecting his technique. Obsessing over his grill was something a few of Dean’s friends had called “suburban” and “mundane,” and though comments like that would get a rise out of normal folks, with Dean, it didn’t. Mundane was good. Ordinary was spectacular—and a welcomed contrast from things used to be.

“Dad!” Jeremy called out. “Is it ready?”

Dean shook his head. “Not yet.” He flipped over the burger patties, closed the grill, and took a swig of the canned sparkling water in his hand. “But we’re getting close.”

Jeremy groaned as he adjusted his baby sister, Grace, in his arms. “When will it be ready?”

“Soon,” Dean said as he checked the time on the G-Shock strapped to his wrist. “Quit asking me.”

“But I’m hungry.” Jeremy raised one of Grace’s little dough arms and waved it. “So is Grace. She just told me.”

“She did, huh?”

“Yeah. She said,” Jeremy stuck his head behind Grace and spoke in a falsetto voice, “‘Serve them burgers, homie! I’m hungry!’”

Dean turned toward Jeremy and gestured at his son with the spatula in his hand. “You call me ‘homie’ again, and your cell phone’s going to go missing.”

Jeremy laughed.

Trivial moments like those always brought a smile to Dean’s face. Ever since Grace came along ten months ago, there had been a shift in Jeremy’s personality. He’d been a recluse, racked with anxiety after he’d been kidnapped when he was younger. Getting the kid back on his feet had taken copious time, cash, and patience—not to mention the revolving door of shrinks—and out of all the things that snapped Jeremy back to life, it was his baby sister. Having a little sister, someone to be responsible for, seemingly instilled Dean’s son with a newfound sense of hope. The kid was still reeling from the occasional nightmare and remained tight-lipped around strangers, but the progress he made was noteworthy.

Dean watched his son point to things in the backyard and explain to his sister what they were, the SoCal sun making it look like the moment had been staged by a photographer.

Remember these moments, Deano.

Remember them well.

And don’t ever take them for granted.

A hand slipped around the small of Dean’s back. When he glanced over his shoulder he smiled when he laid eyes on Layla, Grace’s mom, the woman who had shown him that loving again was possible, that there was such a thing as starting over.

“Stomachs are growling,” Layla said as she motioned toward the patio table where Dean’s father, Dean’s ex-wife Claire, and Claire’s husband, Geoff, laughed and talked and soaked up the sun.

“You know,” Dean said as he poked and prodded at the grill, “anytime we go out for dinner you treat the staff at restaurants like they’re royalty. At home?” He flexed his brows. “All of you are worse than Gordon Ramsay.”

Layla wrapped her other arm around Dean’s waist and squeezed. “Tell me it’s ready soon. I’m so hungry I could eat the insulation in the walls.”

“Just dive into the onion dip my old man brought. That’ll hold you over.”

“You don’t get to be snippy with me. After pushing out that kid out of yours, I’m entitled to whatever I want for the foreseeable future.”

“Oh, come on.” Dean winked. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Layla playfully punched him in his arm. “The second you walked away from the bureau, you got a mouth on you. Besides,” she gestured to Grace, “as big of a hotshot as you are, it would be amusing to watch you give birth.”

“I think I could handle it.”

“Bullshit,” Layla snarked sarcastically. “You're on par with every man in this country—anytime you have a cold you’re groaning all night like you have the plague.”

Dean pulled Layla in close and kissed her on her forehead. A year ago, it would have made him uncomfortable putting on such a public display of affection in front of his ex-wife, but that felt like an eternity ago. Even though his family dynamic was unconventional, they were still just that—family. Even Layla and Claire were known for their outings with the kids, with plenty of social media posts to show for it.

“Did you wrap up that thing?” Layla asked. “Back at the office?”

“Yeah.” Dean winced. “And I meant to tell you that I have to write this one off as a pro bono effort.”

“How come?”

“Just didn’t feel right to take the woman’s money.”

Layla frowned. “That’s the second time this month, babe.”

Money wasn’t an issue for the Blackwood household. After Layla had closed a seven-figure book deal months prior, there was no anxiety when it came to bills or basic necessities, so Dean knew that Layla questioning his habit of acting like a modern-day Robin Hood stemmed from a worry that he was being too benevolent when it came to the bottom line of his PI firm.

“The check for that skip-trace last month is about to clear soon,” Dean said. “I’ve also got payment incoming for that missing person’s case floating down the pipeline here in a couple of weeks.” He shot a reassuring look to his better half. “It just wasn’t appropriate to charge a client who was already in the red, that’s all.”

Layla rubbed circles on Dean’s back. “Don’t let people take advantage of your good heart.”

“She wasn’t taking advantage.”

“I’m sure she wasn’t intentionally.” Layla shrugged. “I’m just saying that once word gets out that you’re the kind of guy who does things for free, people are going to start waltzing into your office assuming that you’re going to give them the friends and family discount.”

Dean flipped a burger on the grill.

She’s right.

That’s already happening.

I’ve spent the past few months slipping so far into this carefree state of mind.

Maybe I’m getting soft.

“Hey,” Layla said. “I’m not trying to give you a hard time. You know that, right?”

“I do,” Dean said. “You’re just being cautious.”

“We’ve got a good thing going now is all. I just want us to be smart.”

“You’re the smart one.” Dean nodded at the grill. “I’m just the guy who flips the burgers now.”

“You’re as smart as they get, you big dolt.” Layla patted Dean on the arm. “You just don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Dean looked at Layla.

He crossed his eyes.

Then he raised his hand, tapped the side of his head with his palm, and snapped his eyeballs back into their original place.

“Alright, ya big idiot,” Layla said. “I’m gonna snag the sweet tea from the fridge and start pouring.”

“Will do,” Dean said. “Pour me a nice tall, cold one while you’re at it.”

Layla winked. As she headed back into the house, Dean glanced over his shoulder at the patio table.

The smiles were plentiful.

Laughter was in full supply.

Dean tried to figure how long it took for things in his life to be on such an even keel, and then—as he had a tendency to do every once in a while—he started to contemplate when the moment would come that it would all go south. That’s how life for him used to be for so long. One conflict after another, one hair-raising, blood-boiling, high-stakes situation following on the heels of another high-stakes situation year after year. That was the MO for him his entire life, and even though a ceasefire had been called on that way of living awhile back, he couldn’t help but wonder when the ceasefire would break.

Dean put his focus back on the grill.

Don’t do that.

Don’t think that way.

You worked too hard to fall back into that pessimistic mindset.

All is good.

“Dad?” Jeremy called out. “Can I use your Bluetooth speaker to play some music?”

“Sure. It’s in the office.”

Donald Blackwood cleared his throat—his way of announcing that he was about to partake in the conversation. “I’m picking the music,” he said. “I don’t want to hear any of that synthesized junk you play, Jeremy.”

“Pop,” Dean said as he looked at his father. “You were big into Depeche Mode when they broke out way back when.”

Donald furrowed his brow. “Point being?”

“Pot calling the kettle black, old man.”

“Come again?”

“Nothing.”

“Coronary or not,” Donald rose from his chair as he squinted his eyes, “I’ll whoop your ass⁠—”

“Pop!” Dean said. “The kids are soaking up every word you say.”

As Dean and Donald were in the middle of going tit-for-tat for the “old man” moniker being kicked around—much to the amusement of Claire, Geoff, and Layla—Jeremy returned with the Bluetooth speaker. He hesitated only a second before he handed his cell phone over to his grandfather.

“Here we go,” Donald said as he flashed a hint of a grin. “The Jagger man.”

Dean’s father pressed a few buttons on Jeremy’s phone. Seconds later, the opening riff to “I’ve Been Lonely For So Long” by Mick Jagger thumped through the Bluetooth speaker.

Donald snapped his fingers to the beat.

Geoff tapped his foot to the rhythm.

Claire swayed her head.

After a few moments, Dean started nodding his head with the rest of them.

Remember this, Deano.

This is what you fought for.

All is well, all is well.

By the time Dean had started scooping the burgers off the grill, Layla returned. Dean turned toward her, ready for a chilled glass of sweet tea—but when he spotted the grimace on her face, he knew that something was up.

“Dean,” Layla said. “There’s someone at the front door.”

His heart rate intensified. “Who is it?”

“It’s Bazz,” Layla whispered. “And he looks a little rough.”

3

Six months had gone by without Bazz checking in. Enough time that Dean just assumed his friend—and former AA sponsor—had disappeared to some part of the globe to take part in some gig that one of his old agency contacts had contracted him to do. That was the routine: Bazz was around for a spell, then he wasn’t, then he came back, and then he disappeared again. Usually, the former CIA agent would come back with that same silly grin and wind-through-his-hair look on his face, but as Dean opened the front door and laid eyes on his friend, he saw an expression on Cliff Bazz’s face he had never seen before.

Fear.

“Bazz,” Dean said, the greeting shooting out of him like he had been holding his breath for a full minute. “What are you doing here?”

Bazz outstretched his arms and forced a smile. He was wearing the same clothes he always had on—a gaudy Hawaiian shirt, board shorts, and Crocs—but they were noticeably more wrinkled than usual, like Bazz had been sleeping in the same clothes for days on end. The same went for Bazz’s usually rugged appearance. The guy’s mop of sandy hair and three-day Sonny Crockett stubble were staples of his beach bum persona, but his hair looked even shaggier and his stubble looked like it had developed into about six-days worth of growth.

“What’s good, brother?” Bazz greeted, his voice hoarse and raspy like a day-trader who spent all day screaming into a phone. “How’s tricks?”

It took Dean a beat to take his friend in. He blinked his eyes to snap himself out of his daze. Then he stood aside, motioned for Bazz to enter, and then proceeded to embrace his friend in a hug.

“God almighty,” Dean said as his nostrils flared. “You smell like you’ve been sleeping in your car, man.”

Bazz broke the hug and shrugged. “I got a long couple of days under my belt, buddy boy.”

“I kind of figured.”

“Is this a bad time?”

“No.” Dean shook his head. “Not at all.” He forked a thumb over his shoulder. “Whole family is here for a barbecue.”

“Mind if I join?” Bazz slapped his stomach. “My tank’s been running on empty for the past day or two.”

“There’s always a seat at the table for you, brother.” Dean leaned in close. “Are you…” He hesitated. “Are you okay, man? You look a little rough around the edges. I mean, more than the usual, that is.”

“I do gotta bend your ear for a second, but I’m not going to get far operating on fumes here.” Bazz clapped his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Let’s grab a bite first. Plus, I wanna lay eyes on this new kid of yours. Haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her yet.”

“You sure? We can talk now.” Dean nodded down the hallway. “My office is just back there.”

“All in good time,” Bazz said. “And I mean it—if I don’t get some grub in me, I might pass out on the stoop here.”

Everything about Bazz—the way he looked, sounded, and acted—stirred concern in Dean. The man he knew for so many years never seemed fazed when any situation crossed his radar. The moment Dean opened the door, the moment he laid eyes on Bazz, he saw a guy who looked like just broken free from some forty-eight-hour interrogation session.

Dean led Bazz to the backyard, forcing a smile while he announced Bazz’s presence and watched Bazz gladhand with everyone in attendance.

Something’s up, Deano.

Something’s wrong.

Something’s got Bazz worried—and that rarely, if ever, happens.

As the family sat down to eat, Bazz regaled the group with his crowd-pleasing anecdotes, jokes, puns, and witty observations as he always did. He was the proverbial showman, Mr. Charisma and life-long incumbent of the World’s Most Charming Man award—but Dean could see something lingering in the corners of Bazz’s eyes, a corrosive glimmer that he’d spotted on the faces of so many men in his old Ranger unit who had finally reached their breaking point.

Dean, seated at the table and finished with his burger, took another swig of his sparkling water, his focus on Bazz as his old friend told a story about wrangling rabid cats in Afghanistan back during the war.

This is what you worried about, Deano.

You’re about to get pulled back into the fight.

4

Everyone partook in cleaning up once the sun was setting. Geoff, Jeremy, Donald, Claire, even Bazz, cleared plates, washed them, and rounded the night out by sipping decaf coffee in the kitchen. By that point, hours had gone by since Bazz’s arrival, and not a moment of it was dull. Dean checked his G-Shock and saw that seven p.m. was creeping in. When Layla announced that the time had come to put Grace down for the night, everyone took that as the cue that the party had reached its finale. Hugs were exchanged, and after everyone headed out, Dean closed the door, returned to the kitchen, and told Bazz to meet him in his office.

Dean watched the cheerful disposition Bazz had been putting on display slip away. As Bazz made his way down the hallway, he stopped to greet Layla as she stepped out of Grace’s room, the two of them exchanging pleasantries for a few moments before Layla joined Dean in the kitchen.

“Is it just me,” Layla whispered, “or does he look a little grizzled?”

“Yeah,” Dean replied, his mind running in circles. “The second I answered the door, he looked like he’d just fled from a firing squad.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Dunno.”

“Should we worry?”

“I don’t think so.” Dean squeezed Layla’s arm reassuringly. “But I’ll find out what’s wrong. Either way, I think we should expect him to crash for the night on the couch based on the way he’s acting.”

“That’s okay by me,” Layla said. “I’m not a doctor, but he looks like he’s been up for three days straight.”

Dean kissed Layla on her cheek and headed down the hallway. When he entered his office, he spotted Bazz standing in front of the gallery of photos on the wall; highlights of Dean’s time in the Rangers along with a few family snapshots nestled in between them. As Dean closed the door, he noticed Bazz was fixated on a photo of the two of them fishing back when they both lived in the Pacific Northwest.

“Hell of a day,” Bazz said. “You damn near slipped and broke your neck trying to get Willy to drop that sockeye you reeled in.” He threw a look toward the door. “Where is that mutt, by the way?”

“He went to his little fortress of solitude in our bedroom.”

“Is he sick or something? That boy usually loves company.”

“Well,” Dean slipped his hands in his pockets, “he’s got that same knack that all canines do for picking up on bad vibes.” He gestured to his friend. “Maybe he was smelling something on you he didn’t like.”

The lines in Bazz’s face slackened.

He nodded.

Then he moved to the burgundy leather recliner beside Dean’s desk, plopped down, and groaned like a guy who just ran six miles.

“Tell me,” Bazz said, “are you still keeping up with that rigorous workout regimen of yours?”

Dean slipped down in the chair behind his desk stacked with piles of open cases. “I had to recalibrate. I’m not twenty-five anymore. The strain on my knees from running six miles every day caught up to me. Same with weight lifting. I’m still benching two twenty-five, but I cut my workout days from four to three.”

“The running man had to slow down.” Bazz laughed. “Ain't that a hoot.”

“Speak for yourself.” Dean shot his chin at his buddy. “You look like Thomas Magnum if he bought stock in Habit Burger.”

“I can’t lie.” Bazz patted his stomach. “I’ve been shirking my own workouts for the past few months. I was worried I might, well, slip with other things if I didn’t stick to it, but I’m faring all right.”

Dean rubbed the stubble on his chin. The “other things” insinuation referred to something only he, Bazz, and anyone else a part of the fraternity of Alcoholics Anonymous were aware of. You could be more than ten years sober—like Dean and Bazz were—but an addict would always be an addict. The struggle was always there.

“What about you?” Bazz said. “Ever since you turned your back on the bureau, you’ve been looking and sounding like a man on cloud nine.”

“Bit of an overstatement,” Dean said. “Maybe I’m on cloud six or seven.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“Yeah, but you get what I’m saying, smartass.”

Bazz chuckled. “I do.” He motioned around the room. “And I’m happy to see you’re doing well here, friend-o. You digging the new job?”

“Most definitely.” Dean nodded. “I’m home at regular hours. The money situation is touch-and-go for lack of a better way of phrasing it, but having a regular routine for once in my life is suiting me well.”

“So, what are you doing? Skip traces? Catching spouses cheating on one another? Missing persons?”

“All of the above.”

“Sounds repetitive.”

“Anything is better than having guys pointing guns at me every other day or coming after me because of some perceived slight from the past.” Dean smirked. “Basically, I’ve opted for being Mr. Rogers over Robocop.”

“And you like it?” Bazz said. “You’re happy?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “I’m happy.”

A groan slipped out of Bazz as he adjusted his weight on the recliner. “What’s it like having a baby girl?”

The question triggered a prideful flutter of Dean’s heart. “Interesting,” he said. “And different. It's equal parts fun and exhausting. Helps to have gone through it before with Jeremy.”

“What’s Claire think about it?”

“She’s happy for us. She likes that Jeremy has a sibling now, too. It’s helped in more ways than one.”

Bazz went on to ask Dean about how his son was doing and received a full debrief. By the time Dean was finished, he sensed that Bazz, as good and attentive a friend as he was, was stalling for time; delaying saying what he needed to say.

“Sounds like everything’s going well, bub.” Bazz flashed a weary smile. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“Well,” Dean said, hoping to get to the topic at hand, “I think it’s safe to assume that the pressures of day-to-day living on your end are weighing you down, Bazzy.”

“Mundane life would be a welcomed change of pace,” he replied. “Unfortunately,” Bazz’s gaze drifted, “that hasn’t been my methodology as of late.”

“So,” Dean shrugged, “you wanna start in on the confessional or keep dancing around whatever’s gnawing at your ankle?”

A moment passed.

Bazz said nothing as he perched forward on his recliner and rubbed his palms together like he was trying to summon a genie.

“Bazzy,” Dean said, “I can’t help you if you can’t articulate whatever’s going on in your head.”

“I’ve got a, uh…” Bazz sighed and shook his head, “I’ve got a problem, buddy. Something I’m having a hard time navigating on my own. You know me. You know that I take pride in the fact that I’m not easily shaken, but I’m sorry to say that this may be the first instance where I’m at a bit of a loss.”

“Then talk.” Dean pulled his chair closer. “Tell me how I can help.”

“I’m worried about dragging you into something that’s going to stir up trouble on your end, Deano.” Bazz held up his hands. “You spent a lot of time trying to sort out a good life for yourself. The last thing I want to do is come in and start causing an uproar.”

“Last I checked,” Dean said, “I came to you years ago staring into the abyss. I was at a point where I couldn’t even find my bootstraps, let alone pull myself up by them.” He motioned to his friend. “You’re the one who helped me get back on track. Hell,” he nodded toward the photos on the wall, “my kids, my life, everything I have now I owe to you in a lot of ways.”

“So,” Bazz said, Dean picking up on the tremble in his tone, “if I came to cash in a favor from you, you’d be willing to do just that?”

“The short version—yes. I guess it just depends on the favor that you’re asking.”

Bazz took a beat.

He stood.

Then he lingered near the window looking out onto the lawn, and dropped his shoulders. “This one is a real doozy, Deano,” he said. “Probably the worst situation I’ve ever found myself in.”

“I figured.” Dean shrugged. “Just tell me what it is. Let’s sort out the pieces. If there’s a way I can help, I will.”

Bazz turned around, his complexion pale and peppered with sweat. “A friend of mine got killed,” he said. “He was murdered,” his gaze flicked down toward the carpet, “and I’m pretty sure the guy who killed him is coming after me next.”

5

Hearing that a killer was hot on Bazz’s heels sent a shockwave up Dean’s spine. News like that would have left him unstirred a year ago, but he took the necessary steps to distance himself from those kinds of situations. The moment Bazz broke the news, all Dean could think about was his family and his new career and how all of that could go away in the blink of an eye.

“You’re sure,” Dean said. “You’re sure that your friend was⁠—”

“He was murdered,” Bazz cut in. “Make no mistake about it.”

Dean nodded, understanding. “Tell me more,” he said. “Don’t leave any detail out, no matter how trivial you think it might be.”

Bazz paced the room, hands in his pockets, his eyes darting around. “His name was John O’Neill,” he said. “We were, well, I guess you could call us ‘colleagues’ back at the Agency. He’s retired, but the two of us were paired together back in the nineties. We were tasked with looking into Aldrich Aimes, the guy who was arrested for spying for the Russians, among other things.” He held up a hand. “This is all public record, so there’s no worry of being exposed to things you shouldn’t be. Anyway, O’Neill and I were tight. We worked together on-and-off for about eighteen years. Then in 2002, right after 9/11 happened, we were assigned to…” Bazz closed his eyes, raised his hand, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Keep going,” Dean insisted. “Talk it through.”

Bazz took a breath.

He shook his head.

Then he continued with the story.

“O’Neill and I were tasked with an assignment in Miami,” he said. “There was a man. His name was Alec Murphy. He worked for the agency.” Bazz rolled his eyes.“ Not in an official capacity, mind you, if you catch my drift.”

“Black Ops?” Dean replied. “Sanctioned killings?” He shrugged. “How am I tracking?”

“You’re tracking,” Bazz said. “And keep in mind, anything I’m telling you right now is information that would piss off a lot of people in Langley if they knew I gave it to you.”

“You take the proper precautions, Bazzy. I trust you.”

The CIA man—retired, not retired, still active, Dean didn’t really know which—sat back down in the recliner. “Alec Murphy,” he said, “was a ghost. He was all of that premiere Robert Ludlum shit we read back when we were kids. Rumor was that Murphy’s origins stemmed somewhere back during the Reagan administration, but it’s all speculative. No one except for Murphy’s handlers knew the real story.” Bazz held up a finger. “But the one truth that can be stated outright was that the guy was good—really good. I’m sure you remember the Cold War as well as I do.”

“I was a kid at the time,” Dean said, “but I remember a good chunk from my time in American history classes.”

“Well,” Bazz chuckled, “what no American history class will teach you is that Alec Murphy was responsible for the assassination of half a dozen high-valued Russian persons of interest back during the Reagan era—Soviets, back when they were called that. Murphy was responsible, and I know this for a fact, for the deaths of three men during the height of the Cold War.” His eyes narrowed. “And for three of the CIA’s own.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “You mean⁠—?”

“Murphy killed anyone the CIA told him to,” Bazz said. “That’s the short of it. Foreign officers, corrupt CIA agents—he did it all. And very rarely did Murphy execute a hit and make it look deliberate, but when he did have to make it look deliberate, he had this thing he liked to do.” Bazz held up a finger gun and pressed it to the back of his head. “He would shoot a guy through the back of his skull. Then he’d slice across their throat with a straight razor. From what I gathered, Murphy referred to it as a ‘Sweeney Todd.’”

A visual of the act was summoned in Dean’s mind. “A little drab, if you’re asking me.”

“Drab but effective,” Bazz said. “And it was a move that Murphy only implemented a handful of times.” He looked Dean square in the eyes. “And it was exactly how my buddy John O’Neill was killed when his body was discovered in Hawaii by Honolulu PD a little under forty-eight hours ago.”

Synapses fired off in Dean’s brain like a fireworks display. He began swallowing the information that Bazz gave him, digesting it to see how it settled in his stomach.

“First off,” Dean said, “you have my condolences for what happened to your friend. Second, I don’t for a second believe that you’re misguided in your theory that this guy Murphy is the suspect in O’Neill’s killing, but⁠—”

“You think,” Bazz interjected, “that I’m jumping to conclusions that Murphy is the killer.”

“Give me a little credit here, Bazz. This Sweeney Todd bit, as noteworthy an MO as it is, is something I’m sure that a handful of run-of-the-mill whack jobs have thought of before. As original as a thought may be that you have, someone else has thought of it before. And why would Murphy kill O’Neill now? You said he was retired.”

“I didn’t state outright that Murphy was the killer.”

“The implication was there.” Dean furrowed his brow. “Unless I’m missing something.”

“You are.” Bazz threw up his hands. “Because Alec Murphy was killed back in 2002. That’s what I was trying to tell you earlier before my mind drifted.” He edged forward on the recliner. “John O’Neill and I were tasked with…well, disposing of Alec Murphy.” His eyes shone fiercely. “And that’s exactly what we did.”

6

It was never a question that Bazz dabbled in the more shadowy parts of the intelligence game—the gray areas—but Dean never considered that Bazz had been tasked with pulling the trigger on someone.

“Before you say anything,” Bazz said, picking up on Dean’s apprehension, “I want to tell you what I did and why I did it. You know me, pal. You know that I wouldn’t pull a gun on a guy and pop him just because someone at the agency asked me to.”

Dean studied Bazz’s face—searching for signs of dishonesty.

Do I know that for sure?

Hell, I don’t even see Bazz half the time anymore.

But I’ll let him talk.

If he’s lying…I’ll know.

“Alright,” Dean said as he settled back in his chair. “Explain.”

“My handler at the agency,” Bazz started, “told me that O’Neill and I needed to take Murphy off the playing field.”

“How come?”

“Murphy went AWOL. The story was as cliché as it gets. He did too many jobs. Killed too many people. Then he started thinking for himself and started using the connections and relationships he forged to go into business on his own. Murphy wanted to sell what he knew, his services, whatever, so the agency decided that the time had come to get rid of him.” Bazz looked haggard as he flexed his bushy eyebrow. “And that’s where O’Neill and I came into the picture.”

“And you took the job.” Dean shrugged. “And if what I know about you still rings true, you had reasons to cite for taking the guy out, something other than just the fact that he was an operative gone rogue.”

Bazz’s eyes flickered. “Murphy went off the rails, Deano. I suspect he had long before I ever heard his name come up. Anyone with the most rudimentary clearance level at Langley knew how the guy operated. He killed anyone the agency told him to take out without hesitation. I knew this. So did O’Neill. But working in the sectors that we did, you had to accept that taking someone out was part of the game—until you didn’t, which is why I turned my back on the CIA a long time ago. I couldn’t compartmentalize anymore. I couldn’t rationalize the things that certain people were doing in the name of God and country.”

“Then what rationalization did you abide by when you agreed to pull the trigger on Murphy?” He threw up his hands. “I need to know, Bazz. You’re not a cold-blooded killer. You’re not a trigger man.” He leaned in close. “So what made you actually pull the trigger?”

Bazz sat back.

Fastened his gaze to the backyard.

Then he took a moment to breathe before he continued. “Murphy,” he finally said, “was responsible for the bombing of an apartment building in Rwanda in 1999. From what I know, the whole thing was orchestrated to take out some upper-echelon target at the time. Murphy made it look like it was some rogue faction or whatever, pulling that ‘This is who we are, hear our name’ kind of shit. Murphy killed eighty-seven people in the process—including six women and ten children with ages ranging from two to eight.”

Dean said nothing as his thoughts drifted to his baby girl in the next room.

“I knew that the agency pulled that kind of shit,” Bazz said. “I knew that but never said or did a damn thing about it. I guess we can cite my old knack for compartmentalizing back when I was still green for letting that kind of shit slide.”

“God and country,” Dean said, the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. “Patriotism.”

“Exactly,” Bazz said. “I love my country. I believe that there’s evil people that the world can do without. I abide by needing men on the front lines who are willing to do what needs to be done for the sake of the greater good,” he ran a hand over his grizzled face, “but when I heard that Alec Murphy was responsible for that bombing, for killing all of those kids, when I was able to put a face to the man responsible for that act and know for a fact that he killed with no semblance of remorse for the lives of the innocent…” He snapped his eyelids shut. “That’s all I needed to be sold on the notion of offing the guy.”

The way the conversation was flowing triggered Dean to feel like he was Bazz’s therapist, maybe even his priest, and the way the old man sat back and began stroking his upper lip complemented that sensation.

“Tell me about the night you killed Alec Murphy,” Dean said. “Tell me everything.”

It took Bazz a moment to settle, Dean watching his friend collect his thoughts as he rubbed his palms together and filled his lungs to fuel the story.

“It was 2002,” Bazz said. “Miami. Back when I was still drinking. Alec Murphy would be and still is the last man that I ever killed…and this is how I did it.”

7

MIAMI, FLORIDA AUGUST 29TH, 2002

The first sip of the mojito was always the best, as far as Bazz was concerned. He brought the glass to his lips, his taste buds sending a signal to his brain where it registered the chilled Bacardi, mint, and sugar. To Bazz, there was no better feeling than the first pull of a drink. Deep down—at the time—he sensed, maybe, that he had a problem, but it would take a bad bender in 2004 for him to call it what it really was.

Two slurps into the mojito, Bazz surveyed the dance floor of Club Mansion. When he stepped inside moments before, the last rays of the Gold Coast daylight slipped away as he was transported into a throbbing, sweat and cologne-laced cage where time wasn’t relative, the club packed shoulder-to-shoulder with a slew of South Beach hotties whacked on E or Columbian Marching Dust. Bazz never touched the stuff—but anyone who passed by him would’ve been fooled. He was dressed neck to ankles in Gold Coast, drug-peddler chic replete with cream-colored slacks and a blazer he slipped on over a four-hundred-dollar black tee he procured for the night. The idea was to look the part, to seem like he was a player, and when a pair of narcotized dudes in the bathroom had asked him if he was holding, he knew he pulled it off.

Bazz wasn’t Bazz tonight.

He was a South Florida player looking to strike a deal with Alec Murphy.

Rose and aquamarine strobe lights swept across the dance floor before they settled on Bazz. He squinted, his eyelids trying to bat away the lights as he took another swig of his mojito. He shot a look to the DJ on the elevated stage at the head of the dance floor, the guy in the middle of spinning La Bouche’s “Be My Lover,” a throwback hit about six years behind the curve, but based on the way the patrons were gyrating and pulsating, they didn’t seem to mind.

Bazz checked the time on his Gold Invicta watch—like his shoes, slacks, and blazer, it was procured simply for the sake of the job—and clocked that eleven p.m. was creeping in.

Where are you, Murphy?

Let’s get this going.

The moment the thought crossed his mind, almost as if it were on cue, O’Neill’s voice came over the flesh-colored transmitter nestled in Bazz’s ear: “How’s it going, slick?”

Bazz turned his back on the crowd and subtly raised his hand to cover his mouth. “If I wait here any longer, I’ll turn into a barstool.”

“I’ve got eyes on you right now.”

“You’re tapped into the camera feeds?”

“Ten minutes before you walked in,” O’Neill said. “You’re looking sharp, by the way. Very sleek.”

O’Neill’s patronizing tone triggered Bazz to smirk as he downed the last of his mojito, pinched one of the bar napkins in front of him, and dabbed the corners of his mouth. “Our boy is twenty minutes late,” he said. “He’s usually an early bird.”

“You’re worried.”

“Murphy doesn’t break his stride. He’s consistent.” Bazz surveyed the dance floor for signs of his target. “Part of me thinks my cover’s blown.”

“It’s airtight, Bazzy,” O’Neill said. “Trust me.”

“It’s Murphy that I’m worried about, buddy.” Bazz didn’t need to recount the litany of fables he heard about Alec Murphy slipping in and out of a room like a wraith and taking life with the snap of his fingers before the mark knew he was even there.

“Smoothe and easy, slick,” O’Neill said. “Give it time. He’ll show. Just remember, the second he asks you to show the goods, you ask him to show the green. Once you get him outside, we’ll take him.”

“Copy,” Bazz said as he felt his heart pound against his ribcage. “Let’s get it done.”

Twenty minutes ticked by along with a few more metro tracks by the DJ. By the time the colors of the strobe lights changed, Voodoo & Serano’s “Blood Is Pumping” started blasting throughout the club’s speakers—and that was the moment Bazz sensed someone standing behind him.

He turned around.

The patrons on the dance floors shrieked in unison at the DJ’s selection.

Then Bazz laid eyes on a six-foot tall man he knew without a doubt was the man of the hour. His hair was slicked back. His eyes were narrowed and he never appeared to blink. As Bazz leaned casually against the bar, he said, “Hot night,” the code word that had been chosen in advance.

Murphy unfastened the top button of his blazer, his steely eyes pinned to Bazz like a pair of headlamps. After a beat, he blinked. He pulled his focus off Bazz. Then he jockeyed into position beside Bazz, flagged down the bartender, and ordered a shot of Patrón.

Bazz angled his body away from Murphy.

This is the man.

The myth.

The legend.

Don’t try to act cool.

Just be cool.

“You’re Murphy, right?” Bazz said. “I got the right guy, yeah?”

“You do.” Murphy shot his chin toward Bazz’s blazer. “Where is it?”

“You in a rush?”

“I’m not keen on asking you twice.”

Easy, Bazzy.

He’s testing you.

Test him back.

Play the part you’re here to play.

“Show me yours,” Bazz said, “I’ll show you mine. That’s how this goes, unless you’re some bush-league rookie stepping up to the plate for the first time.”

Murphy’s eyes shimmered.

He took a beat.

Then he reached toward his jacket pocket—slowly.

Bazz was tempted to make a move for the SIG in his hip holster. But he knew Murphy wasn’t that stupid. The guy wasn’t going to try and plug him in a crowded place like this. It just wasn’t his style.

Murphy pulled out an envelope and placed it on the counter. Bazz took a moment to look at it before he picked it up, peeked inside, and saw what looked like ten grand in crisp bills. He sighed. He shook his head. Then he slid the envelope back over to Murphy and flagged down the bartender for his own shot.

“The fuck is this?”

“Gratuity,” Murphy said. “Compensation for dragging yourself all the way out here tonight.”

Bazz shook his head. “Don’t shine me on with this shit.” He nudged the envelope away like it was a snot-covered tissue. “What are you trying to achieve by slipping me pocket change, man?”

“I want to talk to your supplier,” Murphy said. “I want a face to face. I don’t deal with middlemen.”

Stick to the part. Don’t back down.

“I don’t care what you like,” Bazz said. “And I don’t like repeating myself, but it looks like I gotta put training wheels on for this conversation.” He pressed his thumb into his chest. “I’ve got the information,” he shot a finger at Murphy, “and the cost of that is ten times more than what you just slapped down on the counter to get it, and you’ve got less than seventy-two hours before that information is worthless. It’ll be well on its way to Eastern Europe by then before you can intercept it. All you’ll have in your hands by then is your prick.”

That was the faux deal Bazz and O’Neill’s handler put into place: Murphy was under the impression that Bazz represented an arms dealer, a player who was willing to sell Murphy information pertaining to a manifest headed out of Miami to Albania packed to the gills with enough munitions to start a small war. It was a simple tee up—Murphy, who’d gone off the reservation, was trying to make money any way that he could, would think he was about to get his hands on six million worth of merch in exchange for putting up a sixth fraction of that to Bazz’s “boss,” a fictional character who only existed in a database that a few of the CIA’s best and brightest conjured up. Once Murphy was on the hook, as soon as O’Neill and Bazz had him in their sights, they’d take him in and hand him over to the team that would exfil him back to Langley.

Bazz sipped his drink.

Almost there.

Just stay on track.

“How do I know the information is good?” Murphy said. “I could be walking into a shooting gallery after I pay you and your people out. For all I know, you could’ve mocked up some bullshit manifesto on a spreadsheet.”

“You vetted me,” Bazz said. “I did the same with you.” The bartender returned with Bazz’s tequila. Bazz downed it. Then he started to move away from the counter. “We’re done here. I’m not wasting my time with this shit.”

Murphy slapped his hand on Bazz’s wrist. “Easy,” he said. “I just needed to know that you are who you say you are. Trust is the primary ingredient in any relationship.”

Bazz shook his head. “I don’t trust you. Don’t have any interest, if we’re being on the level.” He ripped the man’s hand off his wrist. “Either you give me a glimpse at what you got, or I walk.”

A moment passed.

Murphy threw back his drink.

Then he nodded over his shoulder, winked at Bazz, and said, “Follow me.”

The moment had arrived. Whether or not it would go Bazz’s way, if Murphy was drawing him outside just to cap him, he couldn’t be sure. He just had to trust that O’Neill had his back.

8

“The black Benz,” Murphy said as he led Bazz through the parking lot outside of the club. “Corner of the lot. It’s in the trunk.”

The two men approached the trunk of a high-ticket Mercedes Benz parked well out of the way of prying eyes. With each step that Bazz took, he waited for O’Neill—who had been silent over the airwaves on Bazz’s earpiece—to swoop in when the time was right.

Any minute now.

We’re almost there.

Just a few more seconds, and then it’s over.

Murphy fished out a pair of keys and twirled them on his finger. As he set about unlocking the trunk, Bazz did a scan of the parking lot. He figured Murphy would just chalk it up to him being cautious, which he was, but Bazz was mostly on the lookout for O’Neill.

“Five-hundred k,” Murphy said as he opened the trunk lid and jutted his chin toward the duffel bag inside. “Check it.”

Bazz took out the counterfeit pen from the pocket of his blazer, snapped off the cap, and watched as Murphy unzipped the duffle bag. Inside were stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills—crisp, neat, looking like they had come fresh off the printing press.

Murphy tried to peel off one of the bills, but Bazz insisted he do it himself. After he did, he ran the counterfeit pen across the bill, saw first-hand that the bills were legit, and smirked.

“Not bad.”

“Now you,” Murphy said. “I need to know the information you’ve got on that manifest holds water, no pun intended.”

A moment passed.

Bazz nodded.

Then he told Murphy he could provide him with real-time footage of the shipping container and the merchandise currently being loaded into it.

“My guy has eyes on it now,” Bazz said. “He’s here with me.” He motioned around the parking lot. “He was also serving as my lookout in case you decided to pull anything.”

Murphy’s nostrils flared, his eyes following suit, his expression pinched like he had just sucked on a lemon. “We agreed to come alone.”

“You know as well as I do stipulations like that are rarely followed in this business.” Bazz did an appraisal of the parking lot. “I’m sure you brought someone to shadow you just in case.”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, it is what it is. Either you want to take a look at the merch or you don’t.” Bazz inched closer to Murphy. “Red light/green light, hermano.”

A beat passed.

Murphy nodded.

Then Bazz held up two fingers.

When he did, the headlamps on the front of a van twenty yards behind him came to life.

The van lurched forward.

Then it rolled up to the Benz, came to a stop, and idled.

Inside the van, behind the steering wheel, was John O’Neill. He jutted his chin in greeting at Bazz and Murphy, and Bazz told Murphy to “Take a look” as he stood back and lit a cigarette.

An apprehensive Murphy reached into his jacket and slid his palm over the grip of the suppressed 9mm wedged into a leather shoulder holster. He approached the van, throwing looks over both shoulders—and then he stopped, Bazz sensing that the nature of the meeting was starting to tickle his sixth sense.

“Fuck this,” Murphy said. “This is off.”

“Hey, pal,” Bazz said. “Quick question…”

Murphy spun around.

Bazz flicked the cigarette into the man’s face, fiery ash and tobacco splintering in Murphy’s eyes, causing him to recoil. As Murphy raised one hand to bat away the embers and used his other hand to reach for his 9mm, John O’Neill took out the tranquilizer gun from his jacket pocket, raised it, and shot a dart into Murphy’s back with a dose of sedative high enough that it could put a camel to sleep.

Murphy’s legs buckled as the dart became lodged into his back. As he fell to the ground, O’Neill slipped out of the van while Bazz secured a grip under both of Murphy’s arms. O’Neill then threw open the rear doors before he assisted Bazz with loading Murphy’s unconscious body into the back.

In under ten seconds, O’Neill secured Murphy’s wrists and legs with zip ties. Then he wrapped six strands of duct tape in a circle over Murphy’s mouth and threw the doors to the van shut. As soon as Murphy was loaded and the deed was done, Bazz’s heart began racing to the point that he thought he might pass out.

“Jesus,” Bazz muttered through labored breaths. “We got him.”

“We need to send our guy his face,” O’Neill said as he pulled out a cell phone and held it up. “Confirmation.”

O’Neill proceeded to take several pictures of Murphy’s face and attached them to a text message. Seconds later, his phone pinged, and O’Neill—with a twinkle in his eye—held out the text for Bazz to see.

ID CONFIRMED, Bazz read. GREEN LIGHT.

“It’s him,” O’Neill said. “We got him.” He clapped a hand on Bazz’s shoulder. “Solid work, slick.”

“Yeah,” Bazz replied as he felt his skin prickle with unease. “Almost too easy.”

“We gotta move,” O’Neill said, a cocksure grin on his face as he headed for the driver’s side. “We’re out in the open here, and I just got the location for the dump site two minutes before you guys rolled out of the club.”

Bazz paused in his tracks. “What do you mean?”

“Talk on the way, hombre.” O’Neill slapped the hood of the van. “I timed out the cameras in the lot for five minutes. They’ll be back online in one. We gotta get moving.”

They piled in the van. Moments later, they were rambling down the Florida Turnpike. As soon as they knew they were clear—spotting no tails, no shadows in his rearview mirrors—Bazz started stripping off his drug dealer wardrobe.

“You said dump site,” Bazz said. “Clarify that.”

A moment passed. Then O’Neill replied, “Overwatch for the op changed the directive at the last moment—they don’t want Murphy alive.”

Bazz was shaking his head before O’Neill finished speaking. “I’m not a triggerman, John.”

“We’ve got our orders, slick.” O’Neill glanced at the unconscious Murphy through his rear-view mirror. “And be real—you want to see this prick dead just as much as I do.”

“I was under the impression some asset in the Keys would take care of it for us.”

“They are—it’s us. So let’s just do it and be done with it.”

“To hell with that.” Bazz shook his head. “They want Murphy dead, good, but I’m not the guy that’s going to do it.”

“Bazzy…” O’Neill pressed his lips together. “You know we have to go through with this. If we don’t, we⁠—”

“What?” Bazz threw up his hands. “They’ll do us after we do Murphy?”

“They might. This is the post 9/11 world, slick. You know what the game is like now. If they point at a guy and say do him, we do him. No questions asked.”

I’m going to ask them.

I’m not some brain-dead, backwoods goon at a black sight waterboarding alleged jihadists.

“I’m an intel guy,” Bazz said. “A procurer of information. That’s what I do. I’m not some mob enforcer that’s going to break his cherry popping some lab rat the CIA made. No fuckin’ way.”

“Cliff—”

“That’s it. End of discussion.”

A few minutes of drive time went by, only the sounds of the engine and the low rumble of the tide outside of the car audible. Finally, it was O’Neill who broke the silence.

“I’ll do it,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”

Bazz slowly turned his head and leveled his gaze on his partner. “I can’t put that on you, John.”

“I’m doing it,” O’Neill said. “I have to. There’s no other way. I’ll…” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I’ll pop him, dump him, and then we’ll send out the signal that he’s gone. This has to be done, one way or the other.”

Silence held sway for two hours until O’Neill pulled off the highway and ventured down a barren road in the Biscayne National Park, the area secluded and blanketed by night and void of any prying ears or eyes.

The van came to a stop in front of a lighthouse flanked by palm trees and staring out into the black void of the ocean. After O’Neill and Bazz got out, they hauled out Murphy’s body, dragged him to the shore, and then O’Neill took out the Browning handgun outfitted with a suppressor and cocked back the trigger.

“I gotta do it, Bazz,” O’Neill said. “We have to.”

Bazz nodded.

He closed his eyes.

After he heard the shot, he snapped his eyes open and proceeded to help O’Neill drag Murphy’s body toward the water.

Bazz handled the arms.

O’Neill took the legs.

“On three,” O’Neill said, the pair swinging the corpse like a swaying hammock. “One…two⁠—”

Something thrashed in the water.

Bazz shuddered.

O’Neill almost lost his grip on the body.

“The fuck is that?” Bazz said.

Before O’Neill could answer, they made out the source of the thrashing: an eight-foot-long alligator cruising toward the shoreline, jaws open and gazing hungrily with its chilling reptilian eyes at the body of Alec Murphy.

“Oh, hell,” Bazz groaned. “Goddamn thing is looking for a bite to eat.”

“Well,” O’Neill said, “let’s give it to him. Less evidence, the way I see it.”

His stomach twisted into a knot, Bazz crept toward the shoreline.

O’Neill started the countdown again.

On three, they hurled the body into the water, the alligator dashing toward the corpse and snapping down on the head a quick moment after it landed with a splash.

Bazz swallowed hard.

What just happened?

The gator snarled as it ripped Murphy’s arm clean off of his body.

What the hell did we just do?

9

After Bazz finished the story, he sat back in the recliner. Dean could sense that Bazz reliving every elicit detail made him yearn for a drink harder than he had in the past few years, the gleam in his eye one that Dean had seen—and experienced himself—more than a handful of times.

“O’Neill pulled the trigger,” Bazz said, “but I took part in teeing the whole thing up. I was an accomplice. We did our jobs and walked away, and I spent two more years thinking about it before I tendered my resignation.” He flashed a weary grin. “I always led you to believe I was still a part of the agency because I thought it was funny, Deano. Maybe it made me more mysterious or something but,” he winced, “none of that really matters anymore. After I took part in killing Alec Murphy, that was it for me.”

The air felt like it had been snatched out of Dean’s lungs as he processed the story. Part of him was relieved that Bazz didn’t do the deed—but he agreed with the second part that Bazz said about him being an accomplice to the ordeal.

“And now you think,” Dean said, “what? Murphy came back from the dead?”

“I saw him die,” Bazz said. “His identity was confirmed when we bagged him and threw him into that van. He’s dead, no two ways about it, but it’s pretty clear that someone else is killing in his name.”

“O’Neill getting killed could mean anything, Bazz. I mean, you⁠—”

Bazz held up his hands. “Let me finish.”

Dean nodded, sat back, and sealed his lips shut.

“O’Neill,” Bazz started in, “contacted me three weeks ago. He said he learned something about the night that Murphy died.”

“What was it?”

“I have no idea. O’Neill said he wanted to arrange a meet up once he finalized some of the details of the story. He told me that once he put all the pieces together, he was going to send a copy of that information to someone he knew for safekeeping just in case anything happened to either of us.” Bazz took a beat. “And then he called me two nights ago, right before he died. O’Neill was sure that someone was after him, and…well, you know the rest.”

“Did you have any idea what he might have found?” Dean said. “Anything at all?”

“I don’t know, Deano,” Bazz replied. “All I know is that when O’Neill first contacted me, he said I needed to be on the lookout, that someone was coming after us for what we did to Alec Murphy. O’Neill was sure of it. He wanted to tell me the full story, but he was refraining until he could get the full picture.”

“I hate to say it,” Dean sighed, “but don’t you think it’s possible that O’Neill was being paranoid? I mean, you can’t live life like you guys did for so long and not expect to develop a bit of a⁠—”

“John O’Neill is dead, my friend.” Bazz shook his head. “And it wasn’t a stroke that did him in—someone killed O’Neill because of what he learned, and if O’Neill’s right, someone is coming after me next.”

Sifting through the details, Dean felt like he was playing a game of Tetris inside of his head—finding the blocks that fit and putting them in the right place so he could clear the rows before it turned into a traffic jam. “Something doesn’t make sense, Bazzy,” he said. “There’s something I just can’t get past.”

“Then tell me,” Bazz said. “That’s why I’m here—you’re the guy who always manages to uncover the truth.”

Dean narrowed his eyes curiously. “Why you? Why O’Neill? You guys were analysts, so why did the agency task you with taking out Murphy?”

Bazz shrugged. “Not the first time something like that has happened. The agency is…” he sighed, “well, they like to break the rules, to put it simply.”

“I’m aware.” Dean nodded to his phone. “I spent an hour the other day listening to a podcast about their alleged involvement with Charles Manson.”

“Then you know that the agency is unconventional at best when it comes to their methods. Point is, I don’t know why they assigned O’Neill and me to the job. They have their reasons.”

“I don’t buy it.”

“I hate saying that the line of work I was in, the things that I did, were a bit above your paygrade, but that’s the truth.”

“If the agency wanted Murphy dead,” Dean said, “they could have sent any number of wet-work artists to handle it. I know you can handle a weapon, Bazz, but you’re not exactly Chris Kyle.”

“This was post 9/11, Deano,” Bazz replied. “The playbook got thrown out the second those planes hit the towers. The Patriot Act, the black sites—the whole game had changed. Half of us analysts were going through training regiments led by SEAL teams by that point. Everyone was treated like a soldier.”

“Still, Murphy was a contract killer of the highest possible caliber. I don’t understand why⁠—”

“That time has passed,” Bazz cut in. “Here and now, we have to find out what’s going on. We gotta find out who killed O’Neill and why.”

Wondering why O’Neill and Bazz—analysts, not killers—were chosen to take out Murphy was something Dean wanted to continue to ruminate on. But he knew Bazz was right in terms of its level of importance. Maybe it would be of value later, but he had more pressing questions.

“You said O’Neill was sending a package to someone he knew,” Dean said. “Someone that he trusted.”

“His daughter,” Bazz said. “Madeline.” A fondness crept into his tone. “Sweet girl. I met her a handful of times back when John and I were still working at the agency. After the Murphy job, John got promoted. I’m not sure what his position was, but I knew he was traveling more. He was getting better pay, too.”

“Tell me more about Madeline. You said that O’Neill sent her something.”

“Right.” Bazz blinked his eyes a few times. “Maddy. When O’Neill first called me, he said that he was sending something to her in case things went south. He didn’t say what it was, only that it had to do with the night that we killed Alec Murphy.”

“And then O’Neill called you again right before he died and said he sent the package.”

“Correct.”

“So, your next move is to contact Maddy and get your hands on the package.”

“I tried,” Bazz said. “But when I attempted to get ahold of Maddy, her phone was disconnected. The number is no longer listed. Then I used an old contact to run by her place in Colorado Springs to get eyes on her.” The lines in his face tightened into a forlorn expression. “She’s gone. The house is empty, and my contact said all signs point to her having split the premises. Maddy is in the wind, my friend, along with whatever her father sent her.”

A few seconds were chewed up by Dean as he ran his hand across his stubble. He had all of the pieces of the story, everything that had transpired in Bazz’s situation so far—and he was waiting for the next bit, the part where Bazz asked him for his help.

“And you want me,” Dean said, “to take some part in this.”

“It’s pretty simple, my man.” Bazz leaned in. “I want you to come with me to Colorado Springs to try and pick up Maddy’s trail. I’m sure I could do that on my own, but…” he shrugged, “I guess I’m looking for someone to watch my six while I do this. I need backup, someone to spot me.”

“What about your old agency contacts? Can’t you ring up your old people and give them the rundown of the situation?”

“I’ve gotten nothing but static. I spent an hour trying to talk to my old handler, and he thinks I’m chasing ghosts. He told me he’d run it up the flagpole, but he said it in a way that leads me to believe he forgot about the conversation the second he terminated the call.”

Dean took a moment to consider Bazz’s proposal.

The whole point of doing what I do now is to not get involved in things like this anymore.

I can’t risk putting myself into a high-stakes situation again.

I can’t gamble with my life.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Bazz said, hanging his head as held out his hands pleadingly, “and it’s making me sick to my stomach coming to you like this. I know what you had to sacrifice to find some peace in your life. Some stability. I thought long and hard about coming to you for help, but the fact of that matter is that I need it. I need you. I can’t do this on my own, and there’s no one else that I can trust.”

The memory of Dean coming to Bazz’s doorstep when he was in the throes of his addiction, at the end of his rope and asking a stranger—who would end up being one of only two people he trusted with his life at the time—to help him get back on his feet. Had it not been for Bazz, the way Dean saw it, he would have been dead a long time ago.

“I just need you to consider it,” Bazz said. “Take the night to think it through. I’m planning on heading out in the morning to go to Colorado Springs to find Maddy. It won’t be hard to snag you an extra ticket. Just…” he shrugged, “call me bright and early and let me know either way. If you decide it’s too risky, I’ll understand.”

The two men shook hands. Dean then offered for Bazz to crash on the couch, but his buddy declined and said he was staying at a motel close by before he departed the premises. After exchanging a quick embrace, Dean watched his friend amble down the driveway, slip into his rental car, and then take off into the night.

What are you going to do, Deano?

You’ve got a friend in need, and you might be the only one who can help him.

10

It was just after ten that night when Layla strolled into Dean’s office, that same bleary look in her eye that she had anytime Grace was resisting a normal sleep pattern.

She gets that from me.

Pop said I never went down easy.

Dean had his back to Layla as she walked into his office. He didn’t see her walking in, but he knew she was there. He waited to acknowledge his better half’s presence because he wanted to delay landing on a decision with Bazz’s situation, and Dean knew that once Layla brought up the issue, a decision would have to be made.

“Hey,” Layla greeted. “You’re still up.”

Dean turned his chair around.

Nodded.

Then he gestured to the bluetooth speaker beside him softly pumping out “Mr. Telephone Man.”

“Too loud?” Dean said.

“We can hear it in the next room,” Layla replied, “but it actually helped put Grace down. I guess she likes nineties R&B—it worked like a charm.”

Dean flashed a grin. “My sister’s going to love it when I tell her that.”

“Just keep it going. If I can get that kid to stay down longer than twenty minutes, I’ll donate my right arm to science.” Layla inched toward the recliner Bazz had been sitting in earlier, slipped down, and sighed to signal the toll that dealing with a fussy baby for the past couple of hours had taken on her.

Dean tapped his foot to the beat, saying nothing for a few moments as he comfortably shared the silence with the mother of his child.

“So,” Layla finally said, “are you going to tell me what had Bazz all hot and bothered?”

“Yeah.” Dean flexed his brow. “I’ve just been sitting here ruminating on what he told me. Trying to sort it all out.”

“It felt serious based on the thousand-yard stare the guy had in his eyes. He may have fooled everyone else at the table with his late-night talk show performance he was putting on, but he had that same look that you used to get back when you were still running around for Wilson full-time.”

Dean turned toward Layla. He groaned. Then he allowed the floodgates damming up his thoughts to open. “A friend of his,” he said, “an old associate, was murdered two days ago. Long story short, Bazz believes that whoever did it is coming after him next.”

The expression on Layla’s face was similar to that of someone who had been unjustly slapped. She nodded in understanding—but Dean could sense that her anxieties had just kicked into high gear.

“And Bazz,” Layla said, “wants your help in some way.”

“He wants me to go to Colorado Springs with him.”

“Why there?”

“The daughter of the man who was killed allegedly has a package,” Dean said. “That package, from what Bazz told me, contains information regarding a man named Murphy.”

“What’s Bazz’s relationship to this guy?”

Dean took a beat and looked his partner square in the eyes. “Bazz and this friend of his killed a man named Murphy at the request of the CIA back in 2002.”

The whole story that Bazz told was recited by Dean word for word. Every detail. Exactly how Bazz had said it because Dean could recall every word. After the last word slipped out, the hue of Layla’s skin had changed to a shade of ash.

“Jesus,” Layla said. “I knew Bazz dabbled in espionage to some degree, but…I guess I always took him for a guy shaking hands and offering bribes to sheiks or something. I never took him for a hit man.”

“He didn’t actually kill the guy,” Dean said, “but he still had a level of involvement in it.” The story that Bazz told him played back at high speed, to the point that it was on the cusp of triggering a headache. “Bazz thinks that this is all blowing back on him, and he wants me to tag along while he figures it out. He wants someone to watch his back.”

“Not someone.” Layla’s eyes narrowed. “You.”

“Yeah.” Dean turned his head away. “Me.”

A beat passed, and nothing but the sounds of New Edition held sway.

“Okay,” Layla said. “Tell me where your head is.”

“A friend of mine needs help,” Dean said. “And he thinks I’m the only person that can help him. Bazz helped get me back on my feet back when I was a hot mess, putting it lightly, and he’s asking me to return the favor, even though he didn’t state it outright.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

“This is a partnership, Layla.” Dean fixed his gaze to his better half. “I can’t make a decision on my own—you have an equal say in this.”

“You know that I’ve never been a person to tell you what to do with your life.”

“It’s not just my life anymore. It’s yours and mine and Grace’s and Jeremy’s and everyone else’s. The game changed when we linked up. Then it changed again when I walked away from the FBI, and it changed yet again the second that we had Grace.”

Layla wrung her fingers and bit her lower lip, Dean sensing that the wheels in her head were spinning to the point that they might fall off. “A friend needs help,” she said, “someone you care about. Someone that I hold in high regard because of how he helped you all those years ago. If Bazz needs help, there must be something you can do.”

“It’s not that simple,” Dean said. “Bazz is asking me to thrust myself into a situation not unlike the ones that I spent all this past year trying to distance myself from. If I agree to do this, I’m potentially opening a door that you and I invested a lot of time and sweat equity into closing for good.”

“I know.” Layla sat back and traced her fingers along the chair’s arm. “I think I’m just trying to find middle ground here, some way of you helping Bazz that won’t put you on the front lines.”

A chuckle slipped out of Dean. “This thing sounds like something that requires boots being on the ground, Layla. Like Bazz said, he needs someone to watch his back. He needs someone there with him.”

“I’m sure you’ve spent the last couple of hours analyzing the risks.”

“I have.”

“So, what does your gut tell you about the chances of this thing turning into a situation that would require you to pull out your sidearm, for lack of a better way of putting it?”

Dean did the math in his head. “Fifty-fifty,” he said. “Since that might be the case, I should walk. I should tell Bazz I can’t help him. The flip-side of that coin is that there’s also a fifty-fifty chance that he might get hurt, and I’ll have to spend the rest of my life wondering if there was anything that I could have done to prevent that.”

The obvious, no-brainer questions were asked by Layla in reply:

Can’t Bazz’s old contacts help him?

Why can’t the CIA get involved?

Why can’t someone else assist in this ordeal?

Dean answered by telling Layla exactly what Bazz told him—that no one else had Bazz’s back, that everyone at the agency Bazz spoke to chalked up his situation to nothing more than the hare-brained, paranoid ideations of a spy from a bygone era.

“There’s no one else,” Dean said. “No one wants to help Bazz. He thinks, and I’m inclined to believe him, that I’m the only one he has that can help him out.”

A moment passed. Then Layla stood, padded her bare feet over Dean, and slid her hands gently over his shoulders. “It would be easy for me to say, ‘Go and help your friend. Do what you have to do.’”

“But we’ve been down that road before,” Dean said. “On more than one occasion.” He turned his head up and looked at Layla. “And every time we’ve done that, the end result is always the same.”

“So,” Layla said, “Sophie’s Choice.”

“I guess.” Dean crossed his arms. “I never saw the movie.”

Layla turned Dean’s chair around. She sat in his lap. Then she draped her arm around his neck and stared at the ceiling as though it could provide her with some clarity. “Whatever decision you make⁠—”

“We make.”

“Well, whatever decision we make is riddled with pros and cons here. You do this, there’s a potential for walking into a dangerous situation. If you don’t do this and something bad happens,” Layla shrugged, “well, it’s like you said: you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering if there was some way you could have prevented something bad from happening.”

Every moment and memory in Dean’s life, all of the good choices, the bad ones, the pleasant ones, and the terrible ones, pirouetted in his mind like a carnival carousel. Recollections that were added on like more horses into a stable year after year, day after day, and recalled with vivid clarity every moment of his life. In the past year, Dean’s memories had been more pleasant. Very few dire thoughts had been added to the ride, and that was the point.

Do I want to add another round of danger to the mix?

Is it inevitable?

Christ, what the hell do I do?

Dean’s shoulders felt burdened under the weight of the stress that Bazz had put on him. “I spent so long trying to find peace,” he said. “For both of us. I was worried that I was cursed, like I could never get away from the danger, especially after that thing last year.”

It was a memory Dean (and Layla) had spent months trying to not dwell on. Dean had been tasked with taking the arch criminal Richard Keys across state lines, an ordeal that resulted in the deaths of numerous law enforcement officials, and one that nearly saw Dean killed in the process. Meanwhile—and thanks to Layla’s footwork—she also solved a decades-old missing person case that, much to everyone’s shock, had involved Richard Keys. When the case drew to an end, Dean took it as his cue to turn his back on his old life. Layla had reaped the benefits of a career boost because of her efforts, and the positives that the two of them had taken away from the situation were plentiful: they had a better life, financial stability, a new child that brought about the commencement of their new family unit—but the second that Dean heard Bazz knock on his front door and ask for his help, he felt like all of that had been jeopardized.

“I don’t know,” Dean said as he felt like his chest was caving in. “I don’t know what to do, babe.” He looked at Layla pleadingly. “If I do get involved in this, if I agree to help Bazz and something happens,” he took a breath, “what does that mean for us?”

Time passed, Dean wasn’t sure how much, as Layla came up with a reply. “I think you have to help him,” she finally said. “But you have to agree to do it with stipulations attached. You have to agree to walk away the second you know that your life is in danger or you run the risk of bringing whatever is going on with all of this back home. You’re right that we can’t jeopardize what we have now. Our family. We can’t run the risk of destroying that. But we also can never account for the unpredictable events that unfold in this world. Sometimes things are just…” she shrugged, “well, they’re just unavoidable.”

“Kind of a conundrum.”

“That’s how it goes, sweetie. Nothing’s ever perfect.” Layla kissed Dean on the cheek. “You know that better than anyone.”

More time passed as Dean started to see his decision come into focus.

I have to help my friend…but the moment I know that this will touch my life, my family, in a way that can never be reversed, I walk.

Dean pulled Layla in close and nestled his face in the crook of her neck. “I don’t want to lose you,” he said. “I don’t want to lose my family.”

“Just be smart,” she replied. “Be mindful. Listen to your instincts. Don’t allow yourself to be triggered by something you know that you can’t walk away from. I know you, Dean. I know that when you’re at a crossroads, when you have the choice between letting something go or letting someone get away with doing something bad, you choose to bring that person to justice. Even if it means taking a gamble on your own life. That’s my stipulation with all of this. If there’s anything that will lead me to thinking twice about things, it’s that.”

Dean looked at Layla. He nodded. He didn’t need to agree to her demands because the look in his eyes said it all.

“Help your friend,” Layla said. “Help him and come back home. We’ll be waiting for you. And don’t forget what I said. It’s the only thing that I ask of you.”

Dean agreed. He shut off the Bluetooth. Then Layla led him by the hand to the bedroom. The two then sank into the soft bed sheets. They said nothing as Layla drifted off to sleep, but slumber evaded Dean for the remainder of the night. He stayed awake, watching his baby girl in the crib beside their bed, seeing everything he had fought so hard for sleeping soundly and peacefully. She was relying on her father to make sure that her innocence and stability would never be compromised.

Dean closed his eyes.

Sleep now.

Help Bazz in the morning.

Do what needs to be done and get your ass back home.

11

WILMINGTON, NORTH CAROLINA

Aseventy-two stroke par, of course. The moment after Roy Ellis tallied the score and tripled-checked that it was accurate, a sense of pride swelled in his chest. Took three years of his retirement to get to that point, and he decided to celebrate by having a single beer—no more than one—at The Pour House once he packed his clubs in the trunk of his BMW. Even the bartender asked what was causing Roy to beam so proudly, and Roy couldn’t help but break the news. Becoming a scratch golfer with a zero handicap took three years of focus (1,095 days, 26,280 hours based on the quick math he did in his head), and it finally paid off.

“Life’s just peachy, Mike,” Roy said to the bartender as he held up his Blonde Ale in a toast. “Simple as that.”

After Roy threw the last of his beer back, he offered his thanks by tipping Michael a crisp twenty, wiped down the counter with his napkin—along with the rim of his glass—and opted for the longer route home so he could savor the sunshine and crisp breeze that complemented his stellar day.

A half-mile away from his home, Roy switched on the radio, scanned the stations, and landed on Janis Joplin’s cover of “Why Don’t You Look Into Jesus?” He turned up the volume to fifty-eight—exactly—on the dial. He tapped his finger on the steering wheel. His lips bowed up into a smirk. Then he glanced at himself and thought, for the first time, that his gray hair didn’t make him look old—it made him look refined. Like Roy told Michael, life was good at the moment. Everything for him was glass-half-full, and Roy wanted to embrace it for as long as it would last. As the outro of the song played out, Roy pulled his BMW into the driveway that stretched up to the front of his house, saw his daughter’s Fiat parked near the garage, and grinned.

Moment of the hour.

Finally get to lay eyes on this guy of hers.

Roy engaged the parking brake, slipped out of the car, and once he made sure that he was parked exactly six feet away from Taylor’s Fiat, he fished out his house keys, jiggled them three times as he always did before he unfastened the door locks, and then tapped his knuckles twice on the front door to announce his presence before he stepped over the threshold.

“I’m home!”

A congregation of laughter drowned out Roy’s voice as he stepped inside. Laughter was always abundant in his two-story castle no matter what the time of day was. More than one person was always home, the acoustics in his household making it seem like a festive, Yuletide-worthy event was perpetually going on. As Roy puffed his chest proudly and placed his house keys down on the dish on the table in the foyer—he placed them perfectly in the center of the dish—he heard Taylor holler out “Daddy!” before he picked up on her bare feet scrambling into the room.

Roy laid eyes on his daughter, Taylor, laughed, and opened his arms wide for an embrace. Taylor leaped in his arms, and even though Roy was sixty-three years old, his sinewy build and near-flawless skin led those who didn’t know him to think he was ten years younger.

“Tay Tay,” Roy said as he squeezed his daughter, broke the embrace, and cupped her face in his hands. “Let me get a look at you.”

Taylor struck a pose like she was on a catwalk, hamming it up—she always had a taste for the theatrical, hence why she went in for a liberal arts degree—before asking her father if her arduous training for the Boston Marathon was showing.

“You look just like your mother back when she did it,” Roy said. “Skinny but not too skinny.”

“I love it,” Taylor said, her smile so wide that Roy figured if it got any bigger, it would tickle her earlobes. “That runner’s high thing they talk about is no joke.”

As Taylor regaled Roy about her life in Boston, Melissa Ellis entered the room. It didn’t matter to Roy how long they’d been married. Her grace, her beauty, and her soft-spoken elegance always gave Roy the feeling that every time he laid eyes on her felt like the first.

“Sweetheart,” Melissa greeted him as she planted a soft peck on Roy’s cheek. “How’d it go?”

Roy couldn’t refrain from publicizing his milestone moment on the golf course, his family listening dutifully and offering their praises as Roy went on and on about how long it took and just how proud he was.

“Good job, Daddy!” Taylor said as she hugged him once again. “Maybe…” she flexed her brow mischievously, “we should go to Ruth’s Chris Steak House. We gotta celebrate.”

Melissa chuckled. “Don’t piggyback on your daddy’s good day by trying to shoehorn in dinner at Ruth’s.”

The family bickered playfully for a few moments, Roy relishing every moment before he craned his neck and cast a glance toward the kitchen that measured roughly the size of a studio apartment.

“So,” Roy said, “are you going to keep me in suspense? Where is he?”

A giddy Taylor took her father by the hand, led him to the backyard—five-thousand square feet, manicured, flawless—where Taylor’s fiancé, Adam, was in the throes of taking the tennis ball out of the jowls of the Ellis family’s retriever, Bucky. When Taylor called out to Adam, he turned, waved, mumbled something to Bucky, and then stuck out his hand to Roy.

“Mr. Ellis,” he said. “It’s great to finally meet you.”

Roy took a quick appraisal of the young man. He was tall. Athletic. Clearly hailed from good genetics based on his complexion and million-dollar smile and carried himself like a kid who was raised in a wealthy environment.

Roy shook the young man’s hand.

So far, so good.

The family headed inside. Plans for Ruth’s Chris Steak House were finally approved after six requests—Roy counted them—from Taylor, and before they headed out, Roy insisted that Adam ride shotgun to get better acquainted with him. Once they arrived at the restaurant, Roy spent the first few minutes getting to know the man that was keen to take his daughter’s hand in marriage.

The food was divine. The conversation was bustling. Every second that the family shared together—8,520 by Roy’s count—was relished and savored even more than the four hundred dollars that Roy dropped on the bill. By the time the family got home, decaf coffee was poured, and Roy checked his watch and considered staying up an additional hour past his bedtime.

Then his cell phone buzzed.

Roy checked the display.

The caller ID read “DALLAS,” and the text that was sent said “Need to talk,” which prompted Roy to tell his family that he needed to head downstairs to speak to an old client. The family told Roy to hurry back before they continued on with their lively discussion about the new Christopher Nolan movie they had tickets for the following day. As soon as Roy turned the corner and arrived at the door to the basement, he shed his smile, narrowed his eyes, opened the door, and proceeded to lock it behind him before he headed downstairs.

Roy clicked on the lights at his workbench.

He pulled out the rolling chair—exactly four inches—and sat.

He threw a look toward the door.

Made sure everything was quiet. Then he pulled out his cell, texted the unknown number, Ready, and waited for it to ring. Exactly twenty seconds later, it did, and Roy—all sense of levity in his tone vacant—answered with a simple, “Go.”

“Is your line secure?” Dallas said, a name that Roy had come to know well even though he was pretty sure it was some bogus alias created to maintain anonymity.

Roy nodded. “Secured.”

“I need you to go on the move again.”

A sickly sensation settled in the pit of Roy’s stomach.

He closed his eyes.

Then he leaned back in his chair, shook his head, and said, “Why?”

“People are looking for Alec Murphy, Ellis,” Dallas said. “And he needs to stay buried.”

“He’s dead,” Roy assured the caller. “He’s been dead and buried for twenty years.”

“Well,” Dallas said, “he left a calling card on John O’Neill’s body. Turns out he was shot. And his throat was slashed for good measure. Last I checked, that was Murphy’s MO—the ‘Sweeney Todd,’ I believed he called it.”

It felt like flies were buzzing in Roy’s head.

Murphy is dead.

You killed him.

He’s dead and gone and nothing more than dust in the wind.

He tamped down the urge to vomit.

But is he really?

Roy traced his finger along his back where the jagged scar to the left of the nape of his neck was. His wife and daughter were under the impression that it was from a childhood bike accident, but Roy could still remember the true story like it was yesterday. He could still feel the heat of the bullet drilling into his back and⁠—

“Ellis,” Dallas said. “Snap out of it.”

The muscles in Roy’s jaw tensed. “Who’s the target?”

“Clifford Bazz,” Dallas said. “And Madeline O’Neill. Those names ring a bell?”

“They don’t.”

“They shouldn’t—I just need you to take care of them.”

“I want to do this quickly.” Roy cast a glance toward the stairs that led back up to his family. “I have obligations to tend to.”

“Shitcan the subtleties,” Dallas said. “Unless we put a lid on this thing quickly, it’ll be the last soiree you’ll ever spend with that family of yours, Roy. We’ve got another problem.”

Roy closed his eyes. “Explain.”

“Madeline O’Neill is John O’Neill’s daughter. I didn’t think O’Neill would be dumb enough to drag her into this, but he did. I got word from my source on the ground from some cell intercepts he made that O’Neill sent her a package.”

“What did he send her?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dallas said. “I just need you to get your hands on it and destroy it.”

Intelligence.

Roy stroked his upper lip curiously.

Facts.

Documents.

The truth.

“Where?” Roy said. “I need an address. Something in the way of intel so I can plan accordingly.” He didn’t bother grabbing a pen—he didn’t need it.

“I’ll forward you the details as soon as we hop off,” the caller said. “And I’m working on getting a line on Bazz. All I need you to do is be ready as soon as I float the intel your way. Move fast once you get it. I need Bazz and O’Neill’s daughter out of the picture as soon as possible. The sooner, the better.”

Roy shook his head.

As soon as possible.

How droll.

How on-the-nose.

“Alright,” Roy said. “I’ll take care of it.”

“I know you will,” Dallas replied. “You’ve got no other choice.”

Roy’s thoughts drifted to his family upstairs, the soft hum of their laughter faintly audible from where he was sitting. None of them had the slightest clue what he had done, who he was before, so many years ago. Far as they knew—as far as anyone knew—he was Roy Ellis, retired hedge fund manager turned gold aficionado who spent his days tending to the lawn, throwing back Arnold Palmers, and living off a pension. His family’s safety was one thing—but shielding them from the truth, of who he really was and the terrible things he had done, was far more important. Keeping them alive, even if Roy succeeded—and damn it, he would—would mean nothing if they were forced to live with the revelations of who Roy really was.

“Roy,” Dallas said. “You following me?”

Roy held his head high. “I want assurances.”

“Such as?”

“Compensation. I want to know that when this is finished, I’ll be rewarded for my time.”

Dallas’s guffaw cut through Roy’s phone. “I set it up so that your clan over there in Wilmington would be living off generational wealth for a millennia. Money hasn’t been an issue for you since I got you out of this game.”

Roy shook his head. “I don’t want cash.”

“Then what is it?”

“I’m killing for you again, sir,” Roy said. “I dusted off my old skill sets and engaged in a trade I’ve long-since abandoned.”

“Not for me,” Dallas said. “For us. And you did it to secure your anonymity. You did it to make sure that what I did to get you out would never get out into the open. This isn’t just for me, my friend, and don’t fool yourself into thinking otherwise.”

“Regardless,” Roy switched the phone to his other ear, “when this is finished, I want every trace of my old alias swept clean off every known database—CIA, NSA, ATF, FBI, Interpol—every single last one. I don’t even want the memory of who I was to be floating in the ether.”

Dallas took a beat. “You’re not here to make demands—you’re here to do what needs to be done. Just finish the job, pack it in, and go back to sipping beers and ogling that seventy-two stroke score of yours.”

Roy blinked his eyes.

He’s always watching.

No matter how long it’s been.

“Forward me the intel as soon as possible,” he said. “The moment I have it, I’ll close this all out in a seventy-two-hour window.”

“Good,” Dallas said. “Because the last thing we need is old contacts or lookie-loos trying to find Alec Murphy. He’s dead. You killed him…or do you not remember?”

Roy remembered putting Murphy six feet underground. Hell, when he really thought about it, he didn’t really bury him—he’d murdered him, dismembered the corpse, and incinerated it.

Perhaps the fact that Roy knew Murphy as well as he did, that he was so close to Murphy for so long that some of Murphy’s character traits—flaws and all—had rubbed off on him even after all of these years.

Why did I do that?

I could’ve done without the whole Sweeney Todd element.

That was a bullheaded move.

A Murphy move.

Roy rubbed his temple with the palm of his hand.

It’s been too long.

I’ve gotten sloppy.

I’ve forgotten that some of my skills are perishable.

“Finish this,” Dallas said. “And do it quickly. I’ll get back to you soon.”

The call was terminated.

Roy pocketed his phone.

He took a moment to breathe, think, and redonned his jovial expression he had put on display and then headed upstairs to be with his family. As soon as he returned to the table—his family’s laughter and joy still as palpable as it was when he left them minutes before—Roy’s wife asked if all was well.

“Most definitely,” Roy assured her. “Just an old client asking about an old account. Tax stuff.”

“Which client?”

“Peter Santino,” Roy lied.

“How is Peter?”

“He’s well.” Roy leaned in close to Melissa’s ear. “It turns out he’s having some trouble with a trust I helped him with back in ‘02. Lots of files that need sifting through. He asked if it would be feasible for me to head to Martha’s Vineyard for the weekend to help him look into it.”

Melissa’s smile dissolved. “Goodness, really? We have the kids here until tomorrow.”

“I’ll go after,” Roy assured her. “And Peter is going to pay for the effort. Just seventy-two hours, that’s all.”

It took his wife a moment to nod, pat Roy’s hand, and then look at him approvingly. “Of course, darling,” she said. “Just don’t be long.”

“I won’t. I’ll be back before you know it.”

They kissed.

Roy turned his focus back on his family.

Taylor asked if they could play Scrabble to see how her fiancé Adam would fare, a proposal that triggered Roy’s lips to quirk up into a grin.

12

When Dean awoke the next morning he intended to spend as much time with his family as humanly possible. He wanted to savor his time with Grace and Layla, snapshotting every moment for his Home Movie Collection with the hope of dragging each second on as long as possible—but the quality tune didn’t last long.

Once Dean confirmed with Bazz that he’d be tagging along ten minutes after he got up, he only had an hour to pack his bags and help Layla with feeding Grace. By the time that was finished, the alarm on his G-Shock chirped to life. The second it did, his and Layla’s smiles disappeared.

Dean grabbed his bags.

Kissed Grace goodbye, and told her that he would be home soon.

Then he was escorted out by Layla as she held their daughter in her arms.

“Check in when you can,” Layla said as Dean made his way down the driveway, the Uber waiting for him a few paces away. “As soon as you can.”

“I’ll call as often as I can,” Dean said as the Uber driver popped the trunk. “More often than not.”

After the driver assisted Dean with his bags, he slipped behind the wheel. Then Dean tamped down his anxieties as he held the love of his life and their baby girl in a collective embrace.

“Remember what I said,” Layla whispered into his ear. “Think. Be mindful. If you know you have to turn around and walk away—turn around and walk away.”

Dean nodded.

He kissed her on the cheek.

Forty minutes later, he strolled through the Southwest terminal at the Burbank airport where a sleep-deprived Bazz—Dean could see it in his eyes—greeted him with outstretched arms.

“This means the world to me, Deano,” Bazz said. “I can’t thank you enough.”

All Dean could summon in reply was a tight-lipped grin. After grabbing and then swiftly downing a cup of coffee—the nine-dollar price tag for a large made Dean bat an eye—he and Bazz lingered near their departure gate. The plane to Colorado was twenty minutes shy of boarding the passengers, so Dean decided to dive into Bazz’s case to wait out the time. The way he saw it, the quicker they worked, the quicker he could return home.

“Madeline O’Neill,” Dean said. “Tell me everything.”

Bazz lowered his voice to a hush. “Thirty-five. She’s lived in Colorado Springs for the past two years. Graduated from UCLA with a bachelors in business administration. She’s worked for a couple nonprofits. The past year, she’s been working for an EV company called Currus. The company’s trying to jockey ahead of Tesla, GM, Rivian—all of them. They’re trying to capitalize off some vehicle they mocked up that requires less frequent charging, something like that.”

Dean furrowed his brow. “Currus. That’s Latin for ‘cars,’ roughly, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Bazz snickered. “Points to you for retention. Anyway, aside from Maddy’s job at this EV company, she dabbles in selling clothes online on Etsy. Her gimmick, if we have to call it anything, is reselling used items for something called ‘sustainable fashion.’ The idea is to cut down on the carbon emissions that are caused by clothing manufacturing.”

“So, she’s an idealist.”

“A stark contrast to her old man. But that’s no surprise.” Bazz glanced over his shoulder at the people filtering through the terminal with a suspicious glint in his eye. “John was about as conservative as they get. He voted Republican every year since he registered. It was only natural that his daughter went against the grain.”

“Like Michael J. Fox’s character in Family Ties,” Dean remarked. “Kids always go against their parents.”

“Not like you, Deano.” Bazz winked. “You followed pretty closely in your pop’s footsteps. One generation of law enforcement bred another.”

And if I have it my way, Jeremy will become a priest.

“Tell me about Maddy’s movements before she disappeared,” Dean said. “We need to piece together a timeline here.”

Bazz nodded. “John contacted me three weeks ago for the first time. Then he contacted me right before he died, the night of his murder. I can’t say for sure when he got in touch with Maddy. The only solid information I’ve got in terms of a timeline is that he said he sent this package to her at some point between the three weeks that passed since his last message.”

“You said that you had someone run by Maddy’s residence,” Dean said. “Who?”

“An old CIA spook like me that lives in Denver named Clark Dillon. He runs a private security firm out of Denver. He did me the favor of rolling through Maddy’s neck of the woods to see if she was there.”

“Did he enter the house?”

Bazz shook his head. “He poked his head in through the windows, but he said it was empty. Cabinets in the kitchen were open, too. When Dillon moved around the back, he peeked in through the back window and said it looked like the place had been cleared out.”

“What about something in the way of cell intercepts?” Dean asked. “Do you have Maddy’s number? A way to get in touch with her?”

“No, unfortunately.” Bazz sighed. “I think John was trying to make sure that Maddy wasn’t compromised after he sent that package. He wanted to keep her safe. I think John wanted to make sure that no one, not even me, could get in touch with her.”

“Then how do we know for sure that she’s gone?” Dean shrugged. “She could’ve moved.”

“Well,” his buddy held up a finger, “Dillon did a little more digging for me back at his private security firm. He managed to get a line on Maddy’s cell phone.”

“Let me guess: it’s disconnected.”

“Right so far.” Bazz shifted his weight. “And Dillon also managed to find out that Maddy booked a one-way ticket for Amsterdam the day before Dillon rolled by her place, a red-eye that left from LAX.”

“You think she was on that flight?”

“Dillon scoured the flight records for me. It was the last thing he did before he told me he needed to walk away. He’s worried about old contacts at the agency asking him questions.” Bazz flexed his brow. “Believe me, I get it.” He swiped his hand through the air. “Anyway, Dillon managed to scour through the flight manifest and checked the security feed from the terminal where Maddy’s flight was supposed to leave from—she never got on the plane, Deano.”

“So, she’s somewhere else,” Dean said. “And we have to assume that she has this package that her father sent with her.”

“The question is where,” Bazz said. “And I’m shit out of luck in terms of people that can help me, aside from you, that is.”

“You think she left a clue? Something in the way of a flag or message she might’ve sent to John to indicate her whereabouts?”

“Not if Maddy is abiding by the tenets that John taught her, and if Maddy is operating by the same playbook that John and I used to, she’s somewhere that no one could find her.”

Dean sat back, narrowed his eyes, and poked at the stubble on his upper lip.

She’s hiding.

Scared.

Unsure.

Hell, she probably doesn’t even know that her father is dead.

“So,” Dean said, “we roll by her place in Colorado Springs. We look through the house, see what we can find, and then we go from there.”

“The goal is that package she’s got,” Bazz said. “If we can learn what John learned, if we can put eyes on whatever he sent Maddy, it’ll be enough to go to the proper authorities and bring an end to this thing.”

“You mean go to your old chums at Langley? If there’s something in that package that Maddy has, something substantial enough for someone at the agency to not write you off…”

An exasperated exhale slipped out of Bazz. “Maybe,” he said. “The only issue is that we don’t know what John learned. Whatever it is, we can be sure that it might cause a lot of strife for people who were or still are working for the US Government.”

Dean chewed on his lip.

If that’s the case, that’s a problem.

If there’s some kind of a sordid secret that the CIA covered up, something that they used Bazz and O’Neill as patsies to assist in, then the last thing I need is to be caught up in it.

“Again,” Bazz said, “I owe you damn near everything I’ve got for helping me do this, Deano. I knew I could rely on you.”

Saying to Bazz that he was ready to pull the ripcord on his backup chute the moment things went sideways was a thought Dean kept to himself. He wanted to be there for his friend, to help him in any way possible, but the risks were all too apparent now. If push came to shove, Dean would walk—but then what Layla said before he left returned to his mind.

“I know you, Dean,” he could hear Layla whisper. She’d gone on to remind him of his habit of not letting things go, even if it put him in harm’s way.

Don’t give into that way of thinking anymore, Blackwood.

You can’t afford to.

Don’t let your sense of getting justice by any means possible cloud your judgment.

The announcement came that it was time to board. Forty minutes later, the plane was taxiing on the runway. As Dean stared out the window and felt the 747 speed up and ascend toward the heavens, he observed his home town below him, his safety net, the place where everything he knew and loved was waiting, became concealed by clouds.

13

It amazed Dan Bolton that malls were still a thing. After Amazon stepped in and took over damn near everything, making it easy for people to just buy things from their phone, Bolton figured malls would have been razed into parking lots. They were relics of the past, structures paying tribute to an antiquated era of American life.

Hell, Bolton shook his head as he approached the bench outside of the Foot Locker, some people say the same about you, Danny.

Bolton plopped down onto the bench. After taking a scan of the mall and the patrons that sluggishly threaded their way through it—just a handful here and there, Bolton tallied—he shrugged off his Members Only jacket, placed it on the bench, and winced as he heard “Angel of the Morning” by Juice Newton seep out of the unseen speakers throughout the mall.

God almighty. Even the music here is ancient.

A few minutes passed. Bolton glanced at his jacket, the bulge from the Walther PPK stuffed into the pocket visible. He draped one arm of the jacket over to conceal it, chiding himself for being so lazy before he went about checking the time on his gold Rolex—a knockoff retirement gift paid for by the taxpayers.

Leave it to the VIPs to take their sweet-ass time. Bolton tapped the face of the watch. Every goddamn time.

A man approached from thirty meters on Bolton’s right. He wore a dark suit—expensive but not flashy. The guy wearing it was six-foot-one when Bolton made him out, and it triggered Bolton to slide his palm over his face to hide his grin because he was sure the guy walking up to him had shrunk an inch since the last time he saw him.

Pressures of the job are getting to him. That’s how it goes. Bolton glanced down at his paunch and then scratched the balding patch on the back of his head. Look what it did to me.

The man in the suit sat down beside Bolton. He kept his eyes pointed straight ahead at the Foot Locker. After he checked his phone, he sighed, crossed one leg over the other—figure-four leg lock like a man in power would—and then proceeded to speak.

“What do you know?”

“You couldn’t pick a Denny’s, Fournier?” Bolton huffed. “A diner? Somewhere where I could sit and sip on something while you waste my time?”

Phillip Fournier shot his cuffs as the lines in his face slackened into an exasperated scowl. “I stepped out of a meeting with the Joint Chiefs to be here, Danny. Time is limited and so is my patience.” He fixed his eyes to Bolton. “What do you know?”

Bolton shrugged. “All I know is that you rang me up last night uttering Alec Murphy’s name like it was still relevant.”

“I wouldn’t have mentioned it if the matter wasn’t pressing.”

“Explain.”

The deputy director of the CIA’s famous (or notorious, depending on one’s point of view) Clandestine Service glanced to his left. Then he did the same on his right. After he took a beat, he picked at his fingernails.

“John O’Neill,” Fournier said, “was killed seventy-two hours ago in Hawaii at his residence.”

“Shame,” Bolton replied. “He was a good man.”

“Never had the pleasure of meeting him. All I knew about him was what was reflected in his file. A stellar agent, according to what you wrote, an exemplary member of the agency who personified the notion of patriotism.”

Bolton squinted. “If we’re here to talk about how highly I thought of John O’Neill, you could’ve just sent a sympathy card in the mail.”

“John O’Neill was murdered, Danny,” Fournier said. “And there was something one of our analysts flagged on the murder report from Honolulu PD.”

Bolton’s interest was piqued. “And what would that be?”

“He was shot in the back of the head,” Fournier said. “Then his throat was slit. Last I checked,” his eyes glinted, “that was an old calling card from your pal Alec Murphy.” He cocked his head slightly to the side. “Was it not?”

Bolton cleared his throat. Hearing the name “Alec Murphy,” even after all of these years, still got a rise out of him. “You were keeping tabs on John O’Neill?”

“We keep tabs on all of our people,” Fournier said. “Anyone with security clearances as high as the ones you and O’Neill had are always being monitored.”

“I’m more than familiar with protocol,” Bolton said with a bite in his tone. “Hell, I helped you guys refine the procedures.”

“Then you know that when a former member of the agency is murdered, we’re aware of it. We have our people look into it to make sure that the circumstances surrounding it have nothing to do with,” Fournier took a moment, “well, anything they may have done or said or been involved with on behalf of the agency back when they were still on the payroll. Point being,” he inched closer to Bolton, “my people learning that John O’Neill was killed in the signature way of an old asset of ours is enough of a reason for me to check in with you.”

A teenage couple walked past the bench, giggling and smiling and giving Bolton a moment to organize his thoughts. As soon as the couple passed by, Bolton smoothed the wrinkles in his polo shirt, grazed his beer gut with his fingertips, and thought that maybe he should start running again.

“Bolton,” Fournier said. “Are you part of this conversation or not?”

Bolton shrugged. “John O’Neill getting killed is tough luck,” he said. “Only because he was one of the brightest men I ever had the pleasure of working with. As for the circumstances surrounding his murder, they could mean anything. Plenty of people have had their throat slit over the years.”

“True.” The CIA head honcho dropped his gaze. “But it still tickles one’s curiosity.”

“Yours or the agency’s?”

“Let’s be real here, Danny.” Fournier pointed his finger. “You trained Alec Murphy. You were one of the people who helped get the program he was a part of on its feet. He learned that little, what’s it called, ‘Sweeney Todd’ bit, from you. That was something you picked up back when you were in the Far East, right? Something you used to do to those VC POWs you rounded up for the agency back when⁠—”

“You seem to know everything, Phil.” Bolton shot Fournier a look, his time in Vietnam something he didn’t care to revisit. “So do me a favor and cut through the bullshit—what are you looking to get out of this conversation?”

Fournier huffed.

Smoothed his tie.

Then he sat up straight and shook his head like he was trying to tutor a kid with a low IQ in trigonometry. “Intelligence is a matter of math, Danny,” he said. “We collate and quantify what we gather and try to determine what it all means, and we’re good at it.”

“Don’t patronize me, kid.” Bolton jammed his thumb into his chest. “I was dodging bullets in Khe Sahn back when you were just an itch in your daddy’s pants.”

“You’re a relic.” Fournier did a scan of Bolton’s portly and ashy appearance. “I get it. That’s why I wanted to give you a refresher about how things work over at the agency. Hell,” he laughed, “you were lucky you managed to stay on, back when Bush the second was still running things.” He winced. “Well, we know who was really running things, but you get the picture.”

“Say what you’re going to say,” Bolton said as he nodded toward the exits, “or I walk.”

“Fair enough.” Fournier smoothed his tie again. “John O’Neill’s murder has triggered interest—interest, but not concern.” He held up a finger. “But the fact that another agency member of ours, Clifford Bazz, made contact with Arthur Greene two days before he died also has us wondering.”

“Why’s that?”

“Greene was an old case officer of ours, as you know. Two days before John O’Neill died, Bazz called up Greene asking questions about Alec Murphy. I mean,” he shrugged, “that’s no coincidence, Danny. Bazz calls Greene two days before some guy puts a bullet in O’Neill?”

Bolton’s eyes widened. “Bazz?” he said. “He hasn’t worked for the agency in years. When he walked, he walked as far away from the job as humanly possible.”

“He hasn’t, apparently.”

“What did Bazz say to Greene?”

“Well, according to Greene, Bazz was trying to get in touch with you through him,” Fournier said. “You made it a point to drop off the map after you left the agency, so getting in contact with you is damn near impossible.” He flashed a smirk. “Unless you’re someone like me, that is.”

“Cut the shit,” Bolton said. “Tell me what Bazz told Greene.”

“Bazz said that John O’Neill had told him that he had information that Alec Murphy was still alive. After O’Neill told that to Bazz, Bazz tried to call Greene to get in touch with you, being that you were the one who tasked Bazz and O’Neill to take out Murphy. Greene told Bazz that he and O’Neill were barking up the wrong tree, and he stonewalled Bazz when Bazz pressed him to get in touch with you.”

“Because it’s bullshit. Greene made the right call.”

“Is Bazz someone you take for chasing down false leads? The kind of guy who gets all worked up over rumors?”

“Not while we were working together, no.”

Fournier shrugged. “So what got him so riled up? Again, the events that have taken place in the last several days are enough to require us to have this conversation. Between O’Neill’s murder and Bazz’s inquiries…well, it’s substantial enough to ask an old warhorse like yourself what you think is going on.”

Bolton’s eyes narrowed. “Sounds more like an accusation than anything else.”

Fournier shrugged. “Pick one.”

Bolton took a beat. “I don’t know,” he said as he shook his head submissively. “I really don’t. Alec Murphy has been dead for twenty years. We confirmed this.”

“You ran the operation that was greenlit to take him out. Correct?”

“You know I did.”

“Pretend like I don’t.”

Bolton clenched his jaw muscles. “It was 2002. Murphy had gone rogue. We couldn’t find him. We had to set up a trap to lure him in. It worked. Once we had a line on Murphy, O’Neill and Bazz were assigned to take Murphy out—and they did.”

Skepticism flinted in Fournier’s eyes. “Why did you use a pair of analysts to do the job?”

“Because Murphy never officially worked for us. He was part of a program we burned to the ground decades ago. Like I said, Murphy went rogue. We couldn’t put the leash back on him, and because Murphy going AWOL ran the risk of exposing black operations we had in place, I decided to use people other than the regular triggermen to get the job done.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you used O’Neill and Bazz for the job.”

“Because Murphy knew most of the players,” Bolton said. “If I sent one of my regular wet-work artists to take him out, he would have spotted them. I chose O’Neill and Bazz because they were analysts—Murphy wouldn’t know who they were. He would have never seen them coming. That was the whole idea, and the ruse was successful.”

“A bit sloppy, if you’re asking me,” Fournier said. “But I suppose you accomplished what you set out to, nevertheless.”

“Murphy is dead.” Bolton shifted his weight. “I’m sure of it. And just because John O’Neill was murdered the way that Murphy used to pop off people means nothing. As for Cliff Bazz asking questions: he caught wind that O’Neill was killed and started spinning out on it. You know how it goes with some guys. The story is not new. Some of them have a hard time shaking loose the paranoia after years in the trade.”

“I know.” Fournier winked at Bolton. “Believe me.”

“This is nothing more than chance, Phil,” Bolton insisted. “That’s all. Alec Murphy is dead. O’Neill was the victim of a home invasion, and Cliff Bazz is just feeding his own paranoia. I’m willing to stake my pension on it.”

A moment passed and Fournier studied Bolton—and Bolton could tell from the glimmer in the deputy director's eyes that he wasn’t entirely convinced.

“I’ll be keeping in touch,” Fournier said. “I’m sure I’ll have some follow-up questions. Maybe you’re right that all of this is nothing more than a series of coincidences, but we’d rather be thorough than leave anything to chance.”

Bolton huffed. “Is this your way of telling me not to leave town?”

Fournier shrugged. “If I went ahead and just said it, would that clear it up for you?”

Bolton said nothing.

“Go home, Danny.” Fournier stood from the bench. “And if anyone attempts to contact you, Cliff Bazz included, you call my office. Understood?”

Bolton, again, said nothing as Fournier nodded, stepped away, and blended in with a small crowd of mall patrons. Bolton remained glued to the bench for a few moments, dabbing the sweat on his brow and thinking about Alec Murphy’s name, like saying it three times would summon him.

14

The bags were packed, the plane ticket was booked, and the timetable was set—but Roy was stalling for as much time as possible.

He didn’t want to leave.

He didn’t want to kill Clifford Bazz or Madeline O’Neill.

He just wanted to be left alone.

It had been two decades since he’d last killed for the agency. Twenty years. 240.164 months. 7,305 days. 175,320 hours (give or take). That time had been spent in peace. Free of fear. Free of anxiety. Of looking over his shoulder. Traveling from one part of the world to the next and never knowing where he would end up or if he would ever live to see another sunrise.

Roy got out.

He was free to do what he wanted.

To have a family.

To have a life.

And then Dallas called.

He told him to kill again.

The peace had been broken, and Roy awoke from his slumber to take another man’s life for the first time in twenty years.

Roy rubbed his palms together.

It was so easy to kill O’Neill.

The contact told me to go, so I went.

He knew what to say and exactly how to say it.

Why didn’t I say no? Just hang up the phone and leave it at that?

Alec Murphy was dead.

I killed him.

I buried him.

Roy closed his eyes.

And now he’s back.

He’s alive.

Dallas said so.

Hell, maybe I didn’t kill him.

Maybe it was all just a bad dream.

“Sweetheart?”

Roy shot a look toward the door and saw his wife lingering in the doorway. Melissa looked at him with a pensive expression, wringing her fingers and flashing a wry smile as she stepped into the room.

“Hi, darling.” Roy forced a smile. “I’m just collecting my thoughts.”

“You look upset.”

He shook his head. “I’m not. I’m just tired.” Roy gestured to his bags near the dresser. “I guess I’m waiting until the last second.”

Melissa shrugged. “How come? I thought you and Peter were old friends. I figured you’d love spending some time with him.”

The smile on Roy’s face broadened.

If you only knew the truth, my dear.

If you only knew.

“To be honest,” Roy said, “I don’t want to go. I think maybe I’ve been retired for so long that the thought of stepping back into it is triggering some anxiety.”

Melissa inched toward the bed. “It’s only for a little while.”

“I know. Still, I…” Roy looked deep into his wife’s eyes. He wished he could tell her the truth, that he was being forced to kill again for his old master, that he had to venture out into the world and claim a pair of lives in an effort to make sure that his family was safe, that the secrets of his past wouldn’t be exhumed.

Melissa slipped her hand on top of her husband’s. “I’ve never seen you this upset,” she said. “Are you sure there’s nothing else bothering you?”

Roy shook his head. “It’s just the thought of going back to work.” That’s technically true, old boy. “That’s all.”

“You’re sure?”

Maybe I should tell her.

Roy squeezed Melissa’s hand.

Maybe I should tell her the truth about who I was, about what I used to do for a living.

Maybe if I just confess, we can clear the air…

Roy winced.

No. You can’t.

Melissa would never be able to live with that knowledge.

She can’t know.

She can never know.

You have to go.

You have to kill these people, put it behind you, and go on living your life.

Roy kissed Melissa on her forehead the same way that he had when he proposed. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “I will. Just some pre-flight jitters is all.”

Melissa squinted. “You’re positive?”

He nodded. “I’m sure. I just need to get on the road and sort this all out. I’ll be back before you know it.” Roy laughed. “Then we can look at the bill Taylor’s about to drop on us for this wedding.”

Roy and Melissa embraced. After they broke it, Roy picked up his bags, Melissa drove him to the airport, and after she dropped him off at the curb and told Roy that she loved him, Roy kissed her goodbye and headed into the terminal.

Kill them, old boy.

Kill them and come home.

You have a family waiting for you.

15

Dean hugged the turn that spilled onto Madeline O’Neill’s street. Bazz then made a joke at Dean’s expense for having headed the wrong way—twice—before they pinpointed Gneiss Loop, the street where Madeline’s house was.

“Give me a break, Bazzy,” Dean said. “Every one of these damned streets looks the same out here.”

For the past thirty minutes, he and Bazz had passed one Victorian and Craftsman home after another to the point that Dean thought he was seeing double. Every house was painted one of four colors, and similar model Ford pickups with American flag decals in the back windows were parked in every third driveway.

“Military town,” Bazz said. “Makes sense. Fort Carson isn’t far from here.”

Dean saw a sinewy guy trimming his lawn on his left out the window of his and Bazz’s rental, a young child—seven, maybe eight—beside the muscle-bound man, pointing at parts of the lawn that his father needed to cut down a little more.

Dean smirked.

Ten to one that little guy's on his way to becoming a Ranger.

Fort Carson has a pre-Ranger program out here.

“Why Colorado Springs?” Dean said. “Why would Madeline move here?”

“I’m pretty sure John hooked her up with a house through a VA loan he got,” Bazz replied. “He was in the Army before the CIA recruited him.”

“Doing what?”

“PSYOPS.” Bazz snickered. “John got his training at Fort Bragg, if I remember right. He was a Gulf War vet.”

Dean smirked.

Psychological Operations.

Makes sense why the CIA would’ve recruited O’Neill to join their merry band of mind-fuck artists.

“So,” Dean said, “as much as Maddy wanted to go against the grain, as much as she wanted to vote liberal all her life just to get a rise out of her old man,” he gestured to a Victorian house on his left where a pair of men were loading up rifle cases into the back of a flatbed, “she still felt more at ease being surrounded by men in uniform.”

“That’s usually the case with children who hail from military families,” Bazz commented. “For the most part. Back in the day when John and I would visit one another, Maddy had a thing for dating Army guys. Not sure if that’s changed.”

“When’s the last time you saw her?”

“Ten years ago.” Bazz shrugged. “Maybe a little more. After John and I left the agency, we still kept in touch. We would meet up once, sometimes twice, a year after we cut ties with the CIA. The older Maddy got, the more John leaned into retirement…well, the visits became less frequent. Five years had gone by since the last visit, until he rang me up screaming Alec Murphy’s name.”

A deep breath sighed out of Bazz. When Dean glanced over at his buddy, he could see the strain of the situation, the years of hard living wearing him down like bags of luggage had been draped over his neck. His eyes were glossy. His skin was cracked and weathered like he’d been chain-smoking cigarettes for the past year.

What secrets does he know?

If this whole Alec Murphy thing is just the tip of the iceberg, Dean’s eyes widened, what else has Bazzy done during his career?

“There,” Bazz said as he crooked his finger toward the second-to-last house on the block. “That’s it.”

Dean eased down on the brakes as he appraised a two-story Prairie-style home with large windows and flanked on all sides by Bristlecone trees. Once Dean slipped the shift into park, he assessed his surroundings and felt his old Ranger training taking over. He was alert, ice coursing through his veins, his mind like a radar looking for blips that would signal an incoming threat. Then his hand drifted toward his waistband, Dean’s muscle memory triggering his hand to caress the weapon that was not there.

“Shit.” Dean blinked his eyes and shook his head. “Forgot for a second that I don’t have carte blanche to take weapons on a plane anymore.”

A chuckle slipped out of Bazz. “I got you covered, old boy.” He popped open his door and slid out of the rental. “Follow me.”

Dean followed after Bazz, throwing looks over his shoulder as his buddy popped the trunk.

“My pal Dillon,” Bazz said as he peeled off the spare tire cover, “did me one last favor before we touched down at the airport.”

“Yeah, you said he hooked us up with the rental.”

Bazz flexed his brow as he lifted up the spare tire. “He also hooked us up with the complete package.” He winked. “Top of the line.”

Dean watched as Bazz pulled out a black Pelican case the size of a phone book. After Bazz did a scan of the block to make sure no prying eyes were watching them, he snapped open the case and gestured proudly to a pair of SIG P320 handguns inside with a pair of spare magazines for each of them.

“God almighty, Bazz.” Dean shook his head. “Who are the serial numbers on these suckers registered to?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“If I gotta put a slug in a guy’s leg, I’m going to have to. They’re gonna trace the round they dig out of him and⁠—”

“Deano,” Bazz clapped a hand on Dean’s shoulder, “I said don’t worry about it. The weapons are clean. And they’re just a precaution, something to give us a little peace of mind while we’re sorting this thing out. You don’t want to walk into a dicey situation without one, right? Last I checked, harsh language isn’t exactly the best line of defense.”

This is what Layla was talking about.

Dean ran his fingertips over the SIG.

This is exactly what she meant about knowing when the writing was on the wall.

“Dean,” Bazz said as he loaded a magazine into his SIG, thumbed the safety, and stuffed the weapon into the back of his board shorts. “You okay?”

“I don’t need you to indulge in your secret agent lingo with me on this one, Bazz,” Dean said. “I trust you—but I need to know that if I pick this thing up and have to use it I’m not going to spend the next eight months pacing around a jail cell while some squirrelly DA attempts to throw an attempted murder rap on me.”

“You won’t. That’s not going to happen. If you do end up using this thing, Dillon’s got the paperwork sorted out.” Bazz held out his arms. “As of this morning, we are both licensed PIs in the state of Colorado.”

Dean cocked an eyebrow. “You’re kidding me.”

“It was the best way to get the green light to use the weapons.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Like you said, you trust me. You know I’ve got your back.”

“Bazz,” Dean closed his eyes, “this mystery man persona of yours has always been something I’ve never questioned. It’s never been an issue. Matter of fact, it’s always been a bit charming in its own right.” He snapped his eyes open and pinned his gaze to his buddy. “But not on this one. I need you to be frank with me. I need you to give me the heads up when you plan on making a move. I gotta be in the loop at all times.”

A moment passed as the lines in Bazz’s face deepened, his expression an accurate reflection of a guy whose friend just called his methods, his trust, into question. “Okay, Deano,” he said. “You’ve got my word.”

Dean sighed.

He picked up the SIG.

Then he slipped in a magazine, chambered a round, engaged the safety, and—like Bazz did—stuffed the weapon into the back of his jeans.

“Okay,” Bazz said as he jutted his chin toward the house. “How do you wanna move in there?”

The house was two stories and rested flush up against a hillside. From Dean’s vantage point, he made out a front entrance, one on the side via the garage, and as far as he could tell, one in the back.

“I’ll move in through the garage,” Dean said. “You take the back. I’ll clear the east side of the house and you clear the west until we meet in the center. Keep an eye on those second floor windows when you move in. You got your cell phone on you?”

Bazz replied by fishing into his pockets, pulling out a smartphone, and holding it up.

“Good.” Dean nodded. “We’ll keep a call going and use our phones as radios as we clear the house. Once we’re sure no one’s inside, we’ll go from there.”

Bazz drew a breath.

Dean did the same.

The two men then split apart and headed toward the—seemingly—vacated home of Madeline O’Neill.

16

The door that led into the garage was locked, and that came as no surprise to Dean. Even though he was sans weapon when he boarded the plane in Burbank, he did manage to bring a few tools of his new PI trade, one of which came in the form of the lockpicking kit he received last Christmas—from Bazz.

You’re getting pretty good at it too, bub. Dean pulled out the kit from the pocket of his leather jacket and unzipped the case. Layla gives you plenty of practice with the number of times she locks herself out of the house.

Ten seconds of fiddling with the door lock was all Dean needed before he was able to open it. Once he did, he put the kit back in his pocket, took out his SIG, and slowly pushed the door open to reveal a two-car garage with a burgundy Ford Taurus parked with its headlamps aimed toward the garage door.

“Bazz,” Dean whispered into his phone. “I’m in. Just spotted a Ford Taurus. Does that belong to our girl?”

“Copy,” Bazz said. “And I just slipped in through the back—all clear.”

The Taurus had a thin layer of dirt that glazed the windows and doors. When Dean peeked inside through the driver’s side window, the vehicle was vacant of bags, trash, clothing, or any other items that one would usually spot, and the dashboard toted streaks that looked like—based on Dean’s best guess—someone had doused it down with disinfectant.

It’s clean.

Spotless.

Like someone wiped it down before they headed out.

The rest of the garage was the same.

There were no tools.

No boxes.

No trash.

No scraps of paper.

Nothing at all.

It’s like no one lives here.

Like someone wanted to scrub everything of traces.

Dean had to toy with the door lock that spilled open into the kitchen. Once he unfastened the locks, he stepped inside the house, swept his SIG from left to right across the open floor plan, and saw a kitchen in front of him and a stairwell on his right that led up to the second floor.

“I’m in the house, Bazzy,” Dean said into the cell phone. “Where are you?”

“Ten meters on your right,” Bazz replied. “Moving into the living room now. This place is empty, buddy—there’s nothing here.”

Though he figured it was a fruitless endeavor being that the place had been obviously vacated, Dean cleared the kitchen. The cabinets, the fridge, the utensil drawers—everything was emptied out. Same went for the dining room; the only thing inside was a pair of chairs and a wooden dining table that, much like the dashboard in the Taurus, had been wiped clean. By the time Dean made his way into the living room, he saw Bazz standing near the fireplace as he ogled the depression in the carpet made by the furniture that was no longer there.

“She did a good job,” Bazz said. “She got rid of damn near everything she could.” He threw a look toward the sliding glass door that looked out onto a patio. “John taught her well.”

“Upstairs.” Dean nodded over his shoulder. “We need to clear the top floor.”

The two men proceeded to do just that. By the time they were finished clearing the emptied guest room, the master, the two bathrooms, a study, and even the linen closets, the only thing they turned up was a handful of crumpled-up paper towels.

“Thorough,” Dean said. “But a bit excessive, no?”

Bazz put away his SIG and then shook his head. “Not if Maddy was operating off her old man’s playbook. John always scrubbed a place clean when he left it. He never took anything with him. He always dumped it and just bought new stuff.”

“What’s the logic?”

“That you leave nothing behind—no fibers, prints, nothing that someone can pull and plant at a crime scene.”

“Living like that for an extended period of time has gotta get taxing.”

“It does.” Bazz flexed his brow. “Believe me.”

Dean paced the floors. “She’s gone. The question we have to answer is where.”

Bazz threw up his hands and leaned against a wall. “Trying to find where she is now is going to be as easy as spinning a globe and pointing to a spot. She could be anywhere.”

“Not necessarily.” Dean shrugged. “Maddy may be her father’s daughter. She may be pretty well versed in the art of cutting out and ready when the heat is on, but she’s not an operator in the same sense that her old man was.”

“Meaning what?”

“There’s only so many places that Maddy could have gone. Unless she’s got a slew of fake passports and IDs and a short list of safe houses she could be camped out in, she’s not halfway across the world. She’s a good distance away from here, a safe distance, but I don’t think we’re going to have to play Where in the World is Carmen San Diego to find her.”

“You’re assuming that’s the case,” Bazz said. “But you can’t state that for sure. As well as I knew John, there was still a lot that I didn’t know about the guy. That’s how this trade works—all of us kept secrets, from even some of our closest confidants.”

“Think of this from your friend John’s perspective,” Dean replied. “You knew the guy, so try and put yourself in his shoes.” He held up his hands like a film director envisioning a shot. “You uncover something, something that you know is going to cause a stir, so you have to form a plan and execute that plan…and you have a daughter to think of, one that you have to protect. So, tell me,” Dean’s eyes flickered up at Bazz, “what would John have done?”

The question prompted Bazz to rub his hands together and pace the room. He did this for a few moments, Dean sensing that the gears in his buddy’s brain were turning at a high rate of speed based on the way his eyes probed the room.

“He’d have a plan in place for Maddy,” Bazz finally said. “He’d tee things up so that if the time came to pull the ripcord, Maddy could cut and run to the designated location that John set up in advance. Again, the question is where exactly that location could be.”

“He wouldn’t leave Maddy on her own for too long, though,” Dean said. “It was clear that John O’Neill trusted only two people throughout this whole ordeal: you and his daughter. If something happened to John, if only you were left to protect her, O’Neill had to figure that it wouldn’t be a long walk for you to take to find his daughter.”

Bazz nodded. “You’re right. John would never have allowed Maddy to stick this out on her own.” The whites of his eyes flashed wide. “Son of a bitch,” he whispered. “John practically told me outright where Maddy would be when he left his last message.”

Enthusiasm welled inside of Dean. “Where?”

A smile brimmed on Bazz’s lips. “In his voice mail, John said to me, ‘Don’t try to find me. I’ll find you.’ He’s said that before. A long time ago. This was not long after we both left the agency. John bought some beachside property in Pensacola. He wanted me to come out and visit him, but he never gave me an address. When I asked him how I was going to find the place once my plane landed, he said, ‘Don’t try to find me. I’ll find you.’” He laughed. “Sure enough, John found me not long after I touched down, and we spent the rest of the weekend at this spiffy little house he bought. If I remember correctly,” Bazz slapped the wall like he was ringing a buzzer in a game show, “the street was called ‘Acapulco Camino.’”

“You think he still owns the property there?”

Bazz nodded. “Most definitely. John would have never let that place go. It was the last place he spent with his wife before she passed away. He said to me, ‘I always wanted a place like this, Bazzy. Somewhere where I could sit and not think.’ Maddy loved it. She was always playing on the beach.” Bazz snapped his fingers. “She’s gotta be there, Deano. She’s gotta be.”

Maybe it’s just hope.

Dean stroked his stubble.

Or maybe she actually is there.

Either way, a lead is a lead.

“Well,” Dean gestured toward the front door, “looks like we’re hopping on another flight.”

The two men left the home, locked the front door behind them before shutting the door, and then made their way back to the rental. As Bazz went about using his friend Dillon to procure a pair of tickets to Pensacola—and making sure the proper arrangements were made so he and Dean could carry their weapons on the plane—Dean slipped behind the wheel, did an assessment of his rear-view mirrors, and a spotted a Honda Civic parked a half-block away—an average, everyday kind of vehicle that no one would have batted an eye at.

But Dean did.

Something’s wrong.

Dean tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

Why can’t I shake the feeling that someone is watching us?

17

Roy Ellis was about to throw down the last sip of his overpriced draft beer outside his terminal when his phone rang. He knew who it was without needing to look at the display, so he took his time to answer and proceeded to down the last of his beer, wipe off the rim, and then do the same with the area where his fingerprints had been left before finally taking the call.

“Go.”

“I’ve got eyes on Bazz,” Dallas said. “He’s in Colorado Springs. He just scoped out Maddy O’Neill’s house.”

“How good is the intel?”

“I contacted an old asset to do a few passes through the neighborhood to see if he could get lucky. The stars must have aligned, ‘cause my guy got a positive ID on Bazz.”

“Is he still there?”

“Negative,” Dallas said. “My guy is tailing them to the airport now.”

Roy furrowed his brow. “Them—as in more than one.”

“Bazz has someone riding shotgun with him,” Dallas said. “I’m working on running the image he sent me of the guy’s face through the databases. I’m not sure who he is yet. I need you to sit tight there at the airport and wait until my guy can get a line on where they’re going.”

“They’re going after Maddy O’Neill,” Roy said. “Make no mistake about it. They probably pieced together where she’s going and are en route to intercept her as we speak.”

“Once my guy figures out where they’re headed, I’ll contact you right away. It’ll take an hour, maybe two. Until then, just wait it out.”

“Understood.” Roy narrowed his eyes. “And am I to assume that this green light I have on taking out Bazz extends to his friend?”

“Correct. Take them out. All three of them. No hesitation.”

Now it’s three kills.

Not two.

Three.

Three lives in total.

Three people I have to dispatch to the afterlife in order to go home.

“Are you set?” Dallas said. “Do you have everything you need?”

Roy’s gaze fell to the messenger bag beside him. It had been left for him in the stall of the restroom next to his terminal. Inside the bag were two handguns—a SIG and a Glock—a suppressor, six boxes of rounds, garotte wire, latex gloves, two syringes, zip ties, and two vials filled with sleeping agents. The moment Roy opened the bag and laid eyes on it, he felt dread wash over him, the instruments of death a stark reminder that he had returned to his old ways despite whatever protests he had.

“I’ve got it,” Roy said. “I’m set.”

“Good,” Dallas replied. “All I need you to do is wait. My contact will figure out where Bazz and his partner are going soon enough.”

Roy said nothing.

“You’re doing the right thing, soldier,” Dallas told him. “Don’t ever forget that. I know that I push you hard, but it’s in all of our best interests. This will all be finished in the blink of an eye. You’ll be back with your family in the next forty-eight hours. You have my word.”

Roy shook his head.

I can’t trust you.

I never could.

I just have to do what you say when you say it.

You are the boss, and I am the dutiful employee.

“Ellis,” Dallas said. “We good?”

Roy cleared his throat. “We’re good.”

“Then stay frosty. Be ready to move when the time comes.”

“Copy that.”

The call was terminated.

Roy pocketed his phone.

Then he weighed ordering another beer but opted out because he knew it would fog his senses, and he couldn’t afford that at the moment. Like Dallas said, he had to be frosty. Alert. On the ball. The more effective Roy was, the better he could operate, and the better he could operate, the sooner he could go back home.

Roy took out the phone he used to keep in touch with his wife, unlocked it, pulled up the photo albums, and sifted through the pictures that Melissa had taken on the boat they’d rented last summer. He fixated on the one with his arm around Melissa, his lips pressed gently against her cheek, the sun radiant overhead and casting a heavenly glow on the two of them to the point that it made it seem like an aura surrounded his wife.

I’ll be home soon, darling.

Roy locked the phone, stuffed it in his pocket, and grabbed his bag.

I’ll be home before you know it.

18

Maddy knew if her father had seen her strolling down the beach alone, he would have had a conniption. When she was little she couldn’t go anywhere without someone tailing her, even when things had mellowed out and her father’s career was nothing more than a glimmer in his rear-view mirror—but now there was a problem. Something was about to rear its head; something bad from her father’s past, so that whole “Be smart/be on the lookout/don’t go anywhere you don’t need to” bit of his was back in full swing.

But Maddy could stay cooped up in the beachfront house for only so long.

She had to get out.

She needed a breath of fresh air, if even only for a few minutes.

I have to go for a walk, Dad.

I have to remember that there’s a world outside of these walls or I’m going to go insane.

The slow-rolling tide crept toward the shore and lapped at Maddy’s toes. She paused and looked toward the horizon. The sun was in the midst of descending to the ocean, signaling the end of yet another day.

Dad hasn’t checked in.

I guess that’s no surprise.

It’ll take him weeks to get here.

Maybe longer.

A collective chuckle to Maddy’s right prompted her to glance toward the noise, the hairs on the back of her neck stiffening.

Who is it?

Do I know you?

Are you here for me?

Maddy realized there was nothing to fear when she laid eyes on the source of the laughter. It was just a young mother guiding her toddler toward the shore.

She pulled air deep into her lungs.

You’re fine.

No one can find you.

Only the people that need to know where you are know where you are.

The weight of the handgun in the straw tote bag over Maddy’s shoulder felt heavy. She slipped it off and held it by the handles. If she needed to, she could have “the “piece” out—that’s what her father liked to call it—disengage the safety, and put a bullet into her target in one-point-two seconds flat.

Maddy looked down at the tote bag. The ability to safely—and accurately—handle a weapon was a skill drilled into her by her father. The same went for her ability to disappear. To change the color of her hair at a moment’s notice. To fine-tune her appearance with just the slightest adjustments to make her seem like someone else entirely, which is exactly what Maddy did the moment her father called her a week before and told her, “It’s time to go.”

Maddy could still hear the fear in her father’s voice reverberating in her ears. John O’Neill was a lot of things: paranoid, concerned, the proverbial helicopter parent, but never in Maddy’s life had she heard such an obviously detectable terror overcome her father. He was always alert, always abiding by that “hope for the best/plan for the worst” mentality, but when John told Maddy he was sending her the package, the one she hid under the floorboards of the condo one-hundred yards away, she knew she had taken a ticking time bomb into her possession. It was going to go off sooner or later, and all Maddy could do was wait for her dad to come along and relieve her of her custodial duties.

Where are you, Dad?

What’s taking so long?

I want to go home.

I don’t want to be here.

I’m tired of looking over my shoulder and waiting for something bad to happen.

As darkness blanketed the beach, Maddy took it as her cue to return home. She made sure to turn her head away from anyone who passed by as she made her way back to the house, the idea being that anyone she crossed paths with—any potential witnesses—would never be able to offer a full description to anyone that might come around and ask. Once she was safely inside the house overlooking the beach, she closed the blinds, locked all of the doors, poured herself a finger’s worth of tequila, and sat down in the chair facing the door.

“Sit in a place where you can see all of the entrances and the exits,” Maddy could hear her father say. “Set the alarms. Keep your weapon close by at all times. If you sense that the person knocking on the door is there for the wrong reasons, shoot first and ask questions later.”

It was hard for Maddy not to feel some anger toward her father. She’d had a great thing going before he called up and raised the four-alarm fire. She had her routine. She had enough money until her father froze the accounts. Friends? Well, maybe the fact that she was John O’Neill’s daughter had drilled into Maddy this belief that living alone was better, more manageable, and easier than keeping track of people you could never be one-hundred percent sure of, but in the past year or so, she’d started to branch out. She started to forge connections. She started slowly coming out of her shell and ventured away from her fortress of solitude in Colorado Springs little by little in an effort to embrace a life different from the one her father had taught her was the best and only way to live.

But now Maddy was on the run, watching the seconds tick by and waiting for something bad to happen.

She brought the drink to her lips.

I want a different life.

Something new.

Someone to share it with.

I don’t want to be alone anymore.

Maddy downed the tequila and flared her nostrils as she felt the tangy beverage coat her throat.

I can’t live like this. Something has to happen sooner or later. Someone needs to come and get me the hell out of here.

Walther in hand, Maddy stood up and made her way to the bedroom. After she turned on the lights, she placed the gun on the bed, got down on all fours, and then slowly removed the piece of loose floorboard in front of the transition strip that separated the bedroom floor from the bathroom floor.

Maddy reached inside. She gripped onto the flash drive stored inside the plastic bag. Then she turned around, rested her back against the wall, and held up the bag to the light like she was examining a piece of evidence. Whatever was on the flash drive was a mystery. Maybe it was nuclear codes. Maybe it was some kind of a secret even the president would kill to keep out of the open. Who the hell really knew besides her father.

“You hold onto this,” her father had said. “You keep it close by. You trust only one other person besides me to hold onto it. You know him. You remember him.”

Maddy ran her thumb across the drive in the bag.

Cliff Bazz.

The nice man.

He always brought presents when he visited.

“What happens,” Maddy asked her father, “if Bazz doesn’t come? What should I do? Who do I give it to?”

Her father drew a shaky breath and took a few moments to answer. “You go to the news,” he said. “One of the major outlets. You don’t trust the police. You don’t trust anyone I knew back at my old job. You go to a journalist. You show them what’s on that drive. You stay hidden until they can bring the truth to light. Listen to what I say, Maddy. Do what I say. You’re the only other person I can trust.”

Looking at the flash drive made Maddy feel like she was holding puss in her hands. She threw it under the bed. Curled her fingers into a white-knuckled fist. She was stressed from being holed up in the condo, not knowing where her father was or when he would get there, or when the whole ordeal would be over.

“Hurry up, Dad,” Maddy whispered as she stood and poured herself another drink. “Please.”

19

Dean felt the urge to just call it quits as soon as he saw Grace’s smile over the video call. His daughter was laughing, clapping her hands as she held up the multicolored toy in her hand and shook it in front of the phone for her father to see.

“She won’t put it down,” Layla said as she adjusted Grace on her lap. “She’s been playing with it for the past hour.”

Dean paced the carpeted floor of the airport terminal and turned up the volume of his headphones to drown out the noise of the people walking past him. “Did she try to get Willy to play with it? When you went for a grocery run last week, she buried him in all of her toys.”

Layla motioned to the unseen canine off camera. “She brings all of her stuff to him.” She patted Grace on the back. “Big sharer, this one.”

“Must’ve skipped a generation,” Dean said. “My brother Tommy and I broke half our toys—we were always playing tug-of-war with whose was whose.”

Layla widened her eyes. “That reminds me.”

“Of what?”

“Your sister, Sheila, called. She said she tried to get ahold of you, but your phone was turned off.”

Probably when I silenced it while we cleared Maddy’s house.

That was right after Bazz gave me the gun.

Dean felt the lump from the SIG poking through his leather jacket.

Right when I considered that doing all of this had become a bad idea.

“I’ll call her soon,” Dean said. “Bazz and I are about to puddle-jump to the next stop here in a bit.”

The way the lines pulled back on Layla’s face, and the grimace that it triggered told him everything—Layla was apprehensive. Concerned. Unsure.

The feeling is mutual, babe.

Believe me.

“Where are you going now?” Layla asked. “What’s the situation?”

“Pensacola,” Dean said. “Plane leaves in about thirty minutes. We think we have a line on Maddy, the person that Bazz is trying to locate.” He told Layla the whole story: who Maddy was. The package that she had. How—and if—they would be able to locate her, which would mark the end to Dean’s participation in the whole ordeal.

Allegedly.

“Pensacola,” Layla said. “Never been.”

“Same,” Dean replied. “If I find a kitschy t-shirt in a gift shop there, I’ll snag it.”

“Just bring yourself back. Sooner rather than later, if possible.”

“I’m working on it.”

Silence settled over the line. For a few moments, Dean just stared into Grace’s eyes and wished for nothing more than to be back by her and Layla’s side.

“Dean.” Layla scooted in toward the phone. “You okay?”

“I’m good,” he said. “Just trying to get this thing sorted out as quickly as I can.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You have that look.”

Nothing more needed to be said on Layla’s end to clarify what she was getting at. Dean knew that she was seeing the glint in his eye, the flicker that signaled that his sixth sense was picking up on some unseen threat stalking him, ready to open its jaws and clamp down on his neck.

“I’m good.” Dean forced a calm tone. “I’m being cautious. Just like we talked about.”

“You’re sure?”

“If I had a nickel for every time you asked that, I could pack in the PI office and retire.”

“I’ll grab a mason glass from the kitchen. We can start our own version of a swear jar.”

Dean laughed. “Not a bad idea.”

“In all seriousness,” Layla said, “and I don’t want to be that nagging partner, but…” she breathed deeply, “you’re positive you’re good? That radar of yours isn’t going off or anything?”

The tickle on the back of Dean’s neck indicated that there was. For the past hour since he’d gotten to the airport, he’d felt like eyes were on him, the same feeling he’d experienced when he spotted the Honda outside Maddy O’Neill’s house.

I’m playing a game with old CIA spooks.

Someone always has eyes on their opponent.

That’s their MO. They watch from a distance.

Observe.

Wait until their opponent has their guard down and move in.

It was better in Dean’s mind—for the moment—to not tell Layla he was toying with the idea of walking away.

But how many times have I been in this position before?

How many times have we had this phone call?

How often has she asked, “Are you okay? You’re sure there’s nothing wrong?”

Dean wanted to be anywhere else. For him, the notion of sitting down with his ex-wife and Geoff for a cup of coffee right now was a far more ideal prospect than riding shotgun with Bazz while they waited for some Virginia farm boy from the agency to show up wearing plastic gloves, waving a gun around and telling Dean he was poking his nose into business that wasn’t his own.

“We’ll find this woman we’re looking for, Maddy, in Pensacola,” Dean said, saying the statement more for his own peace of mind at that point than anything else. “We’ll find her, get our hands on this package she’s got, and as soon as Bazz tells me we found who we were looking for, I’m gone.”

“Good plan,” Layla said. “Just stick to it.”

Dean nodded. “I will.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He hung up the phone. Right after he did, Bazz signaled from across the way that the plane was a few moments away from boarding.

Dean shouldered his bag and joined Bazz. As the two of them flashed their passes—along with their documents from Dillon that gave them clearance to board the flight with their weapons—Dean took a quick glance at every one of the passenger’s faces that filed into the plane with them.

Someone is watching.

Someone is tailing us.

Christ, Dean.

Maybe you’ve reached the point of no return.

20

The hum of the plane flying above the ground at thirty thousand feet drowned out Dean’s thoughts by the time he and Bazz—seated two rows up to Dean’s left—were twenty minutes into the flight. More often than not, people complained about how they couldn’t stand flying. They would nitpick every little inconvenience or feel the need to underscore their least favorite parts of the ordeal—taxiing, landing, takeoff, et cetera—but Dean always found comfort in flying. It was a lot like cruising around town in his Plymouth. Something about traveling (by car, plane, boat, whatever), about being en route to a location, made Dean feel like time stood still, like a sliver of time had been carved out to just relax, sit back, and quiet the thoughts in his head.

Music helped, too. Ever since Layla gave him the pair of noise-canceling earbuds for his birthday, Dean would slice out a few minutes every day to just sit and listen to a compilation of his favorite tunes. The thump of the music served as a kind of metronome, something to help center Dean’s focus. He thought of the playlist as his percussionist. The band’s lead guitarist strummed to the beat as “Games Without Frontiers” by Peter Gabriel seeped through the ear buds. Dean tapped his finger to the beat, closed his eyes, and focused on absolutely nothing.

Don’t think.

Just listen.

His mind became pleasantly blank. The cool AC above his head blew against his skin. After a few beats, Dean felt his body depress into the seat beneath him, his closed eyes teasing the start of a well-deserved nap.

But then someone tapped on his arm.

When Dean snapped open his eyelids, he pulled out the earbuds, shook off his daze, and turned his body toward the guy standing in the aisle beside his seat.

“Sorry,” the guy whispered as he gestured to the empty window seat, the man flashing that timid universal scowl that most passengers put on display when they silently requested to get back to their seat.

Dean stood and stepped into the aisle. As soon as the guy slipped down into his seat, he said, “Has the drink cart come by yet?”

Dean shot a look over his shoulder. “I don’t think so, no.”

“Damn.” The guy craned his neck to, Dean assumed, make out the flight attendant. “I might nod off here in a second. I hate to be a bother, but could you nudge me if she passes by again?”

“You got it.”

Dean went to place his ear buds back in—but then the guy interjected again.

“What are you listening to?” he asked.

Dean furrowed his brow and held up his ear bud. “‘Games Without Frontiers.’”

The guy’s lips bowed up into a cool smirk. “Peter Gabriel. Great song. 1980. That’s when he brought in Kate Bush. First song I ever heard of his was actually the duo they did, ‘Don’t Give Up.’”

“Right,” Dean said. “They showcased it on Miami Vice.”

“You watched Miami Vice?” The guy let out a surprised snicker. “You look like you’re in your mid-thirties. Figured that show would’ve passed you by.”

“My old man was big on Magnum PI, Vice, and Hawaii 5-0 reruns—the original. Not the remake.”

“Great shows,” the guy said as he put his focus on the window. “Sorry to bother you, by the way. I’m not big on flying.” He winced. “I start talking and I can’t stop.”

Dean said nothing and hoped the guy would just figure out how to hack his fear of being crammed in a metal tube on his own—but then the circus in his brain started up, his mind flooded with thoughts of Layla, Grace, Jeremy, and even his late brother Tommy. Before his brain could register that he was speaking, he said to the guy, “I actually liked the pilot of the 5-0 remake. It wasn’t bad. Heavy on the action, but I guess that’s expected nowadays with people’s attention spans.”

The guy perked up in his seat. “I never saw it.”

Dean shrugged. “It’s okay. Nothing to write home about.” He offered a handshake. “I’m Dean.”

The guy molded his palm around Dean’s. “Roy Ellis,” he said. “Good to meet you.”

Dean smirked.

Roy replied in kind.

“Where are you headed, Roy?” Dean asked.

“Fort Lauderdale,” Roy said. “You?”

“Pensacola.”

“Business or personal?”

Dean quickly slapped together an excuse. “My mother,” he said. “Doing my whole bi-annual visit kind of thing. You?”

“Work,” Roy groaned. “Unfortunately.”

“What do you do?” I can’t believe I’m still talking to this guy.

“Insurance,” Roy said. “Technically, I’m retired.” He waved his hand dismissively toward the window. “I’m just going to visit an old client of mine who’s trying to sort out some old tax forms. Not that you need the whole rundown.”

“That’s all right.” Dean shifted his weight. “What kind of insurance?”

“I started dabbling in life insurance initially. Then I ventured out into liability, then health, and then a few other things. Called it quits once I padded my savings and saw some solid yields in a few hybrid stocks I invested in. I was glad to cash out and get out when I could. Just savoring my golden years.” Roy winked. “That’s how my wife likes to refer to them, at least.”

“Did you like it? Selling insurance?” God almighty, Dean. What do you care?

A moment passed as Dean watched Roy consider his answer. “It was a living,” Roy finally said. “Paid for the mortgage. Cars. Kid’s college fund. All of that jazz. What do you do?”

“I’m a PI,” Dean replied and then winced as soon as he realized he’d uttered the truth.

The answer triggered Roy’s smile to widen. “Really?” He huffed. “I guess watching all those shows you talked about must’ve planted some seeds when you were a kid.”

“I think so, too.”

“What kind of work do you do as a PI? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.”

You’re in it now, genius. You can’t just brush this guy off and put your headphones back in. “Nothing exciting,” Dean said. “I just follow up on skip traces, the occasional unfaithful spouse, things like that. Not exactly the kind of work that gets your adrenaline going.”

Roy chuckled. “Beats being an insurance rep.”

“I’ve actually been trying to lean into something a little more low-key for the past few months. Taking pictures of guys hooking up with their mistresses is hard on the eyes after a while.”

“You got a card or anything like that? A website? I know some people who could use your services. Insurance scammers are never in short supply.”

Dean told Roy about his website and gave him a ballpark estimate on his prices. Roy went on to ask if looking into insurance scams was in Dean’s wheelhouse then, picking his brain about some colleague he had who was sure a guy was faking a mental disability to cash in on the insurance. Dean gave Roy a minute’s worth of advice on how Roy’s colleague could try to look into the guy faking the disability.

“Thanks,” Roy said. “Sounds like you know what you’re doing.”

Dean shrugged. “For the most part. Like I said, I’m trying to switch gears and do something a little simpler.”

“Like what?”

“Not sure. I’ve still got a family to worry about, but I’m preaching to the choir here.”

“How many kids do you have?”

Dean held up two fingers. “Just had a baby girl not that long ago,” he said. “Grace.”

Roy leaned in. “You got a picture?”

The phone was out in Dean’s hand a moment later, Dean thumbing through the photo album that featured a cornucopia of snapshots of little Gracie as he flashed a warm smile.

“She’s beautiful,” Roy said. “I have a girl, too. She’s twenty-nine. They grow up fast. Like you said a second ago though, I’m preaching to the choir here.”

“Is it true?” Dean said. “I mean, that whole thing about how they’re attached to your hip before they hit high school? Having a girl, I mean.” He winced. “Sorry. I guess I’m getting a little antsy like you are.”

Roy laughed. “It’s infectious, isn’t it? That whole ‘picking up on someone’s negative energy’ thing.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

A contemplative expression washed across Roy’s face. “The short version,” he shrugged, “a little bit, I suppose. My daughter, Taylor, has always been the proverbial daddy’s girl. I don’t like the title term much, but you get what I’m saying.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “I follow.”

A moment passed.

Dean continued to swipe through pictures of Grace.

Then he felt Roy’s gaze piercing through him.

“Do I have something on my face?” Dean said.

“I’m sorry.” Roy looked away. “You just look a little worn down, is all.”

“I suppose I am.”

“Mind if I ask why?” Roy swiped his hand through the air. “Oh, who am I kidding. It’s none of my business. I’ve pried into your personal space by now.”

Dean shook his head. “No, you’re good. And I guess I’m in a similar position that you are—I’m working right now, and I don’t want to be working. I just want to be home with my family.”

Roy nodded. “Same. I was playing golf and minding my own business until a friend called out of the blue and said he needed my help. Couldn’t really turn him down. He did me a lot of favors way back when. I guess I felt,” he sighed, “compelled to reciprocate.”

Dean shot a look toward Bazz off to his left.

Likewise.

“I’m in the same boat you are, Roy,” he said. “I’ve actually got a buddy of mine looking to procure my services, too. He did me a lot of favors and, like you said, I felt compelled to help him out.”

“What’s your buddy need a PI for?”

“Long story. I suppose I’ve just been thinking a lot lately about how, no matter how hard I try to carve out some downtime for myself, someone always comes out of the woodwork in need of a helping hand.”

The flight attendant a few paces behind Dean nudged her drink cart through the curtain. Roy saw the woman and smiled, and then he said to Dean, “Sounds like you could use a drink. It’s on me.”

Dean shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m on the wagon, Roy.”

“Good on you, my friend. It’s gonna add years to your life.”

“I hope so.”

“How about a club soda? A regular soda, maybe?” Roy shrugged. “Just feel like I should toast the guy who let me bend his ear for a little bit.”

Dean considered it. Then he nodded his head. Ten minutes later—it took forever to get a drink order filled on a plane—Roy had a scotch in his hand; Dean had a Pepsi in his.

Roy raised his plastic cup.

Dean did the same.

Then he said, “What should we toast to?” and waited for Roy to come up with a reply.

“To the guys who do favors for friends,” Roy said. “Even at the cost of our own sanity sometimes.”

Dean smirked. “Don’t know if toasting to that will make me feel better, but…” he clinked his cup against Roy’s, “what the hell.”

The two men sipped their drinks. Roy offered Dean a nod. Then he nestled his head back against the headrest and told Dean he was going to try and get some shut eye.

“Thanks again for letting me talk,” Roy said. “Much appreciated.”

“Likewise,” Dean said. “It was good to meet you, Roy.”

“Good to meet you, too, Dean. Hope to cross paths with you later down the road.”

“Same here.”

They two men signed off on that note.

Dean placed his ear buds into his ears.

Roy closed his eyes and slowly breathed in and out until he fell asleep.

21

After he scooped up his bag at the carousel, Roy pulled out his cell, plugged in his contact’s number, and loitered on the curb outside of Pensacola International. He made sure to walk a solid distance away from the terminal before he dialed his contact, because the last thing he wanted to do was add some looky-loo overhearing his conversation to his kill list.

“Go,” Dallas said.

“I just touched down,” Roy told him. “I’m here.”

“Did you get eyes on Bazz?”

“Yeah. I saw him on the flight.” Roy sighed. “Same went for his friend. I sat right next to him.”

The contact laughed. “You’re shitting me.”

“I bought him a drink.”

“You really take the whole ‘get as close to the mark’ thing as literally as you possibly can, don’t you?”

Roy said nothing.

“Did you get a name on Bazz’s guy?” Dallas said. “Any information on him?”

“His name’s Dean Blackwood. He’s a PI. I took a look at his website. Looks like he’s based out of LA.”

And he’s a family man like me.

A guy who’s going to be turned into collateral damage if he doesn’t jump ship sooner rather than later.

“Dean Blackwood,” Dallas said. “I’ll run the name. Do you have eyes on them now?”

Roy glanced over his shoulder. Bazz and Blackwood stood one-hundred yards away in front of the Enterprise Rent-A-Car desk. Bazz had a credit card out. Dean surveyed the people moving in and out of the terminal.

“I do,” Roy said. “They’re getting a rental car as we speak.”

“Keep on them,” Dallas replied. “Your ride is in the parking lot. It’s a burgundy Ford Fiat.” He then gave the number for the slot it was parked in, the license plate, and informed Roy that the keys were stuffed under the bumper.

Six minutes later, Roy had the keys in his hand. He stuffed his bags in the trunk, did a quick scan of the parking lot, took the SIG P229 out of his bag, and slipped it into his waistband.

Maybe I won’t have to take out Blackwood.

He’s a good man.

A father.

Maybe there’s a way I can spare him.

If I do this right, I can just take out Bazz and Madeline and call it a day.

Roy got behind the wheel and turned over the ignition. Two minutes after that, he had blended in with the traffic moving through the terminal and did several laps until he saw Dean Blackwood and Cliff Bazz pulling away from the curb outside of the terminal in a seafoam green Nissan Altima.

You’re on.

Time to start stalking.

Roy rang his contact. Two rings went through before the man picked up.

“Are you still on them?” Dallas said.

“I am.” Roy slowed the Fiat and made sure to keep six car lengths away from Bazz and Blackwood as they filed out with the traffic out of the airport. “They’re headed out now.”

“Good.” The sounds of a keyboard being clacked came from the contact’s end. “And I’ve got some more information on this Blackwood guy you met.”

“Go ahead.”

“Well,” Dallas drew a breath, “he isn’t just some PI moonlighting as a badass. This guy is the real deal. He used to be a Fed.”

Roy felt his heart skip a beat. “FBI?”

“That’s the one. Guy’s got a hell of a record. You remember Richard Keys? You worked with him back in 1998. We recruited him for that…well, that one job you had.”

Keys.

Roy shook his head.

Top-shelf psychopath.

“Yeah, I remember Keys. What about him?”

“Blackwood took him down about a year ago,” Dallas said. “He also took down a ring of corrupt LAPD officers and the people they were in bed with, some Armenian crime syndicate known as the Sarkissians.” He whistled. “Jesus, the guy is a rockstar. He’s also got a slew of reprimands and censures that could fill a pair of phone books.”

“Point being?”

“The point is that this guy doesn’t fuck around, Ellis. He’s a stinger missile. The second he locks onto something, he doesn’t back down, even at the expense of his career. If he catches one whiff that you’re onto him, if he finds out who you really are, he’s going to sink his teeth into your jugular and rip it out.”

Roy turned out of the airport and onto the highway.

I had a sense.

I could see it in his eyes.

He squinted and made out Bazz and Dean’s rental two hundred yards ahead of him.

He’s a pro.

He’s also a good man.

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

Bazz should have left him out of this.

Roy slowly blinked his eyes.

Now I have to kill him.

“Understood,” Roy said. “I’ll be cautious.”

“Tail them,” the contact said. “Odds are they’re headed straight for Madeline O’Neill. Just get there, take them out, get your hands on whatever John O’Neill sent her, and get your ass back home.”

“I will.”

“You’re almost there, Roy. Just do what you need to do.”

Roy confirmed he would do just that, hung up the phone, and settled back for the drive. He followed after Bazz and Blackwood’s rental for ten miles and made sure to stay below the speed limit and maintained enough of a distance between them so that they wouldn’t make him out.

“Sorry, Blackwood,” Roy whispered as he thumbed the car radio to life. “It’s nothing personal.”

As luck would have it, “Games Without Frontiers” by Peter Gabriel filled the car.

22

The drive to Maddy O’Neill’s place would take thirty minutes according to Bazz—but only if they made a straight shot to it. Bazz insisted, and Dean didn’t have any objections, on taking a forty two minute route in order to suss out anyone that might be tailing them.

“Just want to make sure,” Bazz said as he loosened his grip on the steering wheel of the rental car. “You never know.”

Dean said nothing as his gaze drifted out the window at the westernmost city in the Florida panhandle. Like he had told Layla over the phone, he had never been there before, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to scenery so different from LA.

I’ve been in that bubble for so long that I forgot that there are other places in the world to see.

As the rental cruised down the highway, Dean surveyed the coastline out his window, something that, according to the pilot back on the flight, measured over fifty miles. When Dean peeked out the window—Roy’s window—on the plane, Pensacola looked like an oasis, its own little island that triggered Dean to think about those Pirates of the Caribbean flicks.

When Grace is old enough, Dean smirked, we’ll take her to Disneyland with Jeremy.

She’ll love it.

He blinked his eyes, shook loose the thought, and put his focus back out the window. People filtered in and out of the turquoise-hued waters, the color a stark contrast to what Dean saw in places like Santa Monica and Long Beach. Seaside dwellings clung to the shore. The major metropolitan buildings of the city itself rested closer inland. The more Dean took it in, the more he understood why someone like John O’Neill would want to make this place his home.

It’s still a city, but it’s not like DC or LA at all.

It’s its own little paradise, a slice of heaven far away from the normal hustle and bustle.

“So,” Dean said, “this is where John liked to spend most of his time, huh?”

“When he could,” Bazz said. “No matter how hard he tried to distance himself from agency life though, it clung to him like a birthmark.”

I’m tired of talking about that shit.

I don’t want to dwell on that.

I just want to focus on the job at hand.

“You remember where his house is, yeah?” Dean said. “You said it was on a street called Acapulco Camino.”

“I can’t remember the exact address, but I’ll know it when I see it. John forked over a good penny to get his hands on it.”

“You said money wasn’t an issue for him after he cut ties with the agency.”

“If you play your cards right when you're working for Langley, depending on what your position was, you could pad a nice little retirement account for yourself.”

A thought crossed Dean’s mind.

He squinted.

Then he turned his body toward Bazz.

“Who was your handler?” he said. “Yours and John’s. The guy who gave you the orders to take out Alec Murphy.”

Bazz glanced over at Dean. “Dan Bolton. Good man. He was one of those old-school agency guys. He came in around the Three Days of the Condor era, if that makes any sense.”

“The Cold War days.”

“Exactly, which is why it’s rumored—rumored, mind you—that Bolton was one of a handful of people who made the program that Alec Murphy came from.”

“What was the program?”

“Again,” Bazz said, “it’s all hearsay and speculation. The program might not even exist anymore. If it does, it’s some different iteration.”

Dean shrugged. “What can you tell me about Bolton?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I’m trying to piece together more of the puzzle, Bazzy. All of this traces back to Alec Murphy and the night that he was killed. You said that Bolton was the one who arranged it, so if that’s the case, maybe trying to contact him is a logical step to make.”

A forlorn look overcame Bazz. “Remember when I told you I tried to get in touch with someone at the agency?”

Dean nodded.

“Well, I put in a call to an old case officer named Arthur Greene who was chums with Bolton. I didn’t have a direct line to Bolton, but I figured that Greene might. When I called Greene after John called me to try and feel this whole thing out, Greene told me I was being paranoid, that there was no way Alec Murphy could be alive.”

“Did Greene put you in contact with Bolton, at least?”

“No,” Bazz groaned. “When Bolton left the agency, he went deep underground. The nature of the work he did, the operations that he took part in…well, he wanted to run as far away from the agency as he possibly could. Only people with top clearance levels could get a hold of him. Greene was the only one I knew who could put me in touch with Bolton, and the second he dismissed my concerns, the same went for my request to get Bolton’s contact information.”

“So there’s no way to get in touch with Bolton,” Dean said. “No way at all.”

Bazz shook his head. “The only way we can get Bolton to come out of hiding is to get our hands on whatever John sent Maddy and get it out into the open. Once we do, well, I figure that’ll light a fire under Bolton’s ass.”

Dean ripped his eyes off Bazz.

This doesn’t make sense.

John O’Neill was clearly targeted for a hit because of what he knew.

The CIA knows more than they’re letting on.

It’s what those dickheads do.

“Bazz,” Dean said, “is it possible that the agency knows what’s going on? That they’re well aware of this whole ordeal and that they’re just keeping a safe distance until we uncover something that might trigger them to come out of their cave?”

“Most definitely,” Bazz said. “And that’s a big reason I stopped working for them. Nothing is ever what it seems. That smoke and mirrors shit you hear and see and read about is all true. There’s always a deal being made and another deal being made behind that deal, if you catch my drift.” He tensed up. “Hell, we could have eyes on us right now, for all we know.”

It was rare that something got a rise out of Dean. Fear was something he’d learned to live with, to use to his advantage. He always maintained a steady hand even back when he was in the middle of a firefight during his tenure as a Ranger—but now he couldn’t help but feel his right hand twitch at the prospect that something dire was about to knock on his front door, that the dangerous situations he spent months trying to distance himself was about to show up in the form of some assassin with a fake name and the corresponding passports to match.

You need to leave.

You need to go home.

This is what Layla meant.

You have your warning sign.

You need to double back and go home right now.

“Bazz,” Dean said. “As soon as we get to Maddy’s, as soon as you have eyes on her, hell, even if you don’t…” he pinned his sights to his buddy, “I need to go home. Regardless of how the next few hours play out.”

Bazz’s face became a study of dismay. “Deano⁠—”

“I can’t do this, man. Every second that passes, the deeper that we dig into this thing, the more I’m starting to understand that I’m getting in over my head here. Look, I helped you get a line on Maddy. I’ve done what I can to try and sift through the pieces with you, but…” Dean closed his eyes. “I gotta call it quits. I’ll go with you to O’Neill’s place, help you scope it out, and if we find Maddy, great, but once we do or once we don’t,” he fixed his gaze to his buddy, “I have to go home.”

Silence held sway throughout the car. Only the low rumble of the rental car’s motor was audible as Bazz drove for a mile and a half before he opened his mouth. “I understand,” he said. “I do. I just feel lost if I don’t have someone helping me out here, Deano.”

“I know,” Dean said. “And it kills me to have to tell you all of this. But I gotta think about my family, Bazzy. If I spiral too far down this path, I’m going to reach a point that I won’t be able to come back from. I’m sorry, my friend. I’ll help you look through O’Neill’s place, but that’s it.”

Nothing was said.

Bazz didn’t even nod in acknowledgment.

23

Letting down his friend, the man who had helped him get back on his feet back when no one else could, filled Dean with regret like he had never felt before. He loved Bazz to the ends of the earth. He wanted to do what he could to help him, but everything that Dean had been through, all of the choices that he had made that dictated the trajectory of his life had brought things into clear focus for him nearly a year ago: he was an adrenaline junkie, and much like his alcoholism, it was something that he could never cure, so the only way to make sure that he stayed clean was to steer clear of it as much as he possibly could.

Bazz has to do this on his own.

He has to.

I know he’s in trouble, but I can’t let him pull me down with him.

As the rental car eased to a halt in front of a seaside condo off Acapulco Camino, Dean tried to think of something else to say to Bazz. He wanted to offer something in the way of an apology, some sort of condolence or assurance that he cared for his friend, but he knew he’d said everything he needed to say during the drive.

Help him clear the house.

Hope that you find Maddy.

Once you do, you turn your back, and you go home to your family.

Maybe your friendship with Bazz will be soured, but⁠—

“Dean,” Bazz said.

Dean looked at his friend.

“I’m not mad. I understand why you have to do what you have to do.”

Dean drew a deep breath, held it, and let it slip out. “I have to do what’s right for me, man,” he said. “That’s all. I have to think of my family.”

His friend clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I know.” He forced himself to smile. “Just help me clear the house. Once that’s done, take the rental car back to the airport and catch the first flight you can back to LA.”

“You’re sure?”

Bazz nodded. “I’ll figure something out. As soon as I get this whole thing sorted, I’ll call you and let you know I’m okay.”

Dean said nothing.

Bazz then took out the SIG from his waistband, checked the rounds, and flexed his grip on the handle. “One last hoorah,” he said. “Then let’s get you back home.”

Dean took out his weapon. Thumb-checked the rounds. Then he nodded at Bazz, slipped out of the car, and strolled beside him to the front of John O’Neill’s seaside paradise.

The house was two stories, cottage style, and painted a baby blue hue. In lieu of grass, rolling mounds of sand paved the way to the front door, seagrass swayed in the saltwater breeze that teased Dean’s senses as soon as he was out of the car.

Golden hues tinted with salmon pink painted the horizon just beyond the home. Dean glanced to his left and then to his right, the nearest neighbor a mile on one side and a mile and a half to the other, and just beyond the wraparound back porch he saw a private dock where a dinghy tethered to it bobbed like a cork in the water.

Isolated.

Tranquil.

The perfect place for someone to live their life free of hassle.

“There a back entrance?” Dean said.

Bazz nodded. “You thinking of moving into the place the same way we did last time?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll take the back.” Dean held the SIG by his side. “You take the front. The place is small enough that we’ll meet in the middle pretty quickly. Clear the ground floor, then we’ll go upstairs.”

Nothing more needed to be said, so both men moved toward the front of the house. As Dean stepped on to the porch and appraised each of the windows as he moved around back, the creak of his boots on the floorboards—if someone were home—was enough, he knew, to signal his presence to anyone inside.

Don’t get shot.

Just get in, get out, and go home.

The lock pick in Dean’s pocket came in handy once again. After he jimmied open the lock to the back door, he slipped inside, closed it behind him, and noted the faint fragrance of what smelled like a lavender candle.

Someone was here.

Recently.

Maybe they still are.

He turned left into the kitchen. Even though it was small, it gave off a homely and comforting vibe replete with a bay window near a nook that looked out onto the private dock. After Dean cleared the kitchen, he padded his way into the living room.

The painting on the wall above the fireplace was the first thing that caught Dean’s eye, a realist painting—that’s what they call it, right?—of a ship being tossed around in a storm.

Dean inched closer to the art piece, his eyes pinned to the gray-bearded sea captain with the despondent look on his face at the helm. The captain looked like he’d come to terms with the fact that his vessel was moments away from breaking apart before it sank to the bottom of the ocean.

“Yeah,” Dean whispered. “I feel you…”

He turned around.

Heard the clack of a gun hammer.

Then his gaze turned up to the five-foot-and-some-change woman with red hair on the staircase pointing a gun at his head.

24

The weapon the woman had trained on Dean’s head was a Walther PPK, more famously known as the gun James Bond liked to wield. The weapon, in a man’s hand, looked demure when it was waved around, but in the woman’s hand—Dean assumed it was Maddy—it looked like a cannon.

“Easy,” Dean said as he held up his hands. “I’m⁠—”

“Drop it,” the woman cut in. “On the floor.”

“Listen, I’m⁠—”

“I could give a flying fuck who you are. If you don’t drop the gun on the floor right now,” the woman inched closer, “I’ll split your skull in two.”

“Alright.” Dean gently dropped the SIG to the floor as his eyes probed the room for Bazz. “You want me to kick it away?”

The woman nodded. “That’d be swell.”

With his right foot, Dean nudged the SIG under the couch on his right. He held up his hands higher. Then he wondered where the hell Bazz was and what was taking him so long to make his appearance. In a lot of ways, it felt like he was a third grader forced to do a school play and his scene partner forgot to run on stage after someone gave him the cue.

“Are you Maddy?” Dean said. “Madeline?”

She said nothing.

“Okay, well...” Dean flattened his palm against his chest. “I’m Dean.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should. I’m here to help you.”

“Yeah. Right.”

The skepticism seethed out of the young woman with a thickness so tangible Dean could practically taste it. He said nothing, his eyes searching around as he—still—wondered what was holding up Bazz.

“Why are you here?” the woman finally said. “What do you want?”

“I told you,” Dean replied. “I’m here to help you.”

“Prove it.”

“I’m trying to.” Dean smirked. “The guy who can clear this all up is taking his time to get here, apparently.”

The woman’s eyes flashed wide. “Who else is with you?” She flexed her grip on the Walther. “Where is he? Where is he hiding? What the hell are⁠—?”

“Easy.”

“No!” The woman tiptoed down the stairs, the beads of sweat on her brow so thick that Dean could spot them even from thirty-some-odd feet away. “Tell me why you’re here.”

“Let me call out to my guy,” Dean said. “You know him.”

“What’s his name? Tell me now.” The woman held the gun out further as though doing so would make the bullet she was about to fire travel faster than it already would. “I swear, I’m five seconds shy of blowing your head out of your ass.”

“As colorful as that sounds, I’d like you to refrain from doing that, if possible.”

The woman descended two more steps down the staircase. “I’m going to count to three.”

“Maddy.”

“One.”

Come on, Bazz.

“Two.”

Where the hell are you?!

“Thr—”

“Madeline!” Bazz’s voice cut in as he rushed into the living room from the kitchen. “Easy! It’s alright. It’s me—it’s Bazz!”

The sight of Bazz appeared to put Maddy at ease. She lowered the gun, the weapon falling from her grip and landing on the stairs with a booming thud. She smiled wide. A tear slid down her cheek. Then she dashed down the last few steps, ran into Bazz’s arms, and held onto him like he was a life raft in the middle of open waters.

Dean breathed a sigh, scooped up his SIG from under the couch, sat on one of the arms, and checked his pulse.

“What took you so long, Bazzy?” Dean said. “Your girl here nearly blew my head off.”

“Sorry,” Bazz replied as he cupped Maddy’s face in his hands. “I had to tie my shoe.”

Dean squinted. “You’re shitting me.”

“I’m not.”

Wonderful.

Dean engaged the safety on his weapon.

I nearly got killed because Bazz doesn’t know how to tie a knot.

25

Not long after Maddy ran into Bazz’s arms, the two of them were seated at the table in the kitchen. Bazz had taken Maddy’s hand into his own, the sight—to Dean—similar to that of a police officer who was trying to console the family member of a victim. As Bazz spoke to Maddy, Dean lingered near the front door, anxious to get back in the car and hotfoot it to the airport as quickly as humanly possible.

Give it a few minutes.

Let them talk.

Dean checked the time on his G-Shock and saw that the six o’clock hour was creeping in.

It’s almost over.

“Are you all right?” Bazz asked Maddy. “I know you’ve been here for a little while.”

A depleted and ashy-skinned Maddy nodded. “I’m fine. I’m just tired.” She gestured around the room. “After Dad told me I had to get out, I got here as soon as I could.”

“He told you to come here, right? This was the meeting spot?”

“Yeah. He said he’d meet up with me as soon as he finished,” Maddy shrugged, “well, whatever it was that got him all upset. I’m not sure what’s going on.” Her eyes flickered up at Bazz. “And I was hoping you might be able to tell me.”

Bazz patted her hand. “I’m here now. We’re going to get this sorted out.”

“What the hell is going on, Cliff?” Maddy threw up her hands. “I’ve been in the dark here for two, maybe three, weeks now. I was starting to feel like…well, like Dad used to whenever he was in a crowd. Everyone I’ve walked past, anyone who’s tried to talk to me, I…” She sighed. “I don’t know. I just keep thinking someone’s coming after me.” She looked over at Dean. “Sorry I almost shot you, by the way.”

A sarcastic smirk slid across Dean’s lips. “All good.”

“I can’t believe I was about to shoot you.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

“No,” Maddy said, “I mean it. I was going to pull the trigger on two even though I said I was going to do it on three.” She held up her thumb and index finger an inch apart. “You were this close to getting killed. You have no idea.”

“Again,” Dean said as his faux smile widened, “all good.”

Bazz scooted his chair closer to Maddy’s. “We need to talk about what’s going on,” he said. “We need to get on the same page and start formulating a plan here.”

“Tell me what’s going on with you first,” Maddy said. “Tell me about Dad. Is he all right? Do you know where he is?”

It took every bit of restraint Dean had to not look at Bazz. He could see his friend exercising a similar self-discipline in the way he tensed his jaw muscles when Maddy asked if her father was still alive.

“He’s okay,” Bazz lied. “I’m not sure where he is, but that’s the point.”

Maddy took a beat. “All right,” she finally said. “Well, do you know what’s going on? He just told me that I needed to run. He sent me a package, and then he set up what he called his ‘exit plan,’ and before I knew it, I was here.”

Bazz tapped the table with his index finger. “That’s what we need to discuss—this thing he sent you. Do you have it on you?”

“I do.”

“Where is it?”

Even Dean, who was moments away from leaving Bazz and Maddy to figure out the situation on their own, couldn’t fight his curiosity he had when the “thing” was mentioned. He stepped closer to the table, his arms crossed as he watched Maddy pivot her gaze between Bazz and the floor.

“It’s here,” Maddy said. “It’s safe.”

“Where is it?” Bazz said again. “I have to take a look at it.”

Maddy withdrew her hand from Bazz’s. She placed it in her lap. Then she bit her lip, stood up, and paced the kitchen floors. “Bazz,” she wrung her fingers, “I’ve known you since I was little. You’re one of the few people my dad ever had around. He knew you. He trusted you. I guess the same goes for me.”

Bazz narrowed his eyelids. “What are you getting at, Maddy?”

She took a moment. “I don’t know what’s going on. Whatever it is, it’s big enough that it made Dad afraid for his life. I can’t remember the last time he was ever this scared, if ever. I guess what I’m trying to say is,” Maddy shrugged, “I guess I’m worried if…if I can trust you.”

“Maddy,” Bazz shook his head, “I⁠—”

“Please, Cliff.” Maddy held up her hands. “Whatever Dad sent me is important enough that he made me come here, that he made me wait for you. He wouldn’t have done any of that if it wasn’t a big deal. I just need to be sure that once I give you what Dad sent me that it’s going to end all of this. This whole thing is a nightmare, and I just need you to promise me that I can trust giving you what he sent me.”

Bazz stood up, walked over to Maddy, and gently placed his hands on her shoulders. “You can trust me,” he said. “That’s why I’m here. I’m scared, too. We all are. But we need to look at what your father sent. That’s why I need you to give me whatever it is that he sent you. Once I can take a look through it, we can figure out what to do from there.”

Maddy turned her eyes up to Dean and looked at him curiously. “Who are you? Why did you come here?”

“I’m Bazz’s friend,” Dean said. “He asked me to help him.”

“Why you? Were you in the CIA, too?”

“I’m a private detective.”

“So,” Maddy shrugged, “you, what, catch wives cheating on their husbands and stuff?”

“As a matter of fact, yeah,” Dean said. “That was the last case I took. It was actually a husband cheating on his wife, but that doesn’t really make a difference.”

“He’s my friend,” Bazz said as he let out a reassuring smile. “A good friend. He came here to help me find you. Now that he did, he’s going to go home.”

Hearing Bazz say that prompted Dean to wince. He didn’t want to abandon Bazz, but he had to.

His family was waiting for him.

“Well,” Maddy said as she retook a seat at the kitchen table, “the thing Dad sent me was a flash drive. He told me not to look at it. He said even if I did, it was locked with a passcode.” She jutted her chin at Bazz. “And he said you’d be the only one who would know how to open it.”

Bazz furrowed his brow. “Passcode?” He looked at Dean as though he had the answers. “I’m not sure what it could be.”

Maddy shrugged. “Dad told me to tell you that what was on it would ‘change everything.’ That’s how he phrased it. He said that once you looked at it, you would probably be upset. He also said that the passcode for it would be obvious, that it wouldn’t be too hard for you to crack it.”

“Let me take a look at it,” Bazz said. “Let me try to open it, and then all of us can get out of here. We can be done with this whole thing.”

“It’s upstairs. I’ll grab it.”

“I’ll go with you.” Bazz gestured to Dean. “I just need to cut my buddy loose here and then we can go get it.”

Maddy left Bazz to speak to Dean as she paced the floors of the kitchen once more. Dean, SIG in his hand, handed it over to Bazz as the two stepped into the living room to speak out of earshot.

“You got it from here?” Dean said.

“I do.” Bazz nodded. “Thank you, buddy. You did exactly what I asked you to do. You helped me find Maddy.”

“I fulfilled part of the deal, my friend. You asked me to watch your back while you went about figuring this thing out, and that part of the deal I’m not exactly following through on.”

Bazz clapped his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I got exactly what I needed. Now that Maddy is safe, now that we’re about to lay eyes on,” he nodded toward the staircase, “whatever the hell this thing is, we can close this out.”

Dean lowered his voice. “What about Maddy’s old man?” he whispered. “When are you going to tell her?”

“I will,” Bazz replied in a hushed tone. “As soon as this is finished. I just need her head on straight until this is all sorted out. When it is, I’ll tell her.”

Bazz offered his hand.

Dean took it.

The two friends then closed in for an embrace.

After they broke the hug, Bazz fished out the keys for the rental. He slapped them in Dean’s palm. Then he patted Dean twice on the arm and told him to go home.

“Check in with me when you can,” Dean said. “Let me know you’re alright.”

“I will.” Bazz motioned to the front door and escorted Dean to it. “It might be a while, though.”

“I have a feeling it might.”

“Say hi to that little girl of yours for me,” Bazz said as he peeled open the door. “She’s a keeper, that one.”

“Yeah.” Dean laughed as he stepped out and pinned his eyes to the rental car. “I might hold onto her for a while⁠—”

His mouth dropped open.

The air felt like it got snatched clean out of his lungs.

A moment after he pointed to the slashed tires of the rental car, he felt the singe of a bullet graze his left ear.

26

The scent of burned flesh was the first thing Dean registered before he flew onto his back. He knew he wasn’t dead. Whoever fired the bullet had missed blowing his brains out the back of his skull by a few inches, but the round still managed to take a dime-sized chunk out of his left ear. Warm blood flowed from the wound, grazing his left cheek.

“Maddy,” Dean heard Bazz holler as the older man threw his body on top of Dean. “Get down!”

As his senses came back, Dean felt Bazz haul him by his collar away from the front door and toward the staircase. Two more bullets drilled through the front door as Bazz pulled him into cover, and then Dean heard Maddy shriek before he spotted her crawling toward the both of them on all fours.

“It’s…” Dean raised a hand to his ear and winced at the pain. “It’s coming from the back porch.” He removed his hand and looked at it, his fingertips and palm coated with crimson.

Bazz slapped the SIG Dean had surrendered back into his palm.

Dean looked at his friend.

The first thought that popped into his mind was, I should have left when I had the chance.

“Maddy,” Bazz said as he grabbed the young woman by the arm. “There’s a linen closet down the hall if I remember right. Go there. Stay there. Keep your head down and don’t come out. Don’t move until I tell you to. Do you understand?”

Maddy nodded, dashed to the left, crawled twenty paces, and then arrived at a linen closet. As soon as she slipped inside and closed the door, two bullets punched their way through the midrail of the linen closet, followed by two more that bore into the floorboards by Bazz’s feet.

Dean’s adrenaline was pumping. Whatever pain he had in his ear, he didn’t register it. A switch in his brain had been turned on, one that had not been toggled in a while, one that had been hardwired into his brain by the Army Rangers so many years ago. No matter how many years went by, that switch still functioned, and the bullet that struck him flicked it to life.

Get into cover.

Lay down covering fire.

Overwhelm whoever is outside and make them work for the kill.

Dean narrowed his eyes.

He clenched his teeth.

Then he grabbed a fistful of Bazz’s shirt, pulled him farther out of view of the back window and into the hallway near the linen closet and held his SIG in both hands.

“Bazz,” Dean’s voice was calm, cool, and level. “Get into the kitchen. Head to the bay window. I’ll cover you. I need eyes on the back. Stay low. Move fast.”

“Deano—”

“Go.”

Dean raised his weapon, trained the sights on the pair of windows ahead of him in the living room, and squeezed off three rounds. Bazz ran and moved in a crouch toward the kitchen as Dean strafed his gunshots from left to right, his aim to overwhelm the enemy for a moment, to make him take a step back and assess the situation.

Look for his muzzle flashes.

Pinpoint his position.

FIND HIM.

“Dean!” Bazz shouted. “I’m here.”

“Can you see him?”

“Negative.”

Silence settled throughout the home.

Nothing stirred.

So Dean got to his feet, pressed his back against the wall, and checked his rounds.

Seven left.

Dean patted his jacket where the spare magazines were stuffed inside.

He checked his pulse.

Then he fished out his cell phone, powered it up, and punched in 911—but he saw that he had no reception. He called out to Maddy and Bazz and asked them to try and use their cells, but both of them replied that they had no reception.

This guy is jamming the phones.

Hot damn.

“Bazz,” Dean called out. “Talk to me.”

“I can’t spot anyone,” Bazz said. “Nothing.”

Dean inched toward the living room in a low crouch.

Where are you?

Where are you hiding?

Where are you moving to?

Are there more than one of you?

Think, Blackwood.

Get this guy out in the open.

A memory resurfaced from Dean’s Home Movie Collection: Kandahar, Afghanistan. Dean was a part of a reconnaissance unit tasked with taking a landing strip. Two of his guys were pinned down by a pair of unseen insurgents. He was more of a risk-taker back then, so in a bid to draw the enemy’s fire, he ran out into the open so he could get eyes on the enemy’s position—and it worked.

The rental car.

It’s parked toward the east.

You’ll have a clear line of sight to the back porch.

Dean flexed his grip on the SIG.

Are you really doing this?

He glanced down and saw that he was already moving toward the front door.

Yep.

You are.

“Bazz,” Dean shouted. “Hold it down here.”

“Where are you going?”

Head low, Dean palmed the front door handle, threw it open, and dashed out into the night.

27

It had been months since Dean ran as frequently as he used to. Before he met Layla, before they had Grace, when he was still on his own, he ran six miles a day—at the minimum. It must have been something hereditary, Dean figured, because even though he’d cut down his runs to a paltry four miles a week, it appeared that he was still the fastest man alive.

Run, Deano.

Pound that goddamn pavement.

Technically it’s sand, but the sentiment still applies.

Dean bounded out of the beach house as soon as he threw open the door; sprinting so fast along the sand that he felt like he was gliding. A pair of rounds from the enemy’s gun punched into the earth beneath his feet, two inches off from drilling into Dean’s boots as plumes of sand billowed like the ground was belching.

Find cover.

Look for the muzzle flashes.

Dean kept running, and a pair of muzzle flashes registered in his peripheral vision near the back porch as he put his focus on the rental car, slid across it like David Starsky, and then slipped into cover behind it just before a bullet demolished the driver’s side window.

Fifty meters away, Dean tallied.

Back porch.

Ten meters to the left of the back door.

Another round punched into the rental car.

Dean waited.

After two more bullets struck the vehicle and Dean heard the click that signaled that his opponent’s weapon had racked back empty, he peeked over the hood of the rental, raised the SIG, and fired six rounds toward the back porch.

Overwhelm him.

Push him toward the beach and chase him down.

Dean squeezed the trigger repeatedly until the slide racked back. He ducked back down. Ejected the magazine. Then fished out another from his jacket, slipped it into the mag well, and resumed firing over the hood of the car. The entire reload process took two-point-five seconds to accomplish, and, once again, Dean had to lend all of the credit to his old instructors.

Hooah.

After Dean depleted another magazine, he ducked back down, slapped his last one in the mag well, and waited. He called out to Bazz and Maddy, and both of them hollered back that they were still in one piece.

A few seconds ticked by.

Then Bazz shouted out, “I see him! He’s moving down the beach.”

Dean sprinted out of cover. He made a beeline toward the shore in a crouch and zig-zagged between cover that came in the form of a peppering of shrubs and trees scattered throughout John O’Neill’s property.

Find him.

Put him down.

Call curtains on this friggin’ bullshit.

Dean touched down on the beach. He scanned the terrain—but all he could make out was the slow-rolling tide, and the only noise he picked up on was the caw of a seagull somewhere off in the distance.

The beach was empty.

There wasn’t a soul in sight.

Whoever launched the attack against the O’Neill household had vanished like a specter into the night.

28

The pain in his ear throbbed like it had its own pulse. Dean, seated at the kitchen table, winced as Maddy dabbed at the wound in his left ear with a bundle of gauze, a first-aid kit opened beside her on the table with all the materials Dean requested so she could bandage the dime-sized chunk of flesh that had been torn out.

None of that went down right.

We should be dead.

Dean squinted as the sting in his ear intensified.

All of us should be dead.

He glanced out the window to his left. Bazz was on the back porch, his SIG held in his right hand while his eyes probed the beach for signs of a second attack. His skin was pale and dotted with sweat, his chest rising and falling like a pissed-off canine.

Whoever did this won’t come back.

Dean scooped up the warm rag doused in crimson that he’d used to wipe the blood off his cheek.

It’s too risky.

He has to regroup.

He’s probably close by, though.

We can’t stay here for too long.

“I think it’s good,” Maddy said as she held up her hands, took a step back, and eyeballed her work. “But I’ll let the expert tell me.”

Dean, the SIG still clutched in his right hand, took the makeup mirror Maddy had brought downstairs and assessed the bandage she had secured over his left ear. It left him looking like Pablo Picasso.

“Solid field dressing,” he said. “Not bad at all.”

“Yeah.” Maddy shrugged. “Dad made me learn.”

Dean tossed down the bloodied rag and then massaged the muscles in the back of his neck. How the hell he’d explain this to Layla, he couldn’t even begin to fathom.

“How’d you think of that?” Maddy said. “Just…running out the front door like that?”

Dean turned up his gaze. “I needed to flank the guy. All of us were sitting in a kill box here. It was the only option I had, really.”

“Kill box,” she said amusedly. “Flanking. You know, for a PI, you sound more like a soldier or something.”

“I was.”

“Which branch?”

“Army Rangers.”

Maddy’s upper lip curved up into a sneer. “I dated a guy who was in the Rangers. Well, he wanted to be, but he didn’t make the cut.”

“Yeah.” Dean flexed his brow. “Bazz said you have a thing for men in uniform.”

“Had. That was a long time ago. It was a phase. Kind of like how some girls are into Hello Kitty when they're in grade school until they grow out of it.”

“Some of them don’t,” Dean said. “I had a client a few months back. Guitar player. He thought his manager was stealing from him. The guy’s wife came into my office when he hired me. She’s thirty-one but she had a Hello Kitty backpack and a t-shirt to match it.”

Maddy snickered. “Pretty weird.”

“Little bit.”

“Did he do it, by the way?”

“Did who do what?”

“The guitar player’s manager,” she said. “Was he really stealing from him?”

“No.” Dean shook his head. “It was his wife. I found about thirty grand in siphoned funds in that Hello Kitty backpack of hers.”

Maddy flexed her brow. “People really are strange, aren’t they?”

“Yeah. Jim Morrison and Robby Krieger were right on the money when they wrote that song.” Dean stood up. “You should get your bags. Get everything you have including the flash drive. We need to move quickly.”

Maddy ran up the staircase as Dean moved out onto the back porch. Bazz was still surveying the beach, his nostrils flared as he mumbled a string of curse words under his breath.

“That was close, Deano,” Bazz said. “Too close.”

Dean nodded over his shoulder. “ I need to show you something.”

The two men walked into the foyer, Dean motioning to the series of bullet holes in the floor and the pair that had been shot into the door of the linen closet where Maddy had been hiding.

Bazz said, “What is it?”

“Solid shooting.” Dean jutted his chin toward the bullet holes. “Don’t you think?”

“Point being?”

“Where was the shooter positioned?”

“Out back. On the porch.” Bazz huffed. “Don’t tell me that steel vault of a memory of yours is crapping out now.”

“Think about it.” Dean gestured to the acorn-sized cavities in the floor where Bazz had nearly gotten shot. “Whoever did this is a premier shooter. It was a challenge for him to try and hit you and Maddy after the first shot went off based on the positions you guys had been in, and he almost pulled it off.”

Bazz shrugged. “What are you trying to say?”

“The first shot that went off hit me,” Dean said. “Right in the ear. Based on where the guy was shooting from, he had me dead to rights when he fired off the first shot.” He pivoted his gaze over his shoulder toward the porch. “He was maybe ten meters away at the most—he had me flush between his sights when he took the first shot.”

A beat passed as Dean watched Bazz process the information.

His mouth dropped open.

His eyes widened.

“He missed,” Bazz said. “The son of a bitch missed you on purpose.”

Dean nodded. “He could’ve killed me, but he didn’t. He opted to wound me instead of blowing my brains all over the door.”

“Well, why didn’t he?”

Dean threw up his hands. “Hell if I know. All I know is that he hesitated. This wasn’t sloppy shooting. Once our guy did find his resolve, though, he didn’t let up. He aimed to put us all down.”

“But you got outside,” Bazz said. “You took the opportunity to push him back and force him to retreat.”

“I got lucky. The only reason we ended up having a fighting chance was because the guy didn’t kill me when he could have. All of us should be dead, Bazzy. This guy had a full house of cards but he chose to fold. He could’ve killed all three of us before we heard the first shot go off, but something stopped him—he hesitated.” Dean shook his head. “But I don’t know why.”

Bazz paced the floors. “Why the hell did he miss? Why didn’t he⁠—?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Dean said. “We need to move. Maddy’s packing her bags as we speak, and whoever took those shots at us might still be out there somewhere. We need somewhere to lie low, some place safe.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You were going to split.”

I was…but I can’t now.

This guy saw me.

He could follow me.

Dean closed his eyes.

He could tail me all the way back home.

He thought about calling the cops, but he knew it would be a bust. How to explain what happened, and at the end of the day, getting the police involved would cause more problems than creating solutions.

“I can’t leave now, Bazzy,” Dean said. “We have to get as wide a berth from this guy as possible. Then we need to see what’s on that drive.”

“I know a place,” Bazz said. “It’s in Gretna, Nebraska. A safe house.”

The location triggered Dean to furrow his brow. “Didn’t realize the CIA had safe houses on American soil, let alone the middle of nowhere.”

“There’s a lot of things the agency does that they shouldn’t be doing. I think you’ve caught onto that by now.”

The pain in Dean’s ear intensified. “I have.” He gingerly touched the bandage with his fingers. “How do you know this safe house in Nebraska is still there?”

“It was mine,” Bazz said. “I set it up a while back with money from a slush fund. Bought it under a fake name. Not even the agency knows it exists. It’s completely off the books. It was my crash pad for a little while. I bought the place so that if things got hot, I could stick it out there for a while. Spent a few nights there back in 2012 after my divorce.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “You were married?”

“Indeed I was.”

“You never told me.”

Bazz sighed. “That’s one memory I choose to try and live without, Deano. You know what that’s like.”

My brother’s murder.

Jeremy being taken hostage.

“Big time.” Dean stepped closer to his buddy. “Look, we need to try and get word out to someone that can help us, someone from the agency that you’re still on good terms with.”

“The list is short, if there even is one at all. John was the only guy I could trust.”

“What about this Greene guy you mentioned? The one you needed to put you in touch with Bolton.”

“I could try him again.” Bazz crossed his arms. “Why? What are you thinking?”

The bullet holes in the floor caught Dean’s eye. “This is bigger than we thought,” he said. “Hit men are coming out of the woodwork now to try and stop us before we can go any further. The goal here was to try and get the agency’s attention, to show that whatever John learned was enough to warrant their participation.”

Bazz huffed. “I can’t just call up Greene and say, ‘Hey, buddy! Some guy just took a few shots at me and my PI friend in Florida. I think it might have something to do with what I told you about.’ Think of how it would sound, Deano. If I tell Greene that, he’ll just hang up the phone and tell me I’m delusional like he did the last time.”

“Or maybe it will cause a stir. Maybe someone from the agency might want to look into it.”

“Or,” Bazz said, “the agency is behind this, and whoever they sent was one of their own.”

The hairs on the back of Dean’s neck stood up.

He’s right.

We don’t really know who it was.

Christ, the CIA might be trying to take us out before we can dig up this dirty little secret that John uncovered.

His fingers curled into a fist.

This is whacked.

Completely fucktangular on all sides.

“Okay,” Dean said. “Then we get out of here, we go to the safe house, crack that flash drive open, and find out what’s on it.” His eyes flickered up at Bazz. “How are we going to get there? Flying is too risky, and the rental car,” Dean nodded over his shoulder, “well, I don’t need to state the obvious.”

“I have one,” Maddy announced from the stairs. “It’s in the garage.”

Dean and Bazz turned toward her.

“I drove it here,” she said. “I have a bunch of fake license plates that we can trade out on it.”

Dean huffed. “I assume your old man set you up with that.”

Maddy nodded. “A long time ago, when I moved to my place in Colorado. He said to hold onto them just in case I needed to…well, in case I needed to do exactly what we’re doing right now.”

Looks like John O’Neill’s paranoia paid off when we needed it to.

Dean looked at Bazz. “We take her ride. We switch out the plates after a few hundred miles or so, ditch the car, and find a new one.”

“We can’t take a car all the way to Gretna,” Bazz said. “That’s a twenty-hour drive without stops, roughly.”

A migraine crept its way up the back of Dean’s neck. “Then what do you propose we do?”

Maddy held up a single finger. “Dad had a guy. He gave me a number for him. He said he was a pilot.”

The newsflash triggered Bazz’s eyes to widen. “Was his name Lee Fox?”

“Yeah.” She nodded. “That’s the one.”

Dean looked at Bazz curiously. “Who’s Lee Fox?”

“He used to be one of us,” Bazz said. “He used to fly for the agency back when they were involved in all that Iran/Contra shit in the eighties. He flew Cessnas at one point with Barry Seal, the guy that Tom Cruise played in American Made, only Seal was a big fat dude instead of that handsome S-O-B.”

“I get the picture,” Dean said as he put his focus on Maddy. “You still have his number?”

“Yeah. My dad made me memorize it.”

“Then we get on the move. We head out, get in touch with this Fox guy, and find a way for him to hook us up with a ride. Hopefully,” Dean nudged Bazz, “he’ll be willing to cash in on a favor.”

“If he wants cash,” Maddy said, “I’ve got about thirty grand in my suitcase here that I had stored away for safekeeping that we can use.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Let me guess,” he said, “your old man hooked you up with that, too?”

Maddy said nothing—but Dean didn’t need her to.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Dean said. “As fast as we can.” He thought of the cell phone in his pocket. “Maddy, is their tin foil in here?”

“In the kitchen,” she said. “Why?”

A sliver of a smirk was on Bazz’s face. “We need to wrap our cell phones in them to kill the signals. When the firefight broke out, this guy jammed our devices.” He glanced over at Dean. “Yet another reason to suspect the agency might’ve been behind the hit.”

“What about getting in touch with Fox?” Maddy said. “How are we going to do that if we can’t make any calls?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Dean said. “But we need to move. Right now. We’ll coordinate while we’re on the road.”

Three minutes later, Dean, Bazz, and Maddie sped down the road in a Ford Escape—Appropriate, Dean thought—and put as much distance between themselves and the beach home as possible. The entire ride, Dean, seated behind the wheel, checked his mirrors every three seconds for signs of someone following, his ear throbbing and senses heightened as his thoughts became fixed on his family.

I shouldn't have come here.

But it’s too late now.

I can’t call Layla.

I can’t tell her what’s happened.

I’m stuck in this situation until I can find a way out of it.

Dean tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

It’s just like Gob said in Arrested Development: “I’ve made a huge mistake.”

Dean looked at himself in the rear-view mirror. First he saw the bandage on his ear, soaked at the top with a thin ribbon of blood. Then he took note of his eyes and saw a kind of rusted patina glaze them, something he hadn’t seen in some time. The look of a man on the ragged edge, the Dean Blackwood he had spent so long putting in a cage before storing it away in a basement so that he could never come out again. The man that he saw looking back at him was the man who had a thing for mayhem and destruction, and now, despite Dean’s best efforts, that man had returned.

What have I done?

Dean blinked his eyes slowly.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

Again.

29

After the plane ride with Dean Blackwood, Roy felt the need to scratch the Peter Gabriel itch. Even after the botched attempt on Dean and Bazz and John O’Neill’s daughter, even though he had to clean and suture the round that grazed his arm—thanks to Blackwood—Roy couldn’t refrain from putting on “I Don’t Remember” on his cell phone before he proceeded to douse the flesh wound in his arm with betadine.

You got good taste in music, Blackwood.

Roy examined the wound in the mirror of his shoddy motel bathroom.

Even if you did try to kill me.

It took just a few minutes to clean, stitch, and bandage the cut. Roy should have felt something in the way of pain, but he didn’t. He tuned it out. It was just one of the many abilities the agency drilled into him back when he was still on their payroll.

They also taught me how to kill without remorse.

Roy dabbed at the cut with a towel and then proceeded to slip on a clean t-shirt.

So, why did I hesitate when I could have blown Blackwood’s head off?

I could’ve shot him, Bazz, and the woman, and been done with it.

He braced against the bathroom sink and hung his head.

I hesitated. I couldn’t kill Blackwood.

After talking to him on the plane, I just…I couldn’t do it.

Roy stepped out of the bathroom, padded his bare feet across the stiff carpet of the thirty-bucks-a-night motel room in Pensacola, and slipped down on the bed.

He held his head in his hands.

Closed his eyes.

Then he started to wonder what had happened to his mind and how he could have gone so soft after so many years of killing without remorse.

Because you had a family.

Roy looked down at the wedding band on his ring finger.

You got a taste of a normal life.

No, you didn’t get a taste—you indulged yourself in a three-course meal night after night after night.

The moment Blackwood told you he was a father, you knew you couldn’t kill him.

Maybe not consciously, but you knew you couldn’t go through with it.

The issue now was how to catch up with Blackwood, Bazz, and O’Neill’s daughter. If they were smart—and they were—they would find a way to slip out, go on the run, and find a place to hole up.

Roy would have to confess to Dallas that he’d allowed his targets to get away. There was no way around it. But knowing the man as well as he did, a brief chiding would follow, but then things would pivot to how to remedy the problem and be done with it. Moments after Roy knew that would be the way things panned out, the cell phone on his bed chirped to life.

He picked up the phone.

Thumbed the answer button.

Then he said, “I’m here,” and waited for Dallas to speak.

“Status?”

Roy closed his eyes. “No joy.”

There was a pause. Then Dallas told Roy to explain himself, and Roy provided him every little detail but lied about the part where he willingly chose to wound Dean Blackwood instead of killing him. He made it seem like Blackwood had gotten the drop on him before he could pull the trigger.

“I should’ve figured this would happen,” Dallas said. “You haven’t killed anyone in twenty years. First you take out O’Neill like Alec Murphy would, and then you miss your chance to take out the other three. Maybe the training we put you through didn’t stick as well as we thought it would.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Roy replied. “We still have a job to do, and I’m going to do it.”

“Why shouldn’t I just burn you right now and walk away, Ellis? You’re clearly not as effective as I thought you were, like you used to be.”

“They have whatever O’Neill sent them. We need to get our hands on it before it’s too late.”

“It might be too late already,” Dallas said. “That window might be closed.”

Roy said nothing.

He’s right.

They might know the truth by now.

About the program.

About Alec Murphy.

His heart skipped a beat.

About me.

Hell, they might know everything by now.

“There might be a play to make here,” Dallas said. “There’s still a chance we can get a line on Bazz, Maddy O’Neill, and this guy Blackwood.”

“How?”

“Dan Bolton.”

“Who is that?”

“The name doesn’t mean anything to you?”

“No.” Roy shrugged. “Should it?”

“He was one of several men who created the program that Alec Murphy was a part of,” Dallas said, “the program you were a part of, Ellis.”

Alec Murphy.

Roy shook his head.

Why couldn’t that son of a bitch just stay dead?

“I never met anyone who created the program,” Roy said. “Me or…” his nostrils flared, “Alec Murphy, for that matter. No agent who was a part of the program ever did.”

“You did,” Dallas replied. “You just don’t remember. The agency went to great lengths to scrub anyone who trained you from your memory, like we told you we would. After that, once you went out into the field, all you had was a contact directing you and telling you where to go—me.”

I’m aware, Dallas.

I killed for you for years, and I’ve never even seen your face.

“Okay,” Roy said, “so where does Bolton come into play here?”

“I have,” Dallas replied, “…well, I have a line on him. I’ve been keeping tabs on Bolton, in a manner of speaking. Aside from being the one who breathed life into Alec Murphy, he was also O’Neill and Bazz’s superior at the agency. If we assess this situation and break down things in terms of the odds, well, then the odds are high that Bazz will try to get in touch with Bolton to lend him a hand.”

“So,” Roy said, “if Bazz contacts Bolton, you’ll know, and then you’ll tail Bolton to Bazz and his friends.”

“Precisely.”

“How sure is this? Bazz getting in touch with Bolton, I mean.”

“Leave that to me,” Dallas said. “In the meantime, you stick it out there in Pensacola and wait for my call. I’ll keep a close eye on Bolton. If Bazz gets ahold of him, I’ll know, and then I’ll inform you of where he is. This time, you accomplish your mission—or you consider putting your family down.”

Roy shot up from the bed, his heart racing as his skin turned red. “What the hell did you just say to me?”

“You heard me,” Dallas said. “Because if you fail to take out these people again, what I will do to your family will compel you to put a bullet in each of their heads before I get my hands on them. Don’t test me. Just do as I say.”

The call was terminated.

The phone slipped from Roy’s grip.

He plopped back down on the bed, held his head in his hands, and cursed Alec Murphy, Bazz, Blackwood, Dallas, John and Maddy O’Neill, and the day that he was approached by that recruiter from the CIA all of those years ago.

“Do you want to serve your country?” Roy could hear the recruiter say in his mind. “Do you want to be a patriot?”

“I do,” Roy heard his younger self reply. “More than anything, sir.”

At the cost of everything.

Roy grabbed a fistful of the comforter beneath him and squeezed.

At the cost of it all.

This will never stop.

This nightmare will never go away.

His cell rang—the other one.

The one that his family used to keep in touch with him.

Roy cleared his throat.

Straightened his posture.

Then he answered the call and greeted his wife with a jovial, “Hi, sweetie,” and momentarily forgot about the pain from the flesh wound in his arm.

“Hello, darling,” Melissa said weakly.

Based on the sounds of the flowing faucet in the background, Roy figured the love of his life was in the middle of her nighttime routine. First came the face rinse. Then the moisturizer. Then the hand cream and one episode of a sitcom before she called it lights out.

“Are you in bed?” Roy asked.

“Getting there,” his wife said. “What about you?”

“Same.”

“How was your day?”

The bold-faced lie was at the ready, one that Roy prepared in advance an hour earlier so he could have it in the chamber when Melissa called. According to the fib, his day consisted of nothing more than rifling through his old client’s tax returns, a brief stopover at a golf course, and drinks at a lodge before he retired back to his room at the Marriott. Roy even went so far as to pad the lie with the kind of a dinner he ate along with the pair of cocktails he had at the lodge just in case his wife might ask, which she didn’t.

“You sound tired,” Melissa said.

Roy nodded. “I am.”

“More than usual, I mean. You sound like you did before you left.”

She knows you.

She can sense something is wrong.

Heck, you’ve been married long enough by now.

“I just want to come home,” Roy said. “I’m hoping to expedite things as much as possible so I can get back as soon as I can.”

“You will,” Melissa said. “I have faith in you. Just keep your head down, do what you need to do, and you’ll be back here before you know it.”

“I will.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Get some sleep. I’m going to do the same.”

“I will,” Roy said. “I’m going to conk out right now.”

“Good,” Melissa replied. “The faster you fall asleep, the quicker you’ll be back home.”

“Very true. Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Goodnight, darling.”

Roy hung up the phone, plugged it into the charger, and sank back on the bed. Before he slipped into a slumber, he took one last look at the bandaged wound on his arm and tried to think of what excuse he would offer to his wife when she asked how the hell he had gotten it.

30

Amoment after Melissa hung up the phone, Taylor scampered into the bedroom her mom shared with Roy. Once Melissa spotted her daughter’s attire—blue jeans, sneakers, and a cream-colored satin blouse—she knew that she was headed out for the night.

“Going to bed?” Taylor said.

Melissa smiled and glanced over her shoulder at her daughter. “I take it that you’re not.”

A mischievous snicker came out of Taylor. “Adam and I are going for a drink, if that’s okay.”

“Last I checked, you’re an adult—you don’t need my permission.”

“I just wanted to let you know in case we come back late. I don’t want to wake you.”

Melissa snagged the under eye cream from the medicine cabinet. “Come in through the garage,” she said. “And make sure you lock up and engage the security system when you do, okay?”

Taylor nodded happily.

Melissa flexed her brow. “You remember the code?”

“My b-day,” Taylor said as a smile brimmed from one of her ears to the other. “Best day of the year.” She made her way up to Melissa, kissed her on the cheek, told her that she loved her, and then dashed out of the room.

Melissa smiled indulgently. She knew that Taylor and her fiancé were breaking the house rules of sleeping in separate rooms while they were staying here, but she wouldn’t call her daughter out on it. Back when she was her age, she was breaking the rules herself.

Young love.

Melissa dabbed the cream under her eyes.

There’s nothing more exhilarating.

After the nighttime routine was finished, Melissa meandered her way toward the bed. After she settled into the soft mattress, she switched on the television and turned the volume down low so she could listen in to Taylor and Adam as they slipped out of the house. She heard their voices. The laughter. Then the garage sliding open followed by the sounds of Adam’s car easing out of the driveway.

Melissa waited until she heard the vehicle disappear down the road. Then she stood up, walked over to the window, made sure the car was gone, and then proceeded to switch off the television.

She waited a full minute.

After it passed, she headed to her and Roy’s walk-in closet, turned on the lights, and padded her bare feet through a closet flanked by shelves of shoes.

Melissa got down on both knees, her heart racing as she slid her fingers around the box that contained the Aetrex Finley closed-toed heels.

She removed the box.

Pried off the lid.

Then she took out the shoes, and fished out the flip-style burner phone that she had stored underneath them.

Melissa held the phone close to her chest. Her eyes narrowed. Then she got up, wandered into the bathroom, closed the door, and plugged in the only number stored into the contacts, the number ringing twice before the line picked up.

“Go ahead,” Dallas said.

Melissa closed her eyes. “It’s me.”

“I know. Why are you calling?”

“I’m calling for a sitrep.”

“You’re not on the payroll anymore,” Dallas said. “You’re not entitled to a sitrep. You shouldn’t even have that phone anymore, Adriana.”

Ten years had passed since anyone had called her by that name, the moniker that the agency had given Melissa back when she traveled the globe, when she was younger and spent her nights cozying up to sheiks, princes, and power players that the CIA had their eyes on. In reality, they didn’t really have eyes on those guys yet. That was Melissa’s—Adriana’s—job. Move in close and use whatever means she had to get into bed— metaphorically and literally—with those men so she could extract the information the agency needed.

So many marks.

Melissa tightened her grip on the phone.

So many that I can’t even remember them all.

“Adriana,” Dallas said, “if you’ve got nothing else, I’m terminating this call.”

“Is Roy okay?” Melissa said. “Is he safe?”

“He’s doing his job.” Dallas groaned. “I’m hanging up now.”

“Wait.” Melissa’s eyes widened. “I need to know that Roy is all right. You owe me that much, Dallas.”

“I owe you shit, Adriana,” Dallas said. “How many times do I have to remind you that you don’t work for me anymore?”

“I’ve earned the right to have these questions answered after all I did for you.”

“You’re the one who put this into motion, Adriana,” Dallas fired back. “It’s because of you that I had to activate Roy again. You’re the one keeping your ear to the ground when you shouldn’t have.”

Melissa tightened her grip on the phone. “I did us all a huge favor breaking protocol. John O’Neill was starting to ask questions, questions about things we need to keep buried. If I hadn’t been monitoring the intel networks, John O’Neill would be baring his soul to God only knows who by now.”

The disdain from Dallas was apparent in the way his breathing intensified over the line. After a few beats, he said to Melissa, “Perhaps we should loop Roy into this call, Adriana. If you’re so concerned about maintaining agency secrets, how about we start by telling him that you’re not who you’ve claimed to be for all of these years? How do you think it’s going to sit with your husband if we explain to him who you really are? About the truth of certain things he doesn’t know about?”

Melissa closed her eyes. As far as her spouse was concerned, she was Melissa Ellis—maiden name Clarke, according to the alias that Dallas drafted—a soft-spoken rep for Allstate Insurance he met by “happenstance” at a conference two years before their daughter, Taylor, was born. The background check that Roy certainly ran would have confirmed that Melissa was nothing more than an average citizen who took a liking to him, a woman who didn’t know who he really was or the fact that he used to kill people for a living—and it worked. Roy bought the lie. He never knew that Melissa was Adriana, a tenured CIA spook whose job at that time was to watch Roy, to keep tabs on him for Dallas—but two years into that task, she broke the rules.

She fell in love.

She couldn’t help it.

It just happened.

It was impossible for Melissa not to run through the exposition of her life before Roy. She kept it secret for so long. Eventually it had to cross her mind. She was a trained asset, but she was still a human being at the end of the day.

“What do we do now, Adriana?” Dallas had asked her when she broke the news years before. “You were supposed to make sure that Roy was living out his retirement in peace, and now you’re telling me you’ve fallen head-over-heels for a stone-cold killer. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

“I continue to do what I was assigned to do,” Melissa told him. “But I leave the agency, too. I spend the rest of my life with Roy. The job was to make sure that he was stable. That he was happy. If you really think about it, I went above and beyond in terms of fulfilling your request, and I’ll continue to do that.”

It took some finessing, but the deal was made: Adriana became Melissa full-time. She moved in with Roy. She left the CIA and spent the rest of her years living off his pension and making sure that he never knew who she really was or the fact that she had been assigned to keep tabs on him for Dallas. Twenty years went by. Two decades of suburban bliss replete with a white picket fence, a family, and social events paid for on the government’s dime.

Then Dallas rousted Roy out of retirement.

And whatever job Dallas had given him, whoever Dallas was sending Roy to kill—and God knows Dallas would never give her the details—instilled Melissa with the fear that her husband, the man she’d loved and adored for twenty years, the father of her child, would learn the truth about who she really was. It would change everything. If things went south, life could be over for their family as they knew it.

“Whatever Roy is doing for you,” Melissa said to Dallas as she sat on the floor of her closet, “whatever the job is, I don’t want to know. I just want your assurances that he’s okay, that he won’t…” she held back tears, “that he won’t learn about who I really am. I deserve that much, Dallas.”

“Your identity will remain under wraps, Adriana.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“It’s who you are,” Dallas said, “no matter how much you try to doll yourself up and pretend that you’re just some affluent floozy. Don’t ever forget that.”

Melissa’s grip on the phone tightened to the point that the whites of her knuckles protruded.

“Roy will be finished when he’s finished,” Dallas said. “In the meantime, just sit back and load yourself up with Xanax to take the edge off. And lose this phone. Toss it. Don’t ever call me again. You understand?”

The line clicked off. For a long while, Melissa held the phone to her chest, her mind racing and feeding into the paranoia of what would happen if Roy learned the truth. She loved her husband—that was no lie. But she couldn’t stop fixating on what would happen if he got wise to the circumstances behind their first encounter, that she, his wife, was a glorified babysitter, a former agent like he was, who fell in love with him and opted to live the rest of her days with him under a false identity.

How will that change things?

What would happen?

Would it trigger the killer in Roy to awaken and, a shudder snaked up her spine, take me out as a result?

A single tear slid down Melissa’s cheek.

She wiped it away.

After she returned the cell phone to the shoe box and tucked it away, she slipped into bed, rolled onto her side, and prayed that Roy would return sooner rather than later. As soon as he was back, they could go on living their lives as they had been for so many years in peace.

No one has to know.

Melissa closed her eyes.

Things can go back to the way they were.

31

Why the shooter had missed, why he only chose to wound Dean, was something he just couldn’t let it go. Like he told Bazz back at the beach house, all of them should've been stiffened corpses in the early stages of rigor mortis by now, but...the guy missed.

Why?

Dean toggled the high beams on the vehicle as he eased into a curve on the highway.

His eyes turned up to the rear-view mirror. Maddy was in the back seat, curled in the fetal position, her body tensed and her hands clenched and covering her head like a boxer blocking incoming jabs from their opponent.

Dean put his eyes back on the road.

The adrenaline left her body.

She’s fried.

He stifled a yawn with his fist.

I’m right there with her.

The car cruised on for several miles down the highway before Dean saw Bazz throwing him a look. After Bazz glanced at Maddy in the back seat, he shifted his weight, groaned, and then jutted his chin toward the windshield. “We need to find a gas station or a rest stop or something.”

Dean shot him a look. “You looking for a bite to eat?”

Bazz shook his head. “We need to get our hands on a prepaid phone so we can put a call in to Fox, maybe take another stab at getting ahold of Dan Bolton through Arthur Greene.”

“Do you trust Fox?”

“I do. He flew O’Neill and me a handful of times back when we were still working for the agency.”

Dean huffed. “You got a lot of stories tucked under your belt there, Bazzy.”

Bazz’s eyelids narrowed. “I sense an undertone of sarcasm there, Deano.”

Dean sealed his lips and scanned the darkened highway. Except for the glow of the moon and the one from the vehicle’s headlamps, there wasn’t much in the way of light. The stretch of road felt like a no man’s land. In a lot of ways it reminded him of the time he transported Richard Keys across state lines.

I almost died.

Not just then but plenty of times before that, too.

I might die here.

Tonight.

Hell, maybe even on this road.

“You okay?” Bazz said. “You look like you're lost in thought there, buddy.”

“I am,” Dean replied. “Can you blame me?”

“I’m sorry, brother.” Bazz put his focus out the window. “I should have never dragged you into this.”

“There’s no point in any Monday morning quarterbacking now. We’re here. We just need to focus on the hand we’ve been dealt and act accordingly.”

“You can still cut loose of this. You can just…” Bazz threw up his hands. “You can just leave.”

“You know I can’t,” Dean said. “Not at this point. After what happened at the house,” he felt the sting where the chunk of his ear had been taken out, “I can’t run. I can’t risk bringing this back to my family.”

“This is all my fault,” Bazz said. “I know what you had to sacrifice to build a better life for yourself. The second that shot went off and hit you,” he shrugged heavily, “I don’t know. I guess I feel like I undid a lot of that work you put in.”

The statement was one Dean couldn’t disagree with—but he didn’t want to confess that to Bazz. There was no point in going back and forth on the what-ifs or listening to Bazz dish one apology after another his way.

There’s plenty of time to cry later.

For now, we just need to figure this thing out.

Dean glanced at his buddy. “I really didn’t know, by the way.”

Bazz shrugged. “Know what?”

“That you were married.”

“It didn’t last long. We split after about a year.”

“Post-agency or during?”

“After.” Bazz chuckled “I’m just a tough guy to live with, Deano. It’s as simple as that. I’ve always had a hard time trying to wrestle with my demons.”

Same here…

“No kids?” Dean said. “Sorry to press you, but I’m just starting to realize that there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

“No,” Bazz said. “ I have a nephew, though—Freddy. He’s my sister’s kid. He lived with me for a spell after his mom got locked up for possession.” He sighed. “It was her third strike. I haven’t talked to the kid in a while. He’s a chip off the old block, my nephew. You’d think I was his old man as opposed to his uncle.” His eyes glossed over. “I hope he’s alright. I’m not really sure where he is. I guess that’s my fault.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He was my responsibility after his mother went away. I did the best that I could, but I spent so many years grappling with what I did during my time in the agency that I shirked my responsibilities with Freddy.”

“There’s still time,” Dean said. “When this is over, you should call the kid up.”

“I will,” Bazz replied. “Make no mistake about it.” He turned around and pinned his eyes on a zonked-out Maddy. “When I get eyes on what John sent her, I’m going to blow this thing sky high.”

“What about the passcode?”

Bazz shrugged. “I’m not sure, Deano. I’ll have to think that one through.” He gestured up the road. “In the meantime, we just need to get in touch with Fox and secure our seats on the next flight out of here. After that, I’ll try Greene again. I’ll do what I can to light a fire under his ass so we can get in contact with Bolton. Hopefully, he’ll hear me out this time.”

Twenty minutes and thirty miles later, Dean pulled off at a 7-Eleven, headed inside, purchased two prepaid phones from one of the racks, and paid the kid behind the counter in cash. Even though he knew they needed to get a hold of Fox and Greene, Dean decided that calling someone more important—at least in his book—was the first call that needed to be made.

32

The first thing Layla muttered as soon as she managed to put Grace to bed was, “Miracle.” After she closed the door behind her and scooped up the baby monitor, Claire, her friend and Dean’s ex-wife, furrowed her brow as she turned away from the decaf coffee she was in the middle of brewing.

“What did you say?” Claire jutted her chin. “I heard you mumble.”

“I said, ‘Miracle,’” Layla replied as she slipped down into a chair at the kitchen table and proceeded to knead her neck muscles. “Grace is more stubborn than she has been in a while.” She gestured to Claire. “You’re lucky. From what Dean told me about Jeremy, he went down pretty easily when he was a baby.”

Claire shrugged, poured two cups of coffee, and brought them over to the table. “For the most part. There was a two-week stretch when putting him to sleep was in league with performing an exorcism. His cycle was all over the place.”

They sipped their coffees for a moment. Had Layla remembered that her cell phone was in the bedroom where Grace was sleeping, she would have been able to know that Dean, at that moment, was calling her. Even if it was in her pocket, she was so taxed from wrangling Grace into her slumber that a gunshot could have gone off and it would have taken a second for her to register it.

I wish Dean were home.

Layla batted her eyelids slowly.

For more reasons than one.

“Do you know where Dean is, exactly?” Claire asked. “He told me he was heading out of town the day before last, but he didn’t say where.”

“He’s helping Bazz. I think they’re in Florida right now.”

An amused look spread across Claire’s face. “I figured. Bazz doesn’t make any in-person appearances unless it’s pressing.” She brought the steaming mug of coffee to her lips. “Hopefully, it’s nothing serious.”

“I’ve been praying that that’s the case for the past couple of days.”

“Are you alright?” Claire placed her mug down and scooted her chair closer to the table. “You look,” she shrugged, “well, I’m just going to say it: you look mad.”

“Mad?” Layla said. “I don’t know if I’m mad. Maybe irritated. Concerned. Maybe a combination of both.”

“Because Dean’s helping Bazz?”

“Because Dean is Dean,” Layla said. “You were married to him. I don’t need to tell you what it feels like any time he walks out that door with that look in his eye, and you know the one that I’m talking about.”

Claire nodded slowly. “I could sketch it from memory. When Dean locks onto something…”

“He doesn’t let go.”

“Exactly.” Claire traced her thumb along the rim of her mug. “I don’t want to presume anything, but you have that look on your face that I used to have.”

Layla shrugged. “What look?”

“The one that Dean’s significant other has when they’re worried he might be getting roped into something serious.” Claire flexed her brow. “One that I know more than well during my time as his partner.”

Layla paused, and then said, “I am. And he’s spent so long trying to distance himself from that line of work. It’s been great. Having him home at regular hours, being around the house more, all of that has been wonderful.” She gazed into the distance. “There was always that worry though that something would happen, that someone would come knocking needing Dean’s help, just like Bazz did the other night. Dean was voicing those same concerns, but I told him he didn’t need to worry. The truth was that I was worried, too. I just didn’t want to say anything. I guess I was abiding by that whole ‘one half of the couple needs to be level-headed while the other one is freaking out’ kind of thing or whatever.”

Claire said nothing, but she didn’t need to. The fact that she was offering a listening ear was enough for Layla.

“I would never say this to Dean,” Layla said, “and it kills me to even say it out loud to you, but…”

Claire looked sympathetically at Layla. “What?”

“When you…” Layla closed her eyes and shook her head. “When you left Dean, I mean, I know all about his drinking and him being absent but,” she opened her eyes and met Claire’s warm gaze, “the longer I’ve been with him, the more I’ve experienced what it’s like when he gets in that ‘soldier’ mode of his, the more I’ve started to appreciate what you had to go through when he was at the peak of his troubles. I guess what I’m trying to say is…” Layla’s stomach twisted into a knot, “when you saw Dean slip into that ‘justice at all costs’ thing of his,” it pained her to summon the words, “how long did you stay on board before you called it quits?”

A wide-eyed Claire slid her hand over her mouth.

She cleared her throat.

Then she straightened her posture and put her focus on the photo of a young Dean and his late brother Tommy on the wall. “Are you saying that,” she drew a slow breath, “you’re thinking about leaving Dean?”

“God no.” Layla refrained from shooting up out of her seat. “I’m just worried. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what would happen if Dean found himself in another one of those situations he was always finding himself in. I don’t have to go through the whole list with you of what those were.”

The shadow that passed over Claire’s expression showed that she was well aware. “So, you’re…” she hesitated but then continued to speak, “you’re wondering if Dean might end up going back to his old ways, his old life.”

“It’s hard not to think about it. He’s always attracted trouble like a flame does to a moth.” Layla rolled back her shoulders, shook them loose, and then sighed. “I’ve just been up for too many hours straight. I’m talking nonsense. My mind is just running in circles, that’s all.”

Claire scooped up her coffee mug. “You’re where I was years ago,” she said. “Sitting at a table and wondering if Dean is okay to the point that you feel like you’re going to scale the walls like Spider Man.”

“I am.”

Claire placed her hand on top of Layla’s. “Dean’s come a long way. It’s pretty incredible, actually, and you had a big part in that.”

“I can’t take all of the credit,” Layla said. “Dean’s worked hard on himself.” She motioned to Claire. “And I think some of the accountability you put on him helped with that, too. Still.” Her eyes wandered. “I can’t shake this worry that the old Dean will come walking through the door all bloodied and bruised and telling me that some nut job is hot on his heels because he uncovered some sinister plan in league with a Bond villain.”

Claire shook her head. “Don’t think about that. God knows that can trick the mind into going to some dark places when you’re worn down. I’m sure Dean is fine.”

A few seconds passed as Layla sipped her coffee. Memories of Dean’s exploits, or adventures—she wasn’t sure what to call them—surfaced in her mind. She projected them on the wall behind Claire’s head, the mental images revolving like a funhouse carousel cranked up to the highest speed.

This must be what it’s like for Dean when he thinks about his life.

About Tommy.

His father.

Us.

Everything.

“You know what gets me?” Layla said. “How lucky Dean is.”

Claire’s face was a study of confusion. “How do you mean?”

“Think of it in terms of odds—how many times can someone get shot at before a bullet will, according to the odds, hit them?”

“I practice law.” Claire huffed. “Crunching numbers was never exactly my thing.”

“Geoff’s brother is a risk analyst, right?”

“He is.”

“So,” Layla inched toward Claire, “when Geoff’s brother is calculating the risks of a potential client, he factors in all sorts of things: their overall health, if they smoke, drink, partake in activities that will increase the chances of bodily harm, things like that.”

“Right.”

“The point is,” Layla drew a breath and let it out through tense lips, “everybody, every single person on this planet, gambles with their life in some way. When we get in a car. When we fly on a plane. Even when we go for a walk, we’re cutting down on our chances for survival.”

The color drained from Claire’s face as she listened to Layla ramble on.

“What I’m trying to get at,” Layla said, “is that Dean has thrust himself headfirst into situations time and time again where he shouldn’t have survived. That’s just the fact of the matter. There were more than a handful of times that he should have gotten shot or maimed⁠—”

“Sweetie,” Claire reached out and placed her hand on top of Layla’s wrist, “this isn’t a healthy conversation to be having.”

“Hear me out.”

Claire withdrew her hand and said nothing.

“Dean is a survivor. Time and time again people have cited this…” Layla’s eyes probed the kitchen for a way to phrase it, “rabbit’s foot charm of his. It’s something I’ve always taken comfort in, if we’re being honest. To phrase it crudely, Dean is…well, he’s unkillable.”

Claire remained quiet.

“But there seems to be a catch with that ‘gift,’ if that’s what we’re going to call it.” Layla tapped the rim of her mug with her finger as her eyes flickered contemplatively. “I suppose I’m thinking about that whole ‘born to be a soldier’ thing. No matter how hard Dean tries to hang up his helmet and his rifle, the war, or whatever you want to call it, still manages to find him. It’s like he was born for it. Destined, maybe. I’m not sure.”

Silence held sway.

Layla closed her eyes.

“I can’t shake this feeling, Claire,” she said. “I can’t get over this idea that things are going to start up again for Dean the way they did before. Things have been great recently, yeah. But how long is that going to last? Will it stay that way? Or is he going to come back after this thing with Bazz and tell me that something terrible has happened?”

Layla started to feel the tease of a headache. Every muscle in her body was stiff, and as she blinked her eyes, she felt like the effort was akin to that of trying to kick water uphill.

“I need to sleep,” she said. “I’m not doing myself any favors. You’re right—I’m spinning.”

“Yeah,” Claire said. “You are.” She fetched the coffee mugs, brought them over to the sink, and returned to Layla’s side. “Just rest now. Try to sleep as much as you can. Even a few hours will do you wonders. Trust me.”

But sleep evaded Layla. Moments after she rested her head down on her pillow after Claire left she kept thinking about Dean. About the odds of something bad happening. Loving him, she knew, would never be a question, but for the first time in their relationship, she started to wonder how long she could live with this fear, this constant looking over his shoulder for a new threat to arise.

Go to sleep, Layla told herself as she took one last look at Grace in her crib before she closed her eyes. Try not to think about it.

33

It disappointed Dean that Layla didn’t answer when he called, but he knew there were a myriad of reasons for her not picking up. Having a new baby changed everything. Sleeping, eating—Hell, even going to the restroom—Dean figured was all dictated by Grace, so when Layla didn’t pick up, he didn’t think twice about why. If anything, he was glad he didn’t have to explain that he got shot in the ear, that he was in the middle of watching Bazz contact some old CIA pilot who was about to fly him to a safe house that was, of all places, located in the middle of Nebraska.

Better that she doesn’t pick up, maybe.

Dean strolled through the 7-Eleven parking lot as he watched Bazz pacing the lot with the prepaid phone held to his ear.

Maybe it’s better if we wrap this up and then I tell her what happened in person, once I’m done with all this.

The sting in Dean’s ear returned and triggered him to wince. The field dressing from Maddy had held up fine, but a more permanent solution would have to be applied soon.

Dean threw a look toward Maddy as she slept soundly in the back seat of the car.

Peaceful.

Quiet.

Slumbering like she doesn’t have a care in the world.

“Deano,” Bazz said as he slipped the prepaid phone into his pocket. “We’re set.”

“You got in touch with Fox?”

“I did. He’s going to fly into Jacksonville. It’s about a five-hour drive from here.” Bazz checked his watch. “If we get a move on, we’ll get there just before he touches down. He forwarded me some coordinates of where to meet him.”

“Is he doing us a solid or looking for something in the way of compensation?”

“He wants ten large.”

“Well, we can afford it.” Dean shot a look toward Maddy. “She can, at least.”

“That she can.”

“What about your guy, Greene? Did you call him up?”

“I left him a voicemail,” Bazz said. “I’ll try him again in a little bit. I figured I’ll just keep hounding him until he’s got no other choice than to take my call.”

“Well, at least we got Fox squared away. It’s a start.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Bazz flashed a smile and moved toward the vehicle. “Come on, let’s move.”

Dean held up a finger. “Hold up…”

Bazz terminated his walk and shot him a look.

“Bazzy,” Dean slipped his hands in his pockets and put some distance between himself and the car, “I’ve gotta ask you something.”

“Yeah, of course.” Bazz crossed his arms. “What’s up?”

Dean jutted his chin toward Maddy. “How well do you know her? I mean, how sure are you that she’s not in on this?”

The question prompted the lines in Bazz’s face to pull back into a grimace. “You’re kidding me, right? I mean, you’re not really entertaining the idea that she’s someone working against us.”

“Can you blame me?” Dean shrugged. “I know I’m a novice to this whole espionage game, but doesn’t rule number one stipulate that there’s no such thing as trust?”

Bazz rubbed a hand over his face. “Oh, for chrissakes, Dean…”

“Don’t groan.” Dean stepped closer toward his buddy. “Just answer me.”

It took Bazz a moment to let the glower slip off his face. After he straightened his posture, he shook his head, cleared his throat, and said, “No. I don’t think she has anything to do with this.”

“How do you know?”

“How about you tell me why you think she might?”

“We picked up a tail,” Dean said. “Someone followed us to that house. Someone had the drop on us. They knew where we were going.”

“And you think that Maddy might have tipped them off that we were coming?” Bazz squinted. “How the hell could she have possibly known?”

“I’m operating from the mindset that I don’t know anything, that I can’t trust anyone.”

Bazz’s lips tightened into a razor-thin line. “Does that lack of trust extend to me, as well?”

“You might be the only person I can put my faith in at this point,” Dean said. “I’ve gotten in way over my head here. It is what it is. My only mission now is to make sure I get through this thing with all of my arms and legs attached so I can get back to my family. In order to do that, I need to ask these kinds of questions.”

“Maddy’s not in on this, brother,” Bazz replied, calmer than he had been a moment before. “I guarantee it. You’re right that we picked up a tail, but that could have happened a number of ways. We’re dealing with professionals here.”

A face popped into Dean’s brain.

His eyes widened.

Then he cursed under his breath, clenched his teeth, and chided himself out loud for his stupidity.

“You okay, Deano?” Bazz said. “You look like you locked your keys in your car or something.”

“On the plane,” Dean said. “There was a guy. He was sitting right next to me during the flight.”

“Who?”

“He said his name was ‘Roy Ellis,’ an insurance salesman. We chatted with each other for about twenty minutes.”

Bazz said nothing.

He didn’t need to.

The color-vacant expression on his face said everything.

“Damn it,” Dean said. “It was him.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” Bazz said. “He could’ve just been some schmuck looking to make chit chat during a flight.”

“Bullshit. It had to be him. He must’ve been sizing me up. The son of a bitch probably tailed us the moment we got off the flight and followed us straight to the beach house.” Dean shook his head. “The guy was sitting two inches to the left of me. He was right there the whole time. I’m getting rusty, Bazz. Maybe I’ve been in semi-retirement for so long that I’m losing my edge.”

Bazz searched the parking lot and the highway beyond it with wide eyes. His hand drifted toward the concealed SIG in the back of his pants, his fingers jittery like he had overindulged on his daily caffeine intake. “We need to keep moving,” he said. “And if this guy you talked to on the plane really is the one who followed us to the beach house, we have a name now.”

“If he is a player, that’s not his real name, Bazzy.”

“Odds are that it’s not. But even if it is an alias, you’ve still got something in the way of a physical description. We can keep an eye out for this guy.”

“You plan on calling the cops to put out an APB on him?” Dean asked.

“No, I plan on telling Greene,” Bazz said. “Same goes for Bolton once we get in touch with him. He might know who Ellis is.” He gestured toward the car. “But I don’t want to sit here and sift through all of this out in the open. We need to get a move on. We’ve got a plane to catch.”

The car was on the road moments later. Two miles into the drive, the vehicle hit a pothole and stirred Maddy out of her slumber. When she awoke, she started in on the inquiries like a sprightly toddler asking what was on the lunch menu.

“Where are we?” she asked. “Did you talk to Fox?”

Bazz told her that the deal with Fox had been secured, that in five hours and some change, they’d be in their air and on the way to Nebraska. Maddy appeared delighted at the news. Same went for Bazz.

But Dean was a different story.

He was experiencing a level of anxiety he never had before. The only person he trusted was Bazz. Everyone else, as far as he was concerned, was not only not above suspicion but was a threat until proven otherwise.

34

Had Dan Bolton not kept so many photos from his time in Special Operations, he would have forgotten half of the missions he went on by the time he hit fifty. There were just too many to recall. In some ways, it was like someone asking him how many rounds he fired when he was in Spec Ops—you just couldn’t tally it all accurately.

As Bolton stood in front of his gallery of photos in his Virginia home, he sipped the bourbon clutched in his hand and pinned his eyes to the snapshot framed in mahogany wood. He was twenty-nine at the time. The place: Mogadishu. The photograph: himself, dressed in desert-pattern fatigues alongside six other members positioned in front of a UH-60 Black Hawk. Two days after the picture was taken, everyone in the picture would be duking it out in the Bakaara Market—but not Bolton. He broke his leg during a training exercise and ended up warming the bench for a handful of his brothers who returned home in body bags.

Bolton took a pull of his drink.

I should’ve been there.

And we should’ve known better.

If the assholes up top had done better, all of those guys would still be alive.

That fight would have gone down a completely different way.

That’s why he took the career path that he did. Innocent American lives being chalked up to collateral damage on a debrief because of bad calls or HUMNINT errors was something he couldn’t stomach. That needed to be changed. There was no other choice, so he spent the next twenty years of his life dedicated to rebuilding how intelligence was gathered, sorted, and disseminated to make sure that any young American stepping foot in another country at the behest of Uncle Sam wouldn’t die unnecessarily or in vain. If a foreign national, if a citizen from another country got caught in the crosshairs by mistake, as far as Bolton was concerned, that was the cost of doing business—but not Americans. Not young men who took up arms on behalf of their country, the true patriots.

Bolton ran his finger against the gilded frame that showcased a picture of him shaking hands with the American Vice President in 2004; smiles brimming on both of their faces as they stood proudly in front of the Stars and Stripes.

You did change things.

You gave America the edge, and you did it honorably by not taking the credit, by doing what needed to be done even if people had to die to make that happen.

The chirp of the phone ringing in Bolton’s study echoed throughout the hallway.

He closed his eyes.

Breathed deep.

Took a moment to make his way into the study to answer the call because he didn’t want to talk to whoever was calling, even if it was just an old friend saying hello. When Bolton answered the phone, it wasn’t a friend ringing him up—it was an old colleague, one that, while he respected the man immensely, he always hoped he’d never hear from him again.

“Arthur Greene,” Bolton said into the phone. “Long time, my friend.”

“How’s the knee?”

“Still flares up every now and again.” Bolton felt the muscles tense in his left leg, something he figured was probably a psychosomatic reaction because Greene had brought it up. “Even after three decades.”

“Some wounds never heal fully,” Greene said sagely. “Same goes for old friends and acquaintances. People you think died off or fucked off to another part of the world creep out of the woodwork to make your life a living hell.”

A knot formed in Bolton’s stomach. “Anyone in particular?”

Greene sighed. “Cliff Bazz, for one.”

Bolton shook his head. “Second time his name’s been dropped on me this week. Phillip Fournier was asking about him not that long ago.”

“What for?”

“Is this a secure line?”

“Always.”

“Fournier was picking my brain about Alec Murphy,” Bolton said. “That little prick might as well have brought me to a black site and waterboarded me based on the line of inquiry he was floating my way.”

“Murphy,” Greene said with a hiss glazing his tone. “I thought you guys dropped a bag over him years ago.”

“We did. He’s been dead and buried for over twenty years.”

“Then what’s Fournier’s buzzing you about it for?”

Bolton opted out of telling Greene about O’Neill’s murder and his concerns about people believing Alec Murphy still being alive. The less he said out loud, the more he felt like the whole thing would just go away on its own.

“I take it,” Bolton said, “that Bazz called you.”

“He did,” Greene said. “A few times. He mentioned something about John O’Neill getting murdered…” his voice shifted down into a whisper, “and then followed it up with something about Alec Murphy.”

Bolton narrowed his eyes. “You should have started with that.”

“I guess I wanted to see if you knew anything. Old habits die hard, I guess.”

“I’m not in the mood for games, Arthur.” Bolton moved toward his desk, sat down, and groaned. “I’m old, I’m tired, and my doctor says that I’m about two bad days away from having a massive coronary if I can’t cut down on my stress. Just tell me what’s going on.”

“Cliff Bazz called me a little over a week ago,” Greene said. “He said John O’Neill got in touch with him. Apparently, O’Neill had some information about the night Alec Murphy was killed.”

“What kind of information?”

“Not sure. Bazz didn’t say. From what it sounds like, O’Neill didn’t give Bazz the full scoop on this alleged bombshell discovery of his.”

“When did Bazz call you?” Bolton squinted. “How long ago was this?”

“He called me a few times,” Greene told him. “I’m really the only contact the guy has left. The bench wasn’t all that deep for Bazz after he walked away from the agency. Aside from you, of course, but,” a laugh shot out of him, “only myself and a pair of people know how hard it is to get in touch with you.”

Bolton didn’t care for nor acknowledge the jab. “Bazz wanted you to put him in touch with me, didn’t he?”

“He did. After all, you were the one who co-ran the operation that Bazz and O’Neill were part of that took Alec Murphy out.”

“Well, what did you tell him?”

“To screw off, in so many words. I know enough to know that Alec Murphy is dead, so there is no reason to bother you while you’re in retirement.”

“Then why call me now?” Bolton threw up his hands. “Come on, Arthur. Be real with me. If you were ready to dismiss Bazz and turn your back on him, why are you buzzing me up at home?”

“Because Bazz keeps buzzing me,” Greene said. “He won’t let up. He just rang me up an hour ago saying that he’s with John O’Neill’s daughter in Florida. He also said that he narrowly avoided getting his head blown off by somebody.”

Bolton felt his heart skip a beat. “Who was it?”

“Bazz didn’t say. And, once again, he is insistent that he gets a hold of you.”

A few moments passed as Bolton leaned back in his chair. It felt like he was right back working for the agency in the same capacity he did before he retired.

Alec Murphy still haunts.

The agency never pulled their eyes off me.

God damn it.

I’ll never be free of them even after I’m dead and cremated.

“Dan,” Greene said, “you still there?”

Bolton cleared his throat. “Are you calling me on behalf of Fournier?”

“Come again?”

“Answer the question.”

“I don’t work for Fournier, Danny,” Greene said. “Hell, my role in the agency now is limited to being on their payroll only because of what I know. Their choice was simple: kill me or pay me off with a yearly salary. They took the latter.”

“Then why call me?” Bolton said. “Why bother giving Bazz any attention? Or bothering me with all of this, for that matter?”

Greene chuckled. “You still act like an intel operative even well into your retirement, Danny. I don’t work for the agency. I haven’t stepped foot in Langley since 2004. I called because I want Bazz off my case, and I was doing you the favor of letting you know he’s trying to find you—because we’re old friends.”

“That’s a bit of an overstatement in terms of the nature of our relationship.”

“Fine,” Greene said. “Call it what you will. Just know that Bazz is looking for you, and he claims that he’s got some information on the night of Alec Murphy’s death. Do with it what you will. As for me, I’m ditching the line that Bazz used to get ahold of me. I’m tired of him calling. I’m going to take a page from your playbook and go dark so I can fish on my lake in peace.”

The call ended moments later.

No goodbye.

No “thank you,” “take it easy,” or anything of the sort, but before the line clicked off, Greene forwarded the digits to the phone that Bolton could reach Bazz on, should he decide to go that route, and after Bolton logged it away to memory—he didn’t need pen or paper—he paced the floors of his study and debated what to do for several minutes.

I could call him.

Find out where he is.

Either way, I need him off my back.

I can’t have Bazz putting in calls to all of the old spooks.

It doesn’t look good.

Hell, how do I know that Fournier isn’t monitoring the lines right now?

Bolton bided his time for another few minutes.

He checked his pulse.

Then he made a decision.

35

The car lurching to a stop woke Dean up. Three hours into the drive to Jacksonville, he switched seats with Bazz and let him drive so he could recharge his batteries, if only for a little bit. When he batted open his eyes, he made out the hum of what sounded like a G5 aircraft about fifty yards off to his left, and sure enough, when he turned his head, he spotted the plane parked out at a canted angle outside a hangar.

“We’re here, Deano,” Bazz said with enthusiasm as he killed the engine. “We made it.”

Part of Dean was disappointed that he hadn’t awoken to find that the past few hours were nothing more than a nightmare.

Who am I kidding? He slipped out of the car and surveyed the small air strip. I’m too old to think I can just click my heels and return to Kansas.

Not long after Dean, Bazz, and Maddy exited the car, a man approached them. He was thinner than a hockey stick, a Red Wings cap hung low over a crop of sandy blonde hair that hung just below his ears. He sauntered across the tarmac, his teeth flashed in a wide grin like he just won the lottery.

“Clifford Bazz!” the guy said as he slapped his palm into Bazz’s. “Still alive.”

“For now,” Bazz replied. “How’re you holding up, Foxy?”

The guy removed his ball cap and ran his fingers through his thick hair. “Just doing what I do. Don’t know any other way. Hard to sit still even well into my golden years.”

Dean narrowed his eyes.

Can’t make out his accent.

It’s like some bastardized hodgepodge of Maine and Rhode Island with a dash of Creole.

Dean stepped in. He offered Fox his hand. After the introductions were made, he started pressing the pilot about the flight plan he was going to implement for the trip to Nebraska.

Fox raised his brow. “You grill me like a man who wore fatigues for a good third of his life,” he said amusedly. “What branch were you with?”

“75th Rangers,” Dean said. “3rd Battalion.”

“Well, my, my, my. We got a Ranger here on deck, ladies and gents.” Fox’s gaze drifted to Maddy. “And who’s this tagging along?” He looked at Bazz then back at Dean. “A wife? Girlfriend?”

“John O’Neill’s daughter,” Bazz said. “Madeline.”

Fox nodded in approval. “Well, any blood of John O’Neill’s is more than welcome on my aircraft.” He offered his hand, placed it into Maddy’s, and shook it gently. “Your father is a great man, miss. I mean that. He saved my skin more than a handful of times.”

The gladhanding on Fox’s end went on for another several moments to the point that Dean stepped in and insisted that the group get a move on. Not long after, Fox started firing up the plane, so Dean, knowing that he had a few minutes left, tried ringing up Layla one last time. On the third ring, she answered.

“Hey,” she greeted Dean wearily. “Where are you?”

“I’m headed to Nebraska,” he said. “Last stop.”

“I thought Florida was the last stop.”

“Same here.”

Nothing was uttered by either of them for a few moments. Only tension lingered over the line, one so thick that Dean felt like he could cut it down the middle with a machete.

“You’re worried,” he said.

“Should I not be?” Layla replied. “I have that same feeling brewing in the pit of my stomach that I’ve had one too many times.”

“It’s almost over. I promise.”

“You’ve said that before.”

The depressed quality of Layla’s tone made Dean feel queasy. Layla’s unwavering support, the fact that she had stood by his side when so many others had not, started to feel like less of a certainty to him than it had before. She was his rock, as cliché as he knew it sounded, but that rock started to feel like it was being chipped away with each additional mile he put between him and his family.

“Just tell me you’re safe,” Layla said. “Give me that much.”

Dean reached up toward his bandaged ear but quickly withdrew it. “I am.”

“Good. Try and stay that way, okay?”

She’s thinking.

She probably has been for a while.

Can you blame her, Deano?

Your life is a revolving door of madness.

“How’s Gracie?” he asked.

“Sleeping. For once.”

“Is she going down okay? I know she’s been fighting you tooth and nail.”

Layla said nothing as the rumble of the G5’s motor prickled Dean’s good ear.

“Just get home,” Layla said. “Soon. Please do that for me.”

Dean nodded. “I will.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Dean pocketed the burner phone.

She means it when she says it.

She always has.

He winced.

But she says it now like it’s…like it’s an obligation, like she’s stuck loving me by default as opposed to by choice.

He turned his body toward the plane.

Quit thinking.

Just keep moving.

Play ringmaster to the circus in your brain later.

The phone in Dean’s pocket buzzed. Certain it was Layla, he fished it out, answered, and said, “I’m here,” only to be greeted by a man’s voice that he had never heard of before.

“Who is this?” the caller said. “Who am I speaking to?”

“This is Special Agent—” Dean shook his head. You’re not with the FBI anymore, smart guy. “This is Dean Blackwood. Who are you?”

“This is Dan Bolton,” the caller said. “I want to talk to Cliff Bazz.”

36

Dean held out the phone toward Bazz. After he called out to his friend and stated who was on the phone, Bazz ran toward him like a kid flagging down an ice cream truck. He snatched the phone from Dean’s hand. He put it on speaker. Then he spoke through labored breaths and looked at the device eagerly like it was about to teleport him far away from the madness that he and Dean were mixed up in.

“That you, Cliff?” Dan Bolton said.

Bazz lips bowed up into a cool smirk. “You got him.”

“Who was I just talking to?”

“A buddy of mine. Dean Blackwood. He’s a Fed. Retired, actually. He’s been helping me sort out this⁠—”

“Are you calling from a secure line?”

“I’m calling from a burner. It’s clean.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Dean kept his eyes fixed to the phone.

“You’ve got two minutes,” Bolton said. “Make it fast.”

“Did you speak to Arthur Greene?” Bazz said. “Did he tell you⁠—?”

“You know I spoke to Greene. You’ve been calling him nonstop like a hormonal teenager that can’t handle a breakup. Do you have any idea how many protocols you’ve downright plowed through pulling that shit?”

Bazz squeezed his eyelids shut. “I had no choice, Dan. The situation warranted ringing the alarm.”

“You’re down to one minute,” Bolton said. “Use it wisely.”

“John O’Neill is dead,” Bazz said. “And someone killed him because he uncovered something about Alec Murphy. About the night that we…” He shrugged. “You knew John, Dan. You knew that he wouldn’t waste anyone’s time on intel that wasn’t solid. He was one of the best analysts in the field. If he found something, he must’ve⁠—”

“Let me stop you right there,” Bolton cut in. “I know about John. I was given the heads- up by Phillip Fournier. I’m in the loop on the whole situation. The question I have is where you think I come into play in all of this.”

Bazz held up his free hand in the air like he was trying to flag down help. “Someone tried to kill me,” he said. “And my friend. And John’s daughter. Look, the situation here is fairly straightforward: John uncovered something about Alec Murphy. Then he stored that information on a flash drive that he sent to his daughter, and now that drive is currently in my possession, and whatever is on it has triggered some wet-work artist to creep out of the shadows to try and put us down before we can go any further.”

Bolton took a beat. “What’s on the drive?” he said. “Have you gotten a chance to look at it?”

“No, not yet,” Bazz told him. “It’s locked. But according to John’s daughter, it’s something I’m apparently able to crack with a certain amount of ease.”

Another few moments of silence passed on Bolton’s end. Finally, he said, “Where are you now?”

“I’m headed to a safe house,” Bazz said as he put his focus on Dean. “All of us are. We managed to steer clear once of whoever is coming after us. I’m not sure we’ll hit the same lucky streak twice. We need to put some distance between us and whoever this guy is.” His voice ticked down an octave. “I need your help, Dan. You’re the only other person I can trust besides John, and he’s dead now…”

Dean threw a look toward the plane. Maddy was lingering on the steps, and thanks to the roar of the G5’s engines, she hadn’t made out the two times that Bazz had mentioned that her father was dead.

“Cliff,” Bolton said wearily, “I left the agency a long time ago. I walked away from all of this. Now I’ve got you and Fournier and God knows who else trying to rope me back into this shit.”

“I was out, too,” Bazz replied. “I never asked for this. Knowing John as well as I did, neither did he. Lives are at stake here, my friend, and I know you have the kind of pull to lend an assist here. Please, Dan. I wouldn’t go through all of this trouble if I didn’t think this was absolutely necessary.”

More time passed. Dean couldn’t keep track of how long it was. Most likely, it was about five or ten seconds, but in his mind, it felt like an eternity.

Come on, Bolton.

Get your ass down here so I can get the hell back home!

“This safe house,” Bolton finally said. “Where is it?”

“I can forward you the coordinates,” Bazz said with an air of relief in his tone. “As soon as I do, I’m going to ditch this burner to be sure. Just tell me that you’ll meet me.”

Bolton sighed. “I’ll leave now. It’ll take me a few hours, but I’m out the door.”

A relieved expression lit up Bazz’s face. “This means everything, Dan. I can’t thank you enough.”

“Don’t thank me,” Bolton said. “Just forward me the location for the safe house. Lie low once you get there. Don’t make any unnecessary movements. We’ll get this thing sorted out. Until then, stay off the radar.”

Bazz dished him the coordinates. Then the line went dead. Right after it did, Bazz snapped the burner phone in half, and the move caused Dean’s hand to drift toward the backup stored in his jacket—the last way he had of getting in contact with Layla ever since he’d disabled his primary phone by storing it in a potato chip bag.

Too bad we don’t have any GoDark bags, Dean thought.

They would’ve come in handy.

“We’re almost there, Deano,” Bazz said as he took Dean in by the shoulders and squeezed. “Bolton will sort this out. He’s got the means, and he’s got the connections. We just gotta get to the safe house and bide our time until then.” He leaned in close, his eyes wide and alive, fiery and brimming with optimism. “We’re close, buddy. I mean it.”

Dean wanted to feel assured by his friend’s sentiment—but he didn’t.

Something was wrong.

He just couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

37

Roy focused on the little things back home to curb his anxieties while he waited for Dallas to call. He’d thought he might collapse in on himself like a dying star. Being back in the field, being forced to wield a weapon again, wasn’t as easy as riding a bike, even though Dallas would have led him to believe otherwise. Being back on the job for Roy felt akin to someone telling him to defuse a bomb after taking three hard blows to the head and suffering a bout of amnesia.

Not far off the mark, he thought, because there are gaps in my life that I still can’t recall.

I still have to pull out those weeds on the front lawn.

I should get a haircut, too.

We’ve also got a wedding to plan, and checks to cut, and God knows how much else before Taylor finally ties the knot.

Focusing on the mundane elements of his normal life to distract himself from the more harrowing things that were taking place did wonders for Roy’s uneasiness. Fixating on home, on all the trivial problems and small fires he had to put out made him forget, if only for a moment, that he had people to kill, and if he didn’t do it right, he’d end up dead alongside them.

Then his phone rang.

Thoughts of home slipped away like the receding of an ocean tide.

Roy took a moment to center his mind before he picked up the device and answered.

“It’s on,” Dallas said. “Targets are headed to Gretna, Nebraska.”

Roy squinted. “Middle of nowhere.”

“Ideal place for a safe house.”

“I’ll need to case it first.”

“The safe house isn’t officially sanctioned,” Dallas said. “Looks like Bazz bought it with slush funds. It’s a place for him to crash. Nothing more.”

“The intel is good?” Roy said. “Solid?”

Dallas groaned. “I really wish you’d take more stock in the info I give you, Ellis.”

Screw you.

Screw your intel.

Screw this whole situation six ways from Sunday.

“How’d you get it?” Roy said. “The intel on the safehouse?”

“Dan Bolton,” Dallas said. “The guy I told you about earlier. It wasn’t hard to tap his phones. He’s on his way to meet Bazz and the other targets as we speak.”

“Am I adding him to the list?”

“I considered that, but we’re going to keep Bolton out of this. Spare him. Make sure you give the guy a wide berth.”

Roy furrowed his brow. “That’s too high of a risk. If I pop the other three and Bolton is left standing, we’ve got a witness on our hands.”

“Bolton’s chummed up with too many VIPs. If you kill him, that leaves too many questions out in the open. We can’t risk it. Sedate him if you need to take him off the field—but don’t kill him. I can’t stress that enough.”

“What if he tries to take a shot at me, Dallas? Do I have the green light then?”

“Based on your capabilities, Ellis,” Dallas said, “I’d be hard-pressed to think that you’d put yourself in the position to give this guy the opportunity to take a shot at you.”

Roy tugged on the bandage secured over his arm.

Maybe twenty years ago.

Now?

I’m not so sure.

“I’ll forward you the coordinates here shortly,” Dallas said. “In the meantime, book a flight to Omaha. You know the procedures. Use one of the untapped aliases you have at your disposal, and then burn it as soon as you touch down.”

Roy moved toward his bags. “Copy.”

“You’re almost there, my friend. You’ll be eating your wife’s pot roast before you know it.”

The call ended.

For a fleeting moment, Roy considered tracking down Dallas when all was said and done and putting a bullet in his brain.

38

The G5 was wheels down after being in the air for three hours and twenty-nine minutes. Fox was proud of this, and he said this to Dean just as the aircraft touched down on the private airstrip in Omaha and began to taxi.

“It’s why you paid as much as you did,” Fox said with a chuckle to accompany it. “I don't just get you where you want to go,” he snapped his fingers, “I get you there in a flash.”

Nothing was amusing to Dean at this point. He was tired. Tired and mad and hungry. He was confused and worried that he’d catch a bullet the second he strolled his way across the tarmac.

Just listen to Bazz.

Trust in him.

If his guy Bolton can deliver, then you’re halfway there. You’re halfway home.

He couldn’t dismiss the other thoughts doing laps in his mind, though, the ones about hit men, double-dealings, nothing being as it seemed—the list was endless and was added to with each second that passed. Part of Dean blamed Bazz for this. The other part placed the blame on himself for taking the job.

If I’d just said no.

If I’d listened to my head instead of my heart, I’d be scrubbing the barbecue and wrapping a brace around my knee and complaining about how I’m not as fast as I used to be.

Brisk nighttime air slapped Dean in the face as he poked his head out of the G5. All around him was the uniform, unremarkable, and two steps shy of depressing, Midwest landscape known as Nebraska. Aside from the ripe and vibrant stars in the sky overhead, there was nothing to write home about. It made sense to Dean why Bazz would choose a place so removed from everything to hole up in.

“Okay, kiddos,” Fox said as he clapped his hands and jutted his chin toward something on the other side of the tarmac, “as promised…”

Dean tamped down the groan that slipped out of his mouth. The ten grand Fox was given had also secured him, Maddy, and Bazz a bonus in the form of a beater of a car that he spotted the moment he stepped out of the G5, twenty yards away and parked at a canted angle.

“All yours,” Fox said as he gestured to the dented and dinged-up Pontiac Aztek. “Pulled in a favor from an old friend to hook you guys up. Thing’s got about two hundred thousand miles on it, but it should get you to your last stop before it takes a dump on you. Keys are in the ignition. Plates and papers are clean. Left you some grub in the form of snacks there, too.”

Dean appraised the lime-green rig that looked like it was about to fall apart if he took too sharp a turn in it. As Bazz went about thanking Fox profusely for the assist, Dean walked toward the car, opened the door, and searched the glove box for the registration that Fox had mentioned.

“For ten grand,” Maddy said from behind him, “you’d think we could get a Subaru or something.”

Dean flattened the papers on the driver’s seat and probed the pages with his eyes. “Car belongs to a D. Chase,” he said. “I guess Bazz and I will have to flip a coin for who gets to be him.” He glanced at Maddy. “Throw your bags in the back. From the sounds of it, this safe house of Bazz’s isn’t far.”

Maddy yawned.“What time is it?”

The time on Dean’s G-Shock read twelve minutes past eleven p.m., which was what he relayed to Maddy.

“I might zonk out soon,” Maddy said. “If that’s okay.”

“Take sleep where you can get it,” Dean replied. “I’m not really sure what the next few hours are going to bring.”

“Hopefully,” Maddy tossed her bag into the back seat, “my dad will meet up with us. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough plane and car rides to last me for the next year.”

Dean bit his lip and looked away. When and how Bazz was going to break the news, he didn’t know, and he didn’t want to be there when that happened. Countless times he had been the bearer of bad tidings to people like Maddy. The number of instances where he had to knock on the door of a victim’s family to inform them they weren’t coming back took about a third of the shelf of his ever-growing Home Movie Collection—and he wasn’t keen on adding one more to that bracket before he headed home.

“Do you know my dad?” Maddy said as she sat in the car. “I never bothered to ask.”

As he slid behind the wheel, Dean hoped that Bazz would step in before he was put in a position to answer Maddy’s question—but that didn’t happen. Bazz, much to his dismay, was still busy playing grab-ass with Fox near the G5.

“No,” Dean said. “Never had the pleasure.”

Maddy shrugged. “He’ll like you. He always has a thing for FBI agents. Not in a weird way or anything. He just admires them.”

“I’m not a Fed anymore. That was a while ago.”

“I know. I’m just saying.” Maddy flashed a smile. “He used to watch that show FBI. I watched some of it when I was a kid. Have you ever seen it?”

“A little bit,” Dean said. “My old man was a big fan, too.”

“We always watched those old shows growing up. Never anything new. Except for Veronica Mars. My dad actually liked that one.”

The déjà vu triggered a chill to snake up Dean’s spine.

This is not far off from the conversation I had with Ellis—if that was his real name.

“Do you have kids?” Maddy said. “You look like you do.”

Dean’s body depressed into the driver’s seat. “Are you bored or something?”

“It’s the adrenaline, I guess.” Maddy held up her hands. “Hey, if you don’t want to talk, that’s fine.”

When Dean looked over, he spotted Bazz speaking in Fox’s ear, the two of them no doubt coordinating something or trading secrets. Whatever they were up to, they were taking their sweet time.

“So,” Maddy said, “no talk?”

“You’re very persistent,” Dean put his gaze on her through the rear-view mirror, “aren’t you?”

“I just want to know the guy who saved my life a little better.”

“I didn’t save your life.”

“Yeah.” Maddy put her sights on Dean. “You did. If you hadn’t been there, both me and Cliffy would be dead.”

Maybe.

Dean ran the back of his fingers across his chin stubble.

She might be right about that.

“I guess I’m trying to thank you,” Maddy said. “So…thank you.”

Dean nodded. “Anytime.”

“Do you have kids?”

“Please, Maddy.”

“Well, do you?”

A deep exhale slid out of Dean’s mouth. “Look,” he said, “I’m not in the mood to be grilled, okay? I just want to get on the road as soon as we can. I’m sure you want the same.”

“I just want to see my dad,” she said. “As soon as I can.”

It pained Dean to be holding onto the secret that her father was no longer among the living—but it wasn’t his news to break. It wasn’t on him to tell Maddy that the last time she saw her father was the last time that she would ever see her father.

That’s Bazz’s bag.

That’s on him.

My job is to get home and⁠—

“Is he okay?” Maddy said. “My dad, I mean.”

Dean’s eyelids drooped. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Something feels weird. Like Bazz is holding back from telling me something.” Maddy’s eyes flickered toward Dean. “Do you think he is?”

“You’re tired,” Dean said. “We all are. Fatigue tends to trigger the mind to run in circles.”

“Yeah, but you’re forgetting one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“That I’m the daughter of a spy,” she said. “My dad taught me how to pick up on deception. There’s all kinds of telltale signs a person puts on display when they’re being disingenuous.”

Deflect, Deano.

“Going on a first date with you must be hell,” Dean said. “A guy probably feels like he’s two steps shy of being waterboarded by the time the two of you are through your first drink.”

“When you’re right,” Maddy said, “you’re right. Helps me weed through the bullshit artists, though.” Her eyes flickered toward the window. “The catch is that I can never trust someone completely. Gift and a curse, I suppose.”

“Not a great way to live,” Dean said. “As much as picking up on deception gives you an advantage, it’ll make you paranoid. You’ll never be able to trust something completely unless you’re willing to dive in headfirst and hope for the best.”

“Is that the way you approach your love life?”

“I try my best.” Dean’s thoughts fixated on Layla. “That’s all anyone can really do. You gotta roll the dice and hope it works out. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn’t.”

“So, you have someone.”

“I do.”

“And how does she feel about you,” Maddy gestured around the car, “doing this? Running around with retired spies carrying around flash drives?”

The words to summarize how Dean felt evaded him.

Luckily, Bazz had arrived at the car and saved him from having to think any further. “All right, we’re all set. I paid Fox off to stay close by in case we need an exit. We’ve got him on standby for the next twelve hours. Long time to wait, but he’ll probably kill the time with a drink or two.”

“Yeah,” Dean said as he palmed the pack of beef jerky stashed on the seat beside him. “I could smell it on him when we were flying out.”

Maddy’s mouth dropped open. “He was liquored up when we were flying?”

“Guy has that Mickey Mantle gene,” Bazz told her. “He could have six whiskey sours and still fly a plane steadier than a sober pilot.”

“That,” Maddy said as she sat back in her seat, “brings me no comfort at all.”

Bazz clapped his hands together. “You guys ready to go? We’ve got about a thirty-minute drive. Easier than a trip to the grocery store.”

Maddy replied by clicking her seat belt.

Dean nodded.

Then Bazz slipped into the passenger’s seat beside Dean and told him which highway to take, how far to drive, and then took out his SIG and placed it in his lap.

“You good, Deano?” Bazz said. “You look lost in thought there.”

Dean located the keys in the visor, slipped them into the ignition, and turned over the engine. “Story of my life, Bazzy.” He eased down on the gas pedal. “Story of my life.”

He turned the Pontiac in a circle and snaked his way out of the airport. No one in the car exchanged a word as they drove toward the destination, and the farther the car went, the more Dean longed to be back with his family.

39

“Don’t screw it up.”

Those were the last words the former Deputy Director of the Clandestine Service said to Fournier before the latter took over. As Fournier recalled the moment, he laughed. It was all too fitting of an exit for Eric Kessler, Fournier’s mentor, the man who taught him what to do, and perhaps more importantly, what not to do.

Kessler (rest in peace) was regarded as a quintessential hard-ass during his tenure, one of those old-school agency types who operated like a five-star general, perpetually leading his troops into battle, so he made it his mandate to instill fear into his subordinates at any given point of the day in a bid to keep them in line.

You did what Kessler asked?

It wasn’t good enough.

The mission was successful?

There was still room for improvement.

Nothing was ever satisfactory for the old brute. Every move a subordinate made, every word they spoke, was scrutinized and dissected and sifted through in the hopes that it would, in Kessler’s words, further improve the capabilities and reinforce the sterling reputation of one the greatest intelligence agencies in the world. Kessler was impassioned but impartial, and he treated those who worked under him as assets, and expendable ones at best—his words. It brought results, sure, but it also led Kessler’s staff to develop a sizable level of paranoia and the occasional ulcer thanks to his Cold War–era methods.

So when Phillip Fournier took over the job, he decided the time was ripe to change up the management style. He had to. It was no longer the Reagan or Bush era. UAVs were utilized more than soldiers. Operations had to be executed with a scalpel in lieu of a hammer, so when Fournier took over Kessler’s old posting as the head of the Clandestine Service, he began to steer the Special Activities Division with a softer hand. He opted to abide by the tenets Lee Iacocca made famous: learning names and details and trivia facts about his second-fiddles helped foster trust.

In turn, Fournier ushered in a new era for the CIA. The departments he ran were chock-full of lively and contented employees. To the uninitiated, it felt more like a WeWork space based on the frequency that smiles and handshakes were exchanged, and it was only when the closed-door meetings took place that people understood and appreciated the gravity of what transpired in this part of the world. Black-ops missions were still executed and sanctioned hits were still made, naturally, but Fournier made sure to shake the hand of the man who pulled the trigger afterward and picked up the tab for his meal by the time the body of the target was chopped into pieces.

A content assassin, he figured, is a dutiful assassin.

Fournier, seated at his desk, exhaled deeply and scanned the darkened treetops of McLean, Virginia, outside his window. Two-thirds of the employees in the building had vacated, but the energy inside of the building still buzzed like a supercomputer, one that would churn and whirr long after the day would inevitably arrive that Fournier would part ways with the agency. Something about the slow-rolling drum that pulsated throughout the CIA headquarters never ceased to invigorate him—a power that came in the form of information that he was able to wield that made him feel like a king, a king who, in Fournier’s mind, needed to treat his subjects like peers in lieu of servants.

Knuckles rapped softly on the door.

Fournier turned away from the window.

Then his executive assistant, Elena, poked her head in like a gopher and informed him that John Dolan was waiting for him outside.

“Send him in,” Fournier said as he straightened his back, checked his wristwatch, and saw that it was ten past ten in the evening. “And head on home after you do. It’s late.”

Elena flashed a smirk. “There are still some things to square away, Mr. Fournier.”

“Nothing that can’t wait until the morning.” Fournier wagged a finger. “Justin’s prepping for his SATs, isn’t he?”

His executive assistant’s smile broadened. “Day and night,” she said. “I found him passed out on his books when I got home on Monday.”

Fournier opened his desk drawer, palmed the pair of Cavaliers tickets inside of it, and then placed them on the desk. “I was going to wait until his semester wrapped up, but…” He slid the tickets across the desk. “Why wait?”

A glow washed across Elena’s face as she inched toward the desk. “How did you…?”

“You work hard,” Fournier said. “So does your son. Great work needs to be rewarded.” He tapped the tickets. “And if Justin’s going to attend UVA, he might as well get a jump-start on rooting for his home team.”

A string of thanks spilled out of Elena as she scooped up the tickets and held them close to her chest. After she thanked Fournier a few more times, she ducked out of the office, stood in the doorway, and motioned for the shorter gentleman with the Marine Corps crew cut to head inside.

Fournier stood.

Elena closed the door.

Then John Dolan entered, jutted his chin, sat down across from Fournier, and folded his hands in his lap, a hint of a groan slipping out of him thanks to the last few days he’d spent looking up anything and everything he could on Dan Bolton and his old program, per Fournier’s request.

“You pulled some strings on those basketball tickets,” Dolan said as he nodded over his shoulder. “Didn’t you?”

Fournier said nothing as he turned toward the window. He took a moment of silence. Then he moved to the bookshelf on his right, opened a small cabinet, and pulled out the half-depleted bottle of Lagavulin that was inside. “Drink?”

Dolan nodded. He unfastened his blazer. Then he lowered his voice an octave, shot one last look over his shoulder, and narrowed his eyes. “The team just finished rifling through John O’Neill’s house in Oahu,” he said. “There was nothing there. They’re sure of it.”

The deputy director said nothing as he went about pouring the drinks.

“Also,” Dolan said, “I just spoke to Arthur Greene.”

Forunier shot him a glance. “And?”

Dolan’s eyes shimmered. “Does the name Adriana Carver mean anything to you?”

“No.” Fournier shrugged. “Should it?”

Dolan picked up his glass, downed it, and stood. “There’s something you need to see.”

Two minutes later, Fournier trailed Dolan down a secured hallway with no windows. After Dolan swiped his card through several doors that led them both to the belly of the building, they stepped into a secure room where a pair of techs sat hunched over computers in the dark.

Dolan greeted one of the techs. The tech nodded his head in reply. After the tech clacked away on the keyboard for several moments, he pushed his chair back and gave Dolan and Fournier some room to look at the monitor.

Fournier narrowed his eyes as he pinned them to the screen. The monitor was littered with documents—bank transactions, savings accounts, text message readouts, and a slew of other screenshots that showed passports and faces and names that were marked either MIA or KIA.

“What am I looking at?” Fournier said.

Dolan gestured to the monitor. “After John O’Neill died and this whole thing got kicked into motion, you asked me to scour through the records that were still intact on Bolton’s old program, the one that Alec Murphy was a part of. Bolton did a good job at scrubbing what he could, but there were still some documents floating out there in the ether. There always are. Just took a bit of know-how to know where to look.”

Fournier nodded.

That’s why you're paid as handsomely as you are, chum.

You find the things that people want to keep hidden.

“Give me the short version.” Fournier crossed his arms. “If you can.”

“There were seven assets in Bolton’s old program,” Dolan said. “One of them was Alec Murphy. After the program was burned to the ground, all of the assets were disposed of. Murphy included.” He flexed his brow. “Allegedly, that is.”

“What can you state as fact? As of right now.”

“We were able to confirm that all of the assets that were a part of Bolton’s program had been terminated, and in the process of validating this, we discovered something else.” Dolan nodded at the screen. “An eighth asset by the name of Adriana Carver, one that was never approved of by Bolton’s superiors—a ghost.”

Fournier’s nostrils flared, his eyes lit up by the glow of the monitor. “Who is she?”

“We only learned her name.” Dolan shrugged. “But we found no record of any jobs that Adriana Carver pulled. All we found were bank statements in her name that traced back to a Swiss account Bolton set up via his old program. For all of Bolton’s prowess, he was a bit sloppy with the financial aspect of things.”

“He was given excessive leeway with the Special Activities Division after 9/11,” Fournier said. “Bolton was given a blank check to do whatever the hell he wanted as long as he was handing over VIPs on the terrorist watch list. Anyone with that level of authority, with that kind of power…well, it tends to make them complacent. They think they can make no mistakes.”

“Well,” Dolan said, “those mistakes were what led us to discover this Adriana Carver woman, whoever she is. Bolton was paying her to do something. What that is, we’re not quite sure.”

Fournier asked the tech to scroll through the documents on the screen. As he read through them, Dolan continued with his brief.

“My people cross-referenced what they could on Adriana,” he said. “And we discovered that six months after Murphy died, she was let go from the agency. Whether she is dead or alive, we can’t confirm. We can confirm, however, that she was in direct contact with a handler in Bolton’s program, someone by the name of ‘Dallas.’”

Fournier shot Dolan a puzzled look.

“We’re not sure who Dallas is,” Dolan said, “or how he comes into play. From what I gather, he was involved in the program and also served as the handler for both Adriana Carver and Alec Murphy.”

Fournier blinked his eyes. “Bolton was hiding something—he’s still hiding something.” He felt his temperature tick up a degree as he eyeballed the name ‘Adriana Carver’ on the screen. “Do you have eyes on Bolton right now?”

Dolan nodded. “Cliff Bazz contacted Greene to get in touch with Bolton after O’Neill was killed. Greene contacted me afterward. I instructed him to keep a close eye on Bolton since then. Greene then said that a few hours ago Bolton got in touch with Bazz. After that, Bolton headed to the airport. We’re not sure where to yet, but we’ll know soon.”

“Where’s your head at?” Fournier shrugged. “What is the intel leading you to believe?”

“All I can do is speculate until I know more.”

“I’m all ears, Johnny…”

Dolan shrugged. “Greene knows Bolton better than anyone. He was Bolton’s right-hand man back when Bolton’s program was still in play. Between what Greene told us and what we discovered, we have reason to believe, like you said, that Bolton is in the throes of covering things up, and somehow, it’s all connected to John O’Neill’s murder.”

A few moments passed as Fournier appraised the documents on the screen. “Assemble a track team from Alpha Group. Tell them to get ready. And tell them I’ll be going with them. I want to find out what Bolton has been up to.”

“Based on the comms we intercepted via Arthur Greene,” Dolan said, “it sounds like Bolton is probably on his way to meet Bazz and John O’Neill’s daughter…and someone by the name of Dean Blackwood. He’s a former FBI agent. How he comes into play yet, we’re not sure.”

Fournier moved toward the door. “Tell the team we might have to go in heavy. We’ll scope out Bolton from a distance. If anything goes south, we’ll terminate anyone on sight and clean up afterward.”

“Shoot-on-site authorization?”

Fournier pulled Dolan out of earshot. “The whole point of this is to prevent whatever possible blowback may occur as the result of Bolton’s stupidity. He claimed to have closed down his program, but from what you’re telling me, there may be a few assets he kept in play well after he said he disposed of them. Whatever the case may be, we don’t need the remnants of some relic program getting out in the open. If some news outlet or Substack journalist gets their hands on this information…” he sighed, “well, I don’t need to paint a picture of what that kind of fallout will look like.”

“Understood.” Dolan checked the time on his phone. “Does the shoot-on-site order go for Maddy O’Neill and this Blackwood character?”

“It goes for all of them,” Fournier said. “I want to close this thing out as soon as we can. I’m not going to allow some dirty little secret of Dan Bolton’s compromise the integrity of this agency.”

After they left the room, Dolan made some calls and arranged for a team to tail Dan Bolton. He then forwarded them a list of four targets—Bolton, Bazz, Blackwood, and Maddy O’Neill—and explained that all four might have to be terminated with extreme prejudice.

40

Dean pulled the Pontiac into the driveway of the safe house; a one-story raised ranch-style home with green shutters and a series of manicured plants that peppered the lawn. To anyone passing by, they wouldn’t give it a second look because it blended in with a series of homes that surrounded it. The whole community looked like one cookie-cutter home after another, and Dean didn’t need Bazz to confirm out loud that that was the point.

Hiding in plain sight, Dean’s brain thought as he killed the engine. No one knows. No one bothers to look.

“Okay,” Bazz said as he checked over his shoulder. “We gotta move in quietly. Half the neighborhood is probably asleep. Anyone who’s still awake is probably throwing back Ale Storms in their basement right now.” He shot a look at the side mirror beside him. “This block is full of nine-to-fivers. Normal folks. People that are pleasant but mostly keep to themselves.”

Dean took out his SIG, did a press-check of the rounds, and then held the weapon tightly in his hand. He put his focus on the home in front of him, and once he spotted that a single light was on in a room on the eastern side of the dwelling, he raised his concerns to Bazz.

“I keep a maid on retainer,” Bazz said. “She stops by once a week to keep the place tidy, trim the hedges, whatever. The idea is to look like the person that lives here is always traveling.”

“When’s the last time you set foot in this place?”

“It’s been a minute.”

“And the neighbors?” Dean shrugged. “As far as they know, who owns the place?”

Bazz shot him a smirk. “Alan Portnoy,” he said. “Pleased to meet you. I spend most of my time trading off between my condo in Dallas and my other one in Seattle. I dabble in real estate mostly, and I hold onto my place in Omaha because of a nifty little tax break that I⁠—”

“All right,” Dean waved him off, “I get the picture.” He pulled air deep into his lungs. “We need to clear the house.” He forked a thumb over his shoulder. “Maddy will move in with me through the back. Bazz, you take the front. Same thing as before.”

The trio followed Dean’s plan, and after they cleared the house, the three of them convened in the living room. The house was spacy. Filled to the brim with furniture. Dean was curious to ask how much Bazz was paying the maid he had on the payroll to keep the house in order because it looked well lived in. Save for the fridge and kitchen cabinets vacant of any food supplies, the home appeared to be your average, run-of-the-mill American domicile.

“There are three bedrooms,” Bazz said as he placed his SIG on the kitchen island. “We can each take one. As for food, it might be a good idea to step out at some point and stock up for the next couple of days or so. If Bolton sticks to his word, he’ll probably show up within the next few hours, but better safe than sorry.”

“No one goes outside,” Dean said. “Keep all of the doors and windows locked.” He jutted his chin toward the sliding screen door that looked out to a sprawling backyard. “Keep your eyes peeled on the back at all times. That’s the most vulnerable entry point. We’ll sleep in shifts so someone can be on watch at any given time.”

A bleary-eyed Maddy held up two fingers. “Mind if I crash first?”

“Go for it,” Dean said. “Just make sure you draw the shades.” He stepped toward her. “But first thing’s first.” He held out his hand.

She furrowed her brow. “You looking for a kiss goodnight?”

“The flash drive,” Dean said. “We need to take a look at it and see what’s on it.”

Maddy clutched at her bag like it was filled to the brim with cash. “Maybe I should hold onto it for a little while longer.”

Dean’s nostrils flared. “We don’t have time for this, Maddy. We need to see what your dad sent us. That’s the whole reason we’re here.”

“Maybe we should wait until he shows up. He’s the one quarterbacking this thing.”

Dean looked at Bazz.

Bazz met his gaze.

The pair exchanged apprehensive stares that Maddy picked up on immediately.

“What?” she said. “Why do you guys keep looking at each other like that?”

Bazz stepped in. “Maddy,” he said, “can we please just look at⁠—”

“No.” She shook her head. “Both of you have been throwing each other those stares for the past few hours. I’ve seen it the whole time. What is it?” A tremble coated her voice. “What are you not telling me?”

A few beats passed. Dean paced the room. He knew that Maddy was smart, that she was trying to elicit information on her father back at the airport. He knew that it was inevitable that the time would come that she would learn about her father, and now that time had arrived.

Dean looked at Bazz. He shrugged. Then he moved toward the screen door and proceeded to do an appraisal of the vulnerable points where someone could slip through as Bazz slid onto a stool at the kitchen island.

“Maddy,” Bazz said, “I wanted to wait to tell you this…”

Maddy crossed her arms defensively and shrugged. “Wait to tell me what? Just say it. Stop treating me like I’m a friggin’ five-year-old sitting at the kids’ table.”

A handful of seconds ticked by as Dean saw Bazz’s posture slacken.

“Something happened to your father,” Bazz said as he turned his gaze away from her. “It happened a few days ago. Right before he sent you that drive. He was at his place in Oahu⁠—”

“Just say that he’s dead,” she cut in. “That’s clearly what happened. Isn’t it? Someone killed him. Didn’t they? That’s why you’ve been tiptoeing around talking about him this whole time.”

Bazz took a beat.

He put his focus on Maddy.

Then he nodded but didn’t offer her the verbal confirmation out loud.

The color drained from Maddy’s face. Dean saw that she was processing the news based on the way her eyes ping-ponged in their sockets, and after a few seconds, she put her back to the two of them and faced the front door.

“I should’ve figured,” she said. “I had a feeling that someone…” She brought her hand to her face as a hint of whimper slipped out of her. “I think I knew that he was gone already. It makes sense, really. Call it a daughter’s intuition or something.”

No one breathed a word. Only the sound of a breeze skittering across the street outside was audible, and after a few moments of silence, Maddy unshouldered her bag, reached in, and pulled out the flash drive that was inside, tossed it on the kitchen island, and said, “Have at it,” before she turned around, and disappeared down the hallway.

“Maddy,” Bazz said. “Let me explain…”

“There’s nothing to explain,” Maddy’s voice trailed down the hallway. “I’m taking a five, and unless someone starts shooting the place up, I’d like to be left alone.”

Bazz watched Maddy leave as he picked up the drive and held it in his hand. He said nothing. Then he stood up, looked at Dean, and shrugged.

“It was going to come out sooner or later,” Dean said. “No way around it.”

“Well, what now?” Bazz said. “What am I supposed to do?”

“You leave her be.” Dean motioned to the flash drive. “While she’s in mourning, we take a look at what’s on that drive. We can’t kill the momentum here, Bazzy. We need to wrap this thing up as soon as we can.”

“Good God, Deano.” Bazz wrinkled his brow. “When did you ditch your bedside manner?”

“When I lost a chunk of my ear.” Dean pointed to the flash drive in Bazz’s hand. “Just find something we can plug that into so we can find out what kind of secrets your late buddy O’Neill came across.”

“We’ll need to get our hands on a laptop,” Bazz said. “Right now, we’ve got nothing on us that we can use⁠—”

“Christ.” Dean slapped his palm on the kitchen island. “It’s just one road block after another with this whole goddamn thing.” He felt his face flush red followed by a sharp shooting pain in his bandaged ear.

Nothing was said for several moments.

Dean just put his focus on the back window and kept his right hand rested on the grip of his SIG.

“Talk to me, pal,” Bazz said. “What’s got you all worked up?”

“That’s a silly question to ask, Bazz.” Dean motioned around the kitchen. “Look around you. Look at the situation we’re in. At the ones I keep finding myself in time and time and time again.”

“Is that what’s bothering you?”

“A lot of things are bothering me,” Dean said. “Running the risk of leaving my children fatherless is at the top of that list.”

“Well, that’s the reality that Maddy’s living through right now, Deano. Think about how she feels.”

The truth of it hit Dean like a slap in the face as he threw a glance toward the hallway.

That girl lost her father.

Her only family that was left.

She’s all alone in this world now.

How would Grace feel if that happened?

What about Jeremy?

“I’ll be back,” Dean said as he made his way out of the kitchen.

Bazz stiffened. “Where are you going?”

“To relearn some of my bedside manners.”

41

Dean walked down the hallway. When he saw the light seeping out of one of the bedroom doors on his right, he raised his fist, and knocked.

“Go away,” Maddy said.

Dean waited for a beat. Then he grabbed the door handle, twisted it open, and stepped inside. He spotted Maddy lying on her side on a twin bed, her back facing toward him as she quickly wiped away what he figured were the first of many tears she was going to shed.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said. “For my lack of decorum back there.”

She said nothing.

Dean inched closer to the bed.

Slipped his hands in his pockets.

Tried to think of what to say, but no matter what he came up with, it felt pitiful. “I have two,” he finally said. “One is one, and the other is creeping up on his teens.”

Maddy gawked at him over her shoulder. “What?”

“Those are the ages of my kids.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Because I have a good sense,” Dean said, “of what your father was thinking when he sent you that drive—he was worried about you. And even though he’s gone, in his last moments…” His children’s faces popped into his brain. “I can guarantee you that you were the last person he was thinking about before he died. I know that might not offer you anything in the way of solace, but I still thought I should say it.”

A few moments ticked by. Then Maddy sat up, scooted toward the edge of the bed, and braced against it. “What are their names? Your kids.”

“Grace,” Dean said. “And Jeremy.”

She picked at her palm. “I never had siblings. I pestered my stepmom, Sharon, and my dad all the time when I was little for one, but it never happened. I stopped asking by the time my stepmother got sick.”

“How did she pass? Your stepmother.”

“Cancer.” Maddy sighed. “I always thought it was crazy that no one can really win the lottery, but getting a cancer diagnosis is like flipping a coin.” She turned her gaze up toward Dean. “I guess my dad getting shot, if that’s what happened, was better than watching him waste away in a hospital bed. He wouldn’t have liked that. The guy could never sit still. Some of that rubbed off on me.”

“What about your real mom?”

“Her?” Maddy shrugged. “Never met her. I only heard stories. She died when I was one,” she winced, “I think.”

Dean bided his time. Then he moved toward the edge of the bed and sat down beside Maddy. “You’ve been alone for a long time, haven’t you?”

Maddy shook her head. “I have my father.” She blinked her eyes once—slowly. “Well, had.”

“From the sounds of it, he wasn’t around that much.”

Maddy’s face pulled down into a frown. “How would you know?”

“I was an FBI agent, remember?” Dean said. “Taxpayers footed the bill for all kinds of nifty little classes that I took: reading body language, piecing together clues to slap together a narrative of events. Stuff like that.”

“If I had a dime for every person I met in the Defense Department or Armed Services through my father that thought he was Jason Bourne, I could afford a condo in Waikiki by now.”

“I’m not special,” Dean said. “And I don’t need a slew of courses from my old job to tell me what’s right in front of me.”

“Oh, yeah?” Maddy rolled her eyes. “And what might that be?”

Dean shrugged. “That you’re like me. That I lived my life a lot like you have for as long as I can remember. I was alone. Without direction. Hiding in one place and then another without any kind of support system in place. You have the look. People like us are easy to spot in a crowd.”

Maddy said nothing—but she didn’t need to.

The look on her face confirmed everything for Dean.

“Your old man,” Dean said, “imparted a lot of skill sets to you. My father did the same thing with me. I hail from a cop dynasty. The rules and codes of conduct run parallel to military families in a lot of ways. You live life by a rigid set of rules with a parent who acts more like a drill sergeant than a father sometimes.”

“I learned how to shoot when I was nine,” Maddy said. “Before that, when I was six, my dad taught me how to read a room and track all the entrances and exits any time we went out for dinner.”

“I know what you mean. Same went for me. After my brother was murdered…” Dean sighed, “my dad started treating everyone like they were cops on his roll call for a while.”

Maddy’s eyes widened. “Your brother was murdered?”

“A long time ago. I spent most of my life running after the guy who did it.”

“Did you find him?”

“I did.”

“Did you…?”

Dean shook his head. “I had the chance,” he said, “but I didn’t take it. I guess I just didn’t want any more blood on my hands than I already had.” He jutted his chin. “And I can wager a guess that you’re thinking about what you’d do if you ever got the opportunity to draw a gun on the guy who murdered your father.”

Maddy said nothing.

“Does it ever stop?” she finally said. “This way of thinking? Living? I’ve spent so long following the rules my dad taught me that it’s hard to live any other way. I’m always suspicious of everybody. I’m always looking over my shoulder. I can’t seem to find peace, no matter how hard I try.”

“I’m not sure,” Dean said. “I’m still working on that myself.” He put his focus on the window with the closed shades. “No matter how far I go, though, no matter how much distance I put between myself and the craziness of this world, it still manages to find me somehow.”

“People like Bazz come calling,” Maddy said. “Something like that?”

“Yeah.” He interlaced his fingers. “Something like that.”

“My dad was a lot like you. He was always worried about whatever he did when he was a spy coming back to bite him in the ass. That’s why he was so protective of me. That’s why he was always so on guard. He never trusted anything or anyone.”

“Not an ideal way to live.”

“No.” Maddy huffed. “It wasn’t. My father’s trust was limited. No plan could be trusted, even if it was something as simple as a trip to a grocery store. He always had contingencies in place. He always insisted on having a little backup plan in place—for everything.”

“Because he was worried about his family,” Dean said. “About putting them at risk.” He hung his head. “I’m worried that I’m about one more bad choice away from that happening. I’ve got an ex-wife, two kids that I’m scared of leaving fatherless, and now I’ve got the only woman who’s stayed by my side through thick and thin on the cusp of cutting and running.”

Maddy furrowed her brow. “Your wife said she was going to leave you?”

Dean shook his head. “She’s not my wife. Not yet, at least. Hopefully one day. And she doesn’t need to say it out loud that she’s going to leave. I can tell.”

“Because of your training,” she smirked, “right?”

“No,” Dean said. “Just a gut feeling. And I can’t blame her. With all I’ve been through, with all I’ve put her and my family through, I wouldn’t begrudge her looking for some distance. Who am I, what I’ve done, it’s a hell of a résumé, putting it simply.”

“You seem like a good guy.” Maddy scuffed her toe on the floor. “The little I’ve gotten to know you, at least. Guys who save other people’s lives are usually good people.”

A feeling overcame Dean on par with the air being knocked out his lungs. He turned to Maddy. He shrugged. Then he said, “I always wonder, like you do, why can’t I have a normal life.”

“My dad said something like that once,” Maddy said. “To my stepmom. I was at their bedroom door with my ear pressed against it. I could hear him crying. He was telling her that he could never sleep. That he was always having nightmares. That he always felt like someone was chasing him. That’s PTSD, I would think. One time, when I was older, I asked him why he was always so guarded and defensive.”

“What did he say?”

“That he was a soldier,” Maddy said. “That it’s who people like him are, who they were made to be.” She shook her head. “That it was fate.”

Dean’s thoughts fixated on the criminal Richard Keys. Back when he had taken the guy down, they’d had plenty of conversations. Keys, for all of his psychopathy, had convinced Dean that there was such a thing as fate, that all occurrences, all the trivial moments that happened in life, were meant to happen.

Dean shook his head.

This is who you are.

Who you were made to be.

Maybe peace is something you will never have.

You’re meant to keep the evils of the world at bay, to guard the gates so that the innocents of the world can remain safe.

“People like you,” Maddy said, “people like my dad, for all their faults…” she paused, “well, they’re heroes. But that comes with a price. I’ve seen it firsthand.”

“For an alleged hero,” Dean said, “I sure don’t fit the definition of it.”

She laughed dryly. “What do you mean?”

Dean had to think of a way to articulate it. “Heroes are supposed to be dutiful. Without fear. Without pause. They think of others before themselves. They do their job willingly and without hesitation. They’re unwavering.” He shook his head. “But that’s not who I am. I grit my teeth and complain and push back against my supposed fate because I don’t want to be the hero. I never did.”

“It’s not like it is in the books,” Maddy said. “Or the movies. The white knights of this world are few and far between. The archetypes that we’ve been shown all our lives are not real. Heroes don’t want to be heroes. That’s not how it works. It just…well, it just turns out that way. I mean, how many guys do you know that got the Medal of Honor that wanted it?”

Dean said nothing.

“You are a good man, Mr. Blackwood,” Maddy said. “Again, I’ve got a pretty good intuitive sense about people. It sounds like you hate that you have flaws and you try your hardest not to have them. That says a lot..”

Dean laughed. “I came here to give you a pep talk.”

“It worked,” she said. “A little bit.”

Maddy reached out her hand and she slid it slowly on top of Dean’s. “I’m sorry you have to be here. I’m sorry I took you away from your family.”

He shook his head. “You don’t have anything to apologize for, Maddy. I just want to make sure you make it out of this thing okay—you and Bazz. When it’s finished, whenever we wrap this up…well, try and live your life. Find your peace. Your happiness. Don’t waste any time. Take it from someone much older than you who’s gone down all the wrong roads more than once.”

“Carpe diem, kind of a thing. Right?”

“Exactly.”

She smiled.

Dean did the same.

Then he heard someone rapping hard on the front door.

42

Three more knocks sounded on the front door as Dean, SIG in hand, rushed into the kitchen. Bazz was at the ready with his weapon, standing behind the kitchen island with his sights trained on the door.

Another knock sounded.

Dean shot Bazz a look.

Bazz then slunk his way toward the front door, drew a breath, and said, “Who is it?”

“It’s me,” a man called out. “Open the door.”

“Dan,” Bazz said.

Dean shook his head.

That was fast.

That was way too fast.

The look on Bazz’s face was one of pure unbridled relief. He engaged the safety on his SIG and unfastened the door locks, his expression glowing as he flayed open the front door to reveal a pinched-faced Dan Bolton.

“Hot damn,” Bazz said as he held out his hand to Bolton. “It’s good to see you.”

Bolton shook Bazz’s hand with an enthusiasm similar to that of a guy who’d just been called to jury duty. As he stepped into the foyer, he threw looks in all directions before he pinned a scrutinous gaze on Dean.

“This him?” Bolton said. “Blackwood?”

Dean nodded, toggled the safety on his SIG, and placed it on the kitchen island. “You got here quick,” he said with a thick air of sarcasm. “Well done.”

As Bazz engaged the door locks, Bolton’s eyes narrowed. “You say that like you’re concerned, Agent Blackwood.”

“Former Agent Blackwood.” Dean placed his hands on his hips. “And you were about two steps behind us. We just walked in.”

“Point being?”

“That you were quick, like I just said.”

“The situation relayed to me by Bazz seemed pressing.”

“Most guys would want to scope a place out and make sure they weren’t walking into an ambush beforehand.”

“You’re saying I didn’t?”

“I’m a former Ranger,” Dean said. “Being cautious and checking corners is part of my DNA by now.”

“I was, too,” Bolton replied. “Before I leveled up.”

“Delta?”

“Something like that.”

Dean eyeballed Bolton from his toes to his temples.

He’s Delta.

No question about it.

The way he throws his weight around is casual.

Cool.

Without concern.

Hell, those guys were trained to kill a man without thinking twice and wearing flip-flops while they did it.

Bolton unfastened the top button of his blazer as he strode into the living room. He then proceeded to check every nook and cranny of the home as though it were bugged, and once he did a thorough sweep, he made his way back into the kitchen.

“Where is she?” Bolton said. “O’Neill’s daughter?”

“Back room,” Bazz said as he nodded down the hallway. “She’s sleeping. At least she’s trying to.”

“And the flash drive?”

Bazz held the device up and smiled.

“Good,” Bolton said. “Did you get a chance to look at it yet?”

“We need a laptop,” Bazz said. “Didn’t have enough time to stop by Best Buy on the way up here, unfortunately.”

“How’d you get up here? Who dropped you off?”

“You remember Fox?”

Bolton huffed. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He cut a glance toward the hallway. “Is he still here?”

“No,” Dean said. “He’s gone.” He jutted his chin. “How’d you get here so fast, by the way?”

“You seem to have a rolodex of questions there, son.”

“And you seem short of anything in the way of answers, old man.”

Bolton’s chest rose to the point that he looked two inches taller as he fixed an unblinking stare at Dean. “I’ve been in your presence all of two minutes, Blackwood,” he said, “and I don’t like you already.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “I tend to have that effect on people.”

“Well, secure your shit and change it, boy. I’m not in the mood to sit through an interrogation by a former G-man with a stick up his ass.”

“And I’m not keen on rubbing elbows with some bleary-eyed company man who’s trying his best to evade answering a direct question.”

“Back off.”

“And now I reply,” Dean said as he flashed a smirk, “by telling you to make me.”

Bazz stepped between them. “Easy, gentleman,” he said with a stiff laugh to accompany it. “All of us are a little worn out from the past twenty-four hours.” He threw Dean a look. “There’s no need to throw anyone any shade here. Bolton’s my guy. I can vouch for him.”

“I trust you, Bazzy.” Dean started to circle Bolton like a vulture. “But I have no idea who this guy is. And like I said before, he got here fast—a little too fast.”

Bolton crooked a finger. “You listen to me, you little asshole. I don’t know who you think you are, but I can see to it that you’re rotting in Leavenworth by the end of the week if you keep pressing my buttons like this. That’s the kind of pull that I have, retired or not.”

Dean snapped his fingers. “You see,” he said, “that’s exactly what I mean: you’re retired. Everything about your career now is spoken of in the past-tense.”

“You better cut to the chase, son,” Bolton said as he fiddled with the cuffs of his blazer, “and fast.”

“There’s two reasons that you’re here,” Dean said. “First, you want to help out Bazzy and me, and you care enough about Bazz that you were willing to pull out all of the stops to get here as quickly as you could.”

“And the second?”

“You’re worried about something, something that pertains to that little flash drive in Bazz’s hand there,” Dean said. “You’re concerned that the information we possess somehow incriminates you, and you want to get your hands on it before we have the chance to take a look at what’s on it.” He held out his hands. “You want to know why I think it’s the latter?”

Bolton said nothing.

“Because you hesitated several times to call Bazz back,” Dean said. “You waited and waited and waited until the last minute to get here, and when you did decide to hop on a plane and step in, you got here so quickly you might as well have teleported.”

Bazz stepped closer to Dean. “Buddy⁠—”

“No, Bazz.” Dean shook his head. “I was paid a pretty penny for a long time because of my uncanny gut intuition, which is why you brought me here in the first place. You brought me along because you have faith in my ability to sniff out a lie.” He raised a finger and pointed it at Bolton. “And the second this pot-bellied retiree waltzed into the room, he might as well have worn a sign around his neck that says ‘withholding.’”

Bolton blinked once.

He smirked.

Then he motioned to the kitchen island. “I have been holding something back, Former Agent Blackwood,” he said. “For a little over twenty years, actually.” He glanced at Bazz. “There is something that’s part of this whole ordeal that can incriminate me, and I showed up here tonight because all three of us need to put a lid on it before it gets out into the open.”

A shocked expression washed across Bazz’s face. “What do you mean?” he said. “What are you saying?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Tell us a story, Bolton. Tell us what you’re holding back.” He gestured to the bandage on his ear. “And speak up, if you wouldn’t mind. I took a bullet to my primary listening device because of you.”

Bolton shook his head. Then he sat down on a stool in front of the kitchen island, spread his palms, and said, “Twenty years ago, you and John O’Neill killed a man, Cliff.” His eyes flickered up at Bazz. “I told you that it was Alec Murphy—but it wasn’t. He is, despite what many people think, still very much alive.”

43

The moment Bolton finished speaking, Dean laughed. He couldn’t help it. Deception, as he had come to learn in the past couple of days, was a cornerstone to this whole espionage vocation that Bazz had been a part of for so many years. Nothing was as it seemed. There was no such thing as team players, even when they hailed from your own country.

What other lies, Dean wondered as he put his focus solely on Bolton, has this clown spun throughout his life?

What else is he holding back?

Hell, is he even being forthright with what he just said right now?

Dean pivoted his sights to Bazz. His buddy was gripping the sides of the kitchen island, the look on his face like that of someone who had just gotten whacked upside the head with a two-by-four.

“What are you saying?” Bazz said to Bolton. “You’re telling me,” he winced, “you’re saying that John and I didn’t kill Alec Murphy?”

Dean shrugged. “Sounds like that’s what he’s saying, Bazzy. Are you surprised?” He motioned to Bolton. “I’m curious what else this son of a bitch hasn’t said yet.”

“Can it, Dean,” Bazz said. “I want to hear from Bolton. I want to know the full story, because for the past two decades I’ve been living with a lie.” He stepped toward his former boss. “Who did I kill? Who did John and I toss out there in the ocean?”

“For all intents and purposes,” Bolton said, “you did kill Alec Murphy. As far as the agency is concerned, that is.”

“Shitcan the agency rhetoric, Bolton—talk to me like a man.”

Bolton pulled the air into his lungs to tell the story. “Alec Murphy was my operative,” he said. “And he was a damn good one at that—maybe too good. I put part of the blame on myself for that one. The program I made was meant to give birth to some of the most ruthless assassins the world has ever seen.”

“What program?” Bazz said. “Anyone who wasn’t in on it knew only the rumors.”

Bolton’s eyes glossed over. “If you remember anything from Vietnam, you’d know that a lot of our cloak and dagger programs started there. Even though the war didn’t really turn out in our favor, there were some positives that we walked away with.”

“Is this a history lesson?” Dean said. “‘Cause if it is, my old man has about eight channels saved on his TV that I can watch to relearn all of this.”

“Just listen,” Bolton said. “And pay attention. Back in ’Nam, once the war wasn’t going our way, Washington handed the reins over to the CIA. That’s when we started running our shadow operations. The Far East turned into our little experimental playing field, in a lot of ways. The playbooks that a lot of our operations abide by today were drafted there. I mean, the conflicts in the Middle East changed things, but you get what I’m saying.”

“Skip ahead,” Bazz said. “Tell me what Alec Murphy and the program he was a part of have to do with this.”

“The Phoenix Project,” Bolton said. “It started in Vietnam. It entailed sanctioned assassinations, off the books black-ops missions, things of that sort.”

Dean huffed. “Kind of like Apocalypse Now, if we’re looking at it through a pop culture lens.”

“Does that help you track what I’m saying?”

“A little bit. I was a proud card-carrying member of Blockbuster in its heyday.”

A sigh slipped out of Bolton as he ran his palm across the kitchen island like he was smoothing a map. “Before Vietnam was brought to its official end,” he said, “the Phoenix Program was allegedly shut down. But that’s not really true—it simply evolved, and eventually it turned into the program that I helped forge, otherwise known as Division Three.”

Dean shrugged. “As opposed to Division Two or One?”

Bolton batted the comment aside with a swipe of his hand. “It was an arbitrary title. It meant nothing. After 9/11, the program, thanks to the Patriot Act and certain people who were in charge at the time, Division Three was essentially injected with steroids. Our budget was a bottomless slush fund, and the mission statement was simple: stopping terrorism from hitting the homeland by any and every means necessary. We essentially had carte blanche to do whatever we needed to do.”

“And this,” Bazz said, “is where Alec Murphy comes in.”

“He was Division Three’s golden boy.” Bolton’s lips twitched into a proud beam. “Unmatched by any other asset we had in play. The only problem was⁠—”

“That he went rogue,” Bazz cut in. “Murphy started operating out of his bounds. He started working for any opposing agency or government who would pay for his knowledge or his services, and it all culminated with that apartment being bombed in Rwanda.”

Bolton—slowly—shook his head. “That was the cover story,” he said, “the one that I made up so that I could get the greenlight to kill Murphy.”

“But you didn’t kill him,” Dean said. “According to what you just said.”

“Murphy was a stand-up man,” Bolton said. “A dyed-in-the-wool, red-blooded American. What he did during his time with the agency saved countless American lives. But it came at a cost. It took its toll on Murphy mentally and physically. He couldn’t operate anymore, and when that happened, certain people felt it necessary to terminate him because of what he knew and what he had done.” He tapped his knuckles on the counter in front of him. “But I couldn’t allow that to happen. Not after what Murphy had been through. All of us owed him a great debt, and the least I could do for him was to get him out. So, I made up a story that he went rogue, and then once I got the go-ahead to have Murphy terminated,” he put his eyes on Bazz, “I created a ruse that made it look like he had been killed.”

“What ruse?” Bazz said gruffly. “Explain it to me.”

“When I decided to get Murphy out,” Bolton said, “I arranged for another one of the Division Three assets to take up his identity. He was a rookie. A new recruit. I told him that he was going to meet the arms dealer for a middle man in Miami.” He nodded at Bazz. “You. The play, as far as the rookie was concerned, was directed to get eyes on shipping manifests for a freighter allegedly carrying several crates of illegal munitions. The asset was told to get eyes on the manifest, memorize it, and report back to me as soon as the job was finished.”

A green tint flooded Bazz’s complexion. “You had me take out some patsy who didn’t know he was being marched to his death.”

Bolton shrugged. “Technically, you didn’t kill him—O’Neill did.”

“How did you know O’Neill pulled the trigger?”

“Come on, Cliff. I didn’t get as far as I did in this line of work without being able to keep tabs on my people.”

Silence held sway as suspicious glances were traded around the room.

“Who was he?” Bazz said. “The guy that O’Neill and I took out? The one that you set up to adopt Alec Murphy’s identity that night?”

Bolton huffed. “Does it matter?”

“Yeah.” Bazz’s jaw muscles tensed. “It does. You set up an innocent guy to get greased all so you could give Murphy a clean exit. You needed a body, someone that could take Murphy’s place so you could doctor the paperwork accordingly after the fact. Who was he? Who did O’Neill and I kill?”

Bolton took a beat. “It was just some guy we recruited out of the 101st for Division Three. He was a wide-eyed kid. Optimistic. The perfect patsy to send in to take Murphy’s place because he didn’t ask any questions. He was eager to prove himself. Sending him your way for execution was a lay-up. Foolproof.”

Dean narrowed his eyes.

It makes sense.

Bazz and O’Neill weren’t Grade-A shooters.

They were analysts, guys with minimal trigger time.

Bolton sets up his patsy, pins Alec Murphy’s name to his lapel, and then Bazz and O’Neill take him out. When everything was finished, Bolton tells the higher-ups that Alec Murphy is out of the picture, and the real Murphy was free to go about his merry way.

As Bazz moved around the room like he was about to upchuck whatever was in his stomach, Dean stepped in and took over the inquiry. “So,” he said, “the real Alec Murphy is alive.”

“He might be,” Bolton said. “I’m not really sure. After I cut him loose, he disappeared. That was the point. He wanted a life for himself. A taste of freedom, and I gave that to him. And to answer the next question that I’m sure is lingering on the tip of your tongue—I don’t know what identity Murphy assumed after he left the agency. He was a Division Three asset, so I’m sure he took care of that himself.”

Bazz straightened his posture. He cleared his throat. Once it appeared that he’d rallied his composure, he swiped the flash drive and held it up like a priest about to offer up the body of Christ. “John probably learned all of this himself,” he said. “Somehow he discovered that we didn’t kill the real Alec Murphy, and knowing John, that must’ve weighed heavily on his conscience. He wanted to confess and get it out in the open, and in the process of accruing all that intel, he tripped a digital alarm somewhere that triggered the real Alec Murphy to come out of retirement to make sure that his identity remained hidden.”

All of the pieces of the puzzle lined up for Dean—but there was still something about Bolton, something about the way he spoke and carried himself that reeked of deception. Dean thought back to the times he spent in an interrogation room with a murder suspect trying so desperately to cover the truth to the point that it kind of let off a scent.

There’s more to this.

There’s something else.

There’s some missing ingredient to this whole entrée that I can’t quite put my finger on.

“Is there anything else,” Dean said, “that you’re not telling us?”

Bolton’s nostrils flared. “That’s the whole story, chief. And now that you know it, I hope you can appreciate the fact that you being let in on such a sensitive matter has compromised you.”

“Not the first time I’ve been in that position, boss.”

“You sound like you’ve got a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time there, Blackwood.”

Smirking, Dean said, “You have no idea.” He wagged a finger. “And as much as I appreciate your candor here, something just doesn’t add up. I buy that Murphy would be keeping a close eye on the intel networks in case his name ever came up again, but…”

Bolton threw up his hands. “But what?”

“But I can’t buy John O’Neill’s motive to expose the truth, to stir up all of this trouble.” Dean cut a glance at Bazz. “I’m sorry, but if I were in his position, if I had a daughter to look out for and spent my whole life like he did trying to distance myself from a job like he had.” Dean crossed his arms resolutely. “I wouldn’t compromise all of that by exposing the fact that I killed an innocent man.”

“Why not?” Bazz challenged him. “Look Dean, I knew John. He couldn’t stomach living with a lie.”

“I believe you.” Dean gestured to the flash drive, his tone insistent. “But there had to be something else, something bigger. Something on that drive that O’Neill learned about compelled him to put himself and his daughter at risk, and I don’t think that O’Neill killing the wrong guy, a patsy, is enough to motivate him to do what he did.”

“Let me guess,” Bolton said. “You’re playing a hunch?”

“You’d be shocked to learn how many times my gut instinct cleared a case off a desk, old man.”

“Maybe you’ve been out of this for too long, Blackwood. Maybe you’re confusing an ulcer with gut instinct.”

“There’s more,” Dean said, undeterred. “I’m sure of it. Something that you either know or don’t know, but either way, I’m inclined to believe that we’ve only touched the surface of this thing.”

Bolton opened his mouth—but he didn’t speak.

His eyes turned dark.

Then when Dean looked over at Bazz, he saw what had triggered the look on Bolton’s face.

The little red dot of a laser was fixed on the center of Bazz’s chest.

44

The shot went off right as Dean saw the laser’s dot that swept across Bazz’s chest. He knew there was no time to give Bazz a warning. Any attempt to try and intervene would amount to nothing. But still, right as he laid eyes on the red dot, he dove over the kitchen island toward Bazz.

Dean tackled Bazz to the ground. He heard the rifle shot crack through the air. Then he pulled Bazz up by his shirt collar, appraised his sternum, and grunted as he saw the dime-sized cavity two inches to the left of Bazz’s heart. It looked like it had punctured his lung.

“Hey!” Dean said with more authority and control than he felt. “Don’t look at it, Bazz. Keep your eyes on me.”

Pure unbridled shock was on Bazz’s face as he turned his gaze down toward his chest. As he reached his hand up to graze the wound, blood mushroomed across his shirt. Each breath he pulled in became more constricted.

Another shot cracked through the air.

Dean ducked his head instinctively.

Then he pulled out his SIG. He glanced to his left and saw that Bolton was no longer there—and the flash drive that was beside him was gone, as well.

“What the fu⁠—?”

A bullet clipped the top of the kitchen island and prompted Dean’s muscle memory to take over. After he toggled the safety switch on his weapon to fire, he planted his feet, gripped the weapon in both hands, and fired off six shots over the kitchen island toward the back door.

The smoke cleared.

Dean took cover.

Then he hollered out, “Maddy!” and waited for his opponent to take another shot.

“I’m here,” Maddy cried out. “I’m in the hallway.”

“Stay low,” Dean said. “Don’t move.” He fished around in his pockets, another shot whizzing past his head as he pulled out the prepaid phone, turned it on, and dialed 911.

“Stay with me, Bazz,” Dean said as he shot a look toward his friend. Bazz’s skin had turned an ashen shade, his lips trembling as he tried to apply pressure to the wound in his sternum.

“Dean,” Bazz whispered. “What are you doing?”

“I’m calling an ambulance, Bazz.” Dean put the phone on speaker. “We’re getting out of here.”

“Where’s Bolton?”

Dean took another look around and saw no trace of the “retired” CIA stooge. “He pissed off, Bazzy.” Dean shook his head. “I guess his nerves got the better of him.”

Two more bullets chewed up the kitchen island. Based on the sound and the reverb of the shot, Dean could tell that his opponent had switched to a smaller-caliber weapon—and that could only mean that whoever was out there was trying to move in closer.

Covering fire, Deano.

Do it right now.

Dean looked to his left. Maddy was in the hallway lying flat on her belly, her eyes wide and mouth agape, her hands trembling as her eyes danced around frantically in her skull.

“Maddy,” Dean said as he held up his cell. “I’m sliding this over to you. Get the cops and the ambulance here. Tell them to move fast.” A bullet nicked the counter above his head. “Just hold the phone out so they can hear the shots.”

Dean slid the phone over. As it glided across the tiles, a burst of rounds stitched into the floor and nearly clipped it before it came to a stop at Maddy’s location. Once she slapped her palm on the phone, she held it to her ear and began speaking frantically as Dean prepared to move out of cover.

Okay, dickhead.

I’m getting tired of this shit.

Dean fired twice over the counter.

He waited.

Then he rolled onto his side, peeked out of cover, and unloaded the last of his magazine toward the back door. The bellow of the shots caused his ears to ring and the cordite that lingered thick in the air made him wince. As soon as Dean emptied his magazine, he moved back into cover, loaded another magazine, and then put his sights on Bazz.

“Buddy,” Dean said, “talk to me.”

Bazz’s eyelids fluttered as a thin ribbon of blood trickled out of his mouth. He tried to speak, but the attempt left him gasping for air.

“Don’t talk,” Dean rushed to say. “Your lung probably collapsed. Just hold on, okay? Stay with me!”

A few moments of dead air passed. Then Dean heard footsteps shuffling away from the house. Seconds later, he heard the purr of a car motor followed by the shrieking of tires pulling away hard and fast from the scene.

He’s gone.

He left.

Dean stood up, trained his gun on the back door, and waited. Once it became apparent that the shooter was no longer there, he moved to the back door, scanned the yard, and confirmed that the firefight was over.

Stand fast.

There might be guys waiting in the wings.

“Dean!” Maddy shouted. “The cops are on their way.”

“Stay where you are,” he replied as he continued to scan the terrain. “Just stay put.”

Dean rushed back into the kitchen, dropped to Bazz’s side, and pressed his hand firmly over Bazz’s sternum. Bazz’s body was limp, his expression slackened as his eyes rolled back into his skull.

“Damn it,” Dean grumbled as Bazz’s blood coated his hand. “Stay awake. Just try and relax. We’re almost out of this.”

Bazz parted his chapped lips. “Deano…buddy…”

“Just keep quiet, man. Save your energy.”

“Deano…”

“Stop talking, Bazz.”

Bazz rested his hand on top of Dean’s and squeezed. Then he looked his friend deep in the eyes, rallied whatever shred of energy he had left, and channeled it into a smile. “Thank you, my friend,” he said. “For everything.”

As Bazz closed his eyes, Dean felt like his heart had skipped a beat. He felt his friend’s hand slacken, and a moment later, he sensed the vibrant energy that once made up Bazz slowly dissipate as his body relaxed and a final breath left his body.

Silence settled over the scene.

Dean said nothing.

A moment later, he felt Maddy’s hand on his shoulder.

“Is he gone?” she said, her voice tight.

Dean waited.

He nodded.

Then he whispered, “Yeah. Yeah, he’s gone…” and proceeded to close his eyes.

Dean kept his hold on Bazz’s hand. His head felt like it was filled with helium. How much time had passed, he wasn’t really sure. By the time he stood up and felt his body racked with a cocktail of emotions, he spotted the red and blue strobe lights flashing outside the front windows.

Sirens blared.

Tires shrieked.

Policemen shouted as they flooded the scene.

Soon after, the door was kicked in, and a fleet of officers rushed into the home with their guns drawn on Dean and Maddy.

“Hands up!” one of them shouted. “Do it now!”

Dean dropped his SIG to the floor. He surrendered his hands, and as a trio of officers wrestled his arms behind his back and restrained his wrists with cuffs, he kept his focus pinned on Bazz and felt himself brimming with a level of fury he hadn’t experienced in quite some time.

They’ll pay, Bazz.

All of them.

Every…single…one…

45

Roy understood the gravity of his failure. Once again, he—literally—missed the mark. He didn’t kill Blackood. Or Madeline O’Neill. Clifford Bazz was dead, but after Roy took the shot from the Browning X-Bolt Max LR and put his sights on Blackwood, he couldn’t kill him.

Again.

When Roy coiled his finger around the trigger, just seconds away from turning Blackwood into a memory, he thought back to their conversation on the plane, about how Blackwood had a family of his own who were—just like Roy’s family were—depending on him to come back home. Roy couldn’t leave Blackwood’s children fatherless.

He couldn’t help but think about how he would ever look Taylor in the eye again if he had taken Blackwood’s life.

Roy made it look like he tried to finish the job, and after he shot up the house well enough to make it look like he had done the best he could, he ducked out and headed for the rendezvous point that Dallas had established in advance.

The entire drive to the motel, Roy weighed his options. Dallas would certainly chide him several times over for his lapse in fortitude…but what would come after that? He remembered Dallas’s threat on his family.

Would Dallas have him killed?

Make him go on the run?

The possibilities of what the fallout would entail were limitless.

Just run.

Far away.

Grab your family and go somewhere they can never find you.

Roy shook his head.

That won’t work.

Dallas will track you down.

The agency will find you.

You know what you have to do.

Roy continued to sift through the hypotheticals as he pulled his Audi into the parking lot of the rallying point, a shoddy motel far enough off the beaten path that he’d have at least two hours to lie low until he had to go on the move again. After he slipped the gear shift into park, he did a scan of his surroundings, killed the engine, and waited.

You’re not the man you used to be.

That’s a good thing.

He put his focus on his reflection in the rear-view mirror.

Having a family made you a better man…but it made you weak.

Not killing Blackwood says a lot about your character, something that you never had before you had children of your own…but he has to die.

So does Madeline O’Neill.

It’s only a matter of time before someone catches up with them, learns what they know, and before you know it…God, that will lead them right to my family’s doorstep.

Roy closed his eyes. The CIA had spent countless millions to turn him into an emotionally-void killing machine, but those days were long gone. Thanks to Melissa and Taylor and the life he’d made for himself, he’d found some shred of humanity that he nurtured and fostered into the man he was today…but if Roy didn’t flick on that “switch,” the one that Dallas and the goons at the agency hardwired into him, the one that he flipped to life so many times to take out a countless array of lives, his family’s safety would be in jeopardy.

Kill Blackwood.

Kill John O’Neill’s daughter.

It’s either them or you.

Roy drew a breath.

Force yourself to be the man you used to be. Take them all out. Do not hesitate.

Be the killer you knew one last time.

A resolved Roy nodded his head. He slipped out of the Audi. Then he silently made his way toward the room Dallas had booked in advance, sat down on the bed, and waited for his handler to arrive with a suppressed sidearm positioned beside him.

46

The detective’s name was Hanratty or Hardesty. Dean wasn’t sure which. By the time he had been placed in the interrogation room, he had distanced himself from reality and focused solely on replaying the memory of Bazz’s demise on an endless loop. Hanratty or Hardesty kept throwing questions Dean’s way, but he didn’t register them. They just went in one ear and came out the other as his reddened eyes remained fixed to the cold metal desk in front of him.

Whoever did this will pay with their life.

Dean closed his eyes. Yet again, he’d lost someone close to him, and Bazz’s death, in a lot of ways, instilled him with feelings similar to the day he’d lost his twin brother Tommy. A good man had been killed, someone who had rescued Dean at the lowest point in his life. Had Bazz not been there, he would have never seen Jeremy again. He would have never met Layla. Grace would never have been born, and the family that he’d built would have never existed.

And now Bazz is gone.

He asked me to watch his back…and I failed.

The sons of bitches that did this will burn in hell by the time I’m finished with them.

“Hey,” the detective said as he tapped his knuckles on the desk. “You hearing me there, stretch?”

Dean turned up his gaze at the detective, a brick shithouse of a man with a seventies porn stache and thick arms that he showed off via rolled-up sleeves.

“Buddy,” the detective groaned. “Have you been tracking anything that I’ve been saying to you?”

“Where is he?” Dean said.

“Who?”

“My friend. The one that was killed. Where’s his body?”

“It’s in the morgue,” the cop said. “The slug in his chest is being dug out as we speak.” He shrugged. “I was hoping you could be a pal and help shed light on why that happened so I don’t have to pull too much OT tonight trying to figure it out for myself.”

Dean put his focus on the wall behind the detective. “Where’s the woman I was with?”

“In the next room.” The detective motioned over his shoulder. “She’s not saying much, though. She seems nervous. Any idea why that might be?”

“She got shot at twice in two days,” Dean said. “Now she’s locked in a room with a cop breathing down her neck. I think it’s pretty easy to deduce why she’s a bit nervous at the moment.”

A sigh slipped out of the detective as he pulled a thick brown folder toward himself. “We’re going to have a late night if you don’t start giving me answers, buddy.”

Dean threw a glance toward the door. “You guys got any coffee?”

“We do.”

“Black, please.”

“After you start talking.”

“I am talking.”

“Well,” the detective said, “start talking about why a bunch of our guys rolled up to a dead body, shot-out windows, a slew of shell casings, and a woman currently held in the other room who’s saying even less than you are.”

Dean kept his lips sealed.

After a few beats of this went by, the detective stood up, slipped his hands in his pockets, and started to pace the room. “Here’s the short version of what’s going to happen,” he said, speaking in a nonchalant way like he had been through the spiel a thousand times before. “We’re going to hold you in a cell until we can figure out what happened in that house tonight. We’re going to get you your phone call first. I’d suggest that you⁠—”

Dean held up his hand. “Stop talking.”

The detective’s eyes widened. “Say again?”

“You’re wasting your breath.”

“Is that so?”

“It is,” Dean said. “Because sooner or later, probably not too long from now, some guys in suits are going to come walking through that station demanding to have a chat with me.”

“Oh, yeah?” The detective laughed. “Who?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “People above your paygrade.”

The detective tensed his jaw muscles. “I don’t like playing games, Mr. Blackwood,” he said. “And I need you to start⁠—”

The door to the interrogation room opened. A patrolman poked his head inside. He then requested that the detective head outside, and after the detective announced he’d be back, he stepped out of the room, closed the door, and left Dean with his own thoughts.

A few minutes ticked by.

The door opened.

Then the detective walked back into the room.

His face was red.

His eyes were slits.

Then he shook his head, nodded at Dean, and said, “Someone needs to talk to you,” and held the door open for a tall gentleman in a suit that walked inside the room.

Dean locked eyes with the man.

He smirked.

He could smell a government employee from a mile away.

47

The government stooge thanked the detective, shook his hand, and told him he’d “be a few minutes.” After the detective left the room and closed the door behind him, the man in the suit unfastened the top button of his blazer, sat on the seat across from Dean’s, and said, “My name is Phillip Fournier.”

Dean wrinkled his brow. “That’s French, right?”

The stooge nodded. “It is.”

“French for ‘baker,’ if I’m not mistaken.”

Fournier pouted his lower lip. “Not bad, Blackwood. Based on what I’ve read about you, you’ve got an uncanny knack for recalling details.”

Dean said nothing.

“What does the name Blackwood mean, by the way?”

“It’s literal,” Dean said. “It literally means ‘black wood.’”

“No points for creativity, right?”

Dean shrugged. “I’m Scottish. Some ancestor way back was probably on a bender when he picked the name.”

Fournier entwined his fingers and then rested his hands on the desk. “You know a little something about that. From what I gathered, you spent a bit of time trying to kick the sauce during your sabbatical from the bureau.”

Dean’s lips bowed up into a smirk. “You spies really get off on telling someone you know all about them through little insinuations like the one you just made, don’t you?”

“What makes you think I’m a spy?”

“You might as well have worn a name badge,” Dean said. “Besides, I figured someone from Bazz’s old office would catch up to us before long. Who are you with? CIA? NSA?”

Fournier swiped his hand through the air. “Something like that.”

“So,” Dean inched closer to the desk, “what happens now? You guys throw a bag over Bazz’s death and throw me away at some black site somewhere after it’s done?”

Fournier brushed invisible lint off the table. “There’s no need to get all doom-and-gloom. I just want to ask you a few questions. When we’re done, I’ll put you on a plane back to LA. If I like the answers you give me, hell, I’ll bump you up to first class.”

Dean said nothing.

Fournier shot his cuffs. “Let’s start with me telling you what I know. All you have to do is nod your head ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ If you play ball, you’ll be out of here in a flash. Now,” he tapped his finger on the desk, “tell me how Bazz got you involved in this thing. Start from the beginning.”

“I figured you’d have a pretty good read on that already.”

“I do. But I want to hear it from you.”

Dean gave the man a cocky look. “Bazz took an ad out in the missed connections section on Craigslist,” he said. “I was bored, so I took him up on his offer.”

A hint of a smirk brimmed on Fournier’s lips. “Is that how you want to play this?”

“Let me guess,” Dean said. “This is the part where you tell me you’ll make my life a living hell if I don’t comply.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth.”

“Well, here’s a few out of mine: get fucked.”

Fournier drummed his fingers on the table. Then he stood up and paced the room lazily, like a guy checking out a real estate listing. “Blackwood,” he said. “Dean Henry Blackwood. Former FBI agent. While you were with the bureau, you had a propensity for getting involved in a slew of high-pressure cases.”

“Story of my life.”

“That it is.” Fournier smoothed his suit as he paced. “From a professional standpoint, I have to say, I’m impressed by the number of convictions you secured during your tenure.” He scoffed. “But the quantum of collateral damage you left in your wake, well, I can understand why you tried to distance yourself from the bureau.”

Recollections of Dean’s past exploits replayed in his mind with vivid color.

“You have a fervor for taking down the worst denizens of the world, Blackwood,” Fournier continued. “It’s probably left you with a sizable amount of guilt, though. Probably some PTSD, too. I can only imagine⁠—”

“Skip the commentary,” Dean said. “And get to the point.”

“The point is that I know you, Blackwood,” Fournier said. “I know every last thing about who you are, what you’ve done, and what you’re capable of. What’s even more cardinal here, what I should make it a point to underscore, is that I know about the people you care about: who they are, where they live, the routines that they have, and how easy it would be for me to walk up behind them and tap them on the shoulder.”

Dean flared his nostrils. “Mention my family again⁠—”

“Refrain from throwing some hot-headed one-liners at me,” Fournier cut in. “I’m not in the mood. Just answer my questions as thoroughly as you can and your family will remain intact.”

Dean took a moment to tamp down his rage. Finally, he said, “Do you have people on my house right now?”

Fournier’s lips remained sealed.

“Answer me,” Dean said. “Because if I find out you’ve got any of your lap dogs sniffing around my place, I’ll rip out your spine.”

“No one’s looking at your family,” Fournier said. “They’re safe. Rest assured.”

An unconvinced Dean pinned an unblinking stare to the CIA stooge.

“Now,” Fournier said as he retook the seat across from Dean’s. “First thing’s first, let’s establish the facts that we have in front of us: Clifford Bazz, your pal, is dead.”

The fingers on Dean’s hand curled into a fist.

“And the reason Bazz is dead,” Fournier went on, “is because he was contacted by John O’Neill, his old partner. O’Neill learned something he felt Bazz needed to know, and he sent word to Bazz to contact Madeline O’Neill to obtain this information. Bazz wanted some help, he contacted you, and then the two of you located Madeline O’Neill. Am I right so far?”

Dean waited.

Then he nodded.

“So you and Bazz,” Fournier went on, “meet with Madeline O’Neill, John’s daughter. Not long after that, the three of you find yourself caught up in a shooting tonight that saw Clifford Bazz⁠—”

“Cliff.”

“What?”

“His name was Cliff,” Dean said. “He never liked being called by his full name. He said it made him feel like that dog in that children’s book.” He sat up straight. “And let me save you some time and complete the rest of the story for you: Maddy O’Neill had something her father sent her. A flash drive. Whatever was on that thing was what triggered John O’Neill to come out of hiding. Bazz and I were in the middle of talking to a guy named Bolton. Bolton shows up, and then the place turned into a fucking shooting gallery.”

The whites of Fournier’s eyes broadened. “You met with Bolton tonight? Before Bazz was killed?”

“Right before,” Dean said. “When the shots broke out, so did Bolton. He disappeared.” He crooked a finger. “But I have a feeling you were already close by, weren’t you?”

“What makes you say that?”

“I was a federal employee for a long time. I know how this works.” Dean shrugged. “I figured it was only a matter of time until this whole thing started prompting people like you to show up—and you did.”

Fournier bided his time as he processed the information. “Where is this flash drive?”

“Bolton took it with him.”

“You’re sure?”

“One hundred percent.”

“Did you get a chance to look at what was on the drive?”

“No,” Dean said. “It was locked. We didn’t have a chance to crack it open. Bolton showed up, and then Bazz got killed before we had the opportunity.”

“What about Bolton?”

“What about him?”

“What did he tell you?” Fournier said. “I want to know what your conversation was about.”

The story came out of Dean with intricate detail, a feat that wasn’t hard considering that Dean could recall any memory down to the most trivial tidbit. Fournier nodded along the entire time, the flicker in his eyes one that Dean took as confirmation that Fournier already knew the narrative about Bolton and the program he built and Alec Murphy and all of the other elements before he ever stepped foot into the room.

“Now that you know my end of the story,” Dean said, “tell me yours. Tell me why you’re here. Tell me why Dan Bolton had such a hard-on to get his hands on that drive.”

“John O’Neill learned something,” Fournier replied, “something about Alec Murphy that, from the sounds of it, Bolton wanted to keep hidden. We caught wind of this, and when we did, we decided to step in to try and find out what was going on.”

“Was Bolton the one who sent that assassin after us? The one that killed Bazz? The one that took a chunk out of my ear?”

“We’re still figuring that out. What we need to do now⁠—”

Dean rolled his eyes. “The hell with this.” He shot out his foot and kicked the leg of the table. “No wonder you CIA get all glitchy after you leave the agency. The countless lies and deceptions and opposing narratives are enough to make anyone’s head spin. I’m still struggling to string together what just happened.”

“Well,” Fournier said, “luckily for you, your part in this ordeal is finished. Let me state that clearly. Your only task now is to get back on a plane, go home, and put this matter behind you.”

Dean flared his nostrils. Then he looked Fournier square in his eyes and proceeded to—slowly—shake his head. “My friend got killed tonight,” he said. “All because you black-ops assholes couldn’t keep tabs on your own people. That doesn’t sit well with me.”

Fournier shrugged. “It is what it is, Blackwood. I don’t like the situation any more than you do. I’m sorry for what happened to Bazz. I am.” He leaned over the table. “But we’re going to take over from here. We’ll find out what happened and deal with it accordingly. And I’d suggest you count your blessings, take comfort in the fact that you’re walking away with just a flesh wound, and go back to your family and live a normal life.”

Dean closed his eyes.

What about Bazz?

What about his nephew?

What about the people that cared about him?

The people that loved him?

“Hey,” Fournier snapped his fingers. “Are you listening to me? I need you to get with the program here, Blackwood. I need you to offer me your assurances that you’ll turn your back on this thing.”

“What about Maddy?” Dean said. “What happens to her?”

“That’s not your concern anymore,” Fournier replied. “We’ll handle it. She’ll be taken care of, rest assured. And in an effort to tamp down any anxieties you may have, my people will not bother you from here on out. After I leave this room, you’ll no longer be on our radar.”

Dean huffed. “If I learned one thing from my time playing spy-versus-spy with you dipshits, it’s that none of you can be trusted.”

The lines in Fournier ’s face pulled back into a sneer. “You listen,” he said, “and you listen good—leave this thing alone. Go home.”

“And if I don’t? If I decide to look for the guy who killed my friend…what then?”

“If you do that,” Fournier said, “then someone from my office will have to pay a visit to your partner, Layla, your baby, Grace, and your son, Jeremy, to explain why you met a premature demise. Get the picture?”

The expression on Dean’s face was one of undiluted rage.

“Here’s the score,” Fournier said, his voice low. “After I leave this room, you’ll be accompanied by a pair of my guys back to LA. After they drop you off at home, we’ll keep an eye on you for a short while to make sure that you’re staying put.”

“I told you not to threaten my family.”

“No one’s threatening anyone. This is just standard protocol. And you’re not in a position to be making demands here, Blackwood. You’re here to do as I tell you to do.” Fournier rose from his chair. “Do the right thing here, my friend. People you care about are depending on you.”

Fournier moved toward the door and opened it to reveal a pair of men in chinos, Salomon boots, polos, and windbreakers standing outside. They walked inside, flanked Dean on either side, and ordered him to stand up.

“So,” Fournier said, “are we good here, Mr. Blackwood?”

Dean took a beat.

He smirked.

Then he looked at the pair of men guarding him, nodded, and said, “I want to make a phone call.”

Fournier shrugged. “To who?”

“My girlfriend.”

“It can wait.”

“No,” Dean said. “It can’t. If you want me to play ball here, you’re going to let me make the call. Monitor the line if you want. Otherwise, I’ll start throwing a toddler-level tantrum in the hallway to the point that you’ll have to jab me with a sedative to get me on that plane. I’ll have to use your phone, though. The flatfoots in the precinct took all of my stuff.”

A beat ticked by.

Fournier reached into his pocket.

Then he fished out his cell, held it up, and handed it over to Dean.

48

Layla’s cell rang twice before she answered. The number on the display read “UNKNOWN,” but her sixth sense screamed that it was Dean.

“Hello?” she answered, her brow furrowed as she scooped up Grace with one arm and balanced her on her hip.

“It’s me,” Dean said.

“Where are you?”

“Headed home.” He drew a shaky breath. “Are you okay?”

Layla furrowed her brow. “Yeah, why?”

“No one’s been at the house?”

“Claire has.”

“Anyone else?”

The gravelly-like quality in Dean’s tone was one Layla had heard more than once during the span of their relationship. It was that same taxed, end of his rope, “I just got punched in the face” timbre she had heard him put on display several times before.

Something had happened.

Something bad.

And Layla wasn’t sure how much more she could stomach.

“Dean,” she said, “what’s going on?”

“Layla…” Dean sighed. “Has anyone spoken to you? Anyone at all?”

A muffled voice grumbled in the background on Dean’s end—a foreign and authoritative male voice that Layla didn’t recognize, the person’s tone reminiscent of her old editor back at the Times when he told Layla she was overstepping her bounds.

Someone’s with Dean.

He’s under duress.

Oh, God…

What is going on?

“Dean,” Layla felt like the wind had been knocked clean out of her. “Is everything all right?”

“It’s fine,” he told her. “You don’t need to worry.”

The anger that welled inside of Layla made her feel like she had a scratch on the roof of her mouth. “Don’t give me that crap,” she said. “Something’s going on.”

“It’s all right,” Dean assured her. “I’m just worried about you guys. That’s all.”

He’s speaking in riddles and codes.

Something’s up.

Damn it—there’s always something up!

Grace whimpered, and after she took a brief moment to soothe her baby girl, Layla put her attention back on the call. “How long, Dean?” she said. “How long will it take you to get back?”

“Not sure,” he said. “Not long, though.”

“Where’s Bazz? Is he with you?”

A few seconds went by. Then Dean said, “I’ll tell you when I see you,” and his forlorn tone reminded Layla of the moments when Dean reminisced about his late brother Tommy.

This isn’t right.

Layla tightened her grip on the phone.

I feel like I’m going to lose my mind.

“Layla,” Dean whispered. “Are you there?”

She cleared her throat. “I’m here.” She felt Grace tug on her shirt and looked down. “I’m just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About what I told you. About what I asked you to do. I know you’re not lying when you tell me that you’re on your way back, but…”

“But what?”

Layla closed her eyes. “I just need you to tell me that you’re not about to do something you’ll regret, Dean.”

A few moments passed.

Then Dean said, “I’ll be home soon,” before the line clicked off.

Layla dropped the hand clutching onto the phone down by her side. There were a handful of moments where she had been irritated with Dean. It was impossible to not live with another human being, no matter how much you cared for or loved them, without those moments occurring—but for the first time ever, for the first time since she made the choice to forge a partnership with Dean Blackwood, she was mad at him more than she ever imagined she could be.

At a loss and feeling like she’d just stepped off a tilt-a-whirl, Layla moved into the kitchen, placed Grace inside of her high chair, and proceeded to load the dishwasher in a bid to get her mind off the phone call she had with Dean. All she could do was take him at his word that he was coming back home, that Dean would do as he promised, and once he was back, their lives could go back to normal. But when Layla noticed the unmarked sedan parked across the street, she started to suspect that Dean, despite the oath he had pledged to her, had managed to—once again—bring his work back home with him.

49

Dean was shoved into the black Suburban SUV by a red-haired guy, one of the two men Fournier tasked with taking him home. He was still thinking about his call with Layla. He knew it was a fool’s errand to believe that she wasn’t creeping toward being fed up with his antics, and Dean didn’t hold that against her. Time and time again he got himself embroiled in some high-stakes card game where he betted with his life in lieu of poker chips, and be it fate or luck or some guiding hand, he managed to come out unscathed.

But how long would that lucky streak last, he wondered. How long until the house, as it always did, inevitably won?

I should go home.

Dean reached up and touched the bandage on his ear.

I should turn my back on this whole thing.

Fournier has my balls in a vice.

He felt his temper flare.

But Bazz’s death will end up amounting to nothing.

That’s what will happen.

Fournier and his goons will sweep this under the rug and some bullshit reason will be attributed to Bazz’s death and forever etched into his tombstone.

The doors to the SUV slammed shut and stirred Dean out of his train of thought. He glanced to his left at a raven-haired man, slightly taller than his red-haired partner, cozying up alongside him to the point that Dean was rubbing shoulders with him.

Dean winced. “Mind scooting over there, haus? You smell like you bathed yourself in Old Spice this morning.”

The raven-haired man shot him a look as Dean saw the red-haired guy slipping behind the wheel. A second later, the SUV lurched forward, the doors were locked, and the vehicle pulled away from the front doors of the police station.

As the SUV turned onto the highway, images of Bazz’s dead body flooded Dean’s mind, the most recent addition to his Home Movie Collection. In all of an instant, he felt his rage boil to the point that he thought steam might shoot out of his ears like a character in a Looney Tunes cartoon.

Dean wanted justice.

He wanted Bazz’s killer brought down.

He wanted the CIA to answer for their foul-ups before they could sweep it all under the rug.

Think about what Layla said, buddy.

If you go through with this, you risk everything…but if you don’t, you’ll betray Bazz.

His memory.

His entire life.

And whoever killed him will get away with it scot-free.

Dean shook his head.

Go home, Deano.

Be with your family.

You can’t win this thing.

You can’t risk your family’s safety.

The raven-haired guy nudged Dean. “You alright there, pal?” He snickered. “Don’t look so grim. You’re getting off with a slap on the wrist here.”

“Yeah,” the red-haired guy chimed in. “I’m sorry your friend got smoked, but he made his own bed. He should’ve stayed out of this and let the pros handle it.”

Dean’s eyelids tapered as he put his focus on the man beside him.

“Relax,” the raven-haired dude said. “Don’t do anything dumb, all right? You heard what Fournier said. The last thing you want is our boys camped out in front of your place in LA pulling your girlfriend into the home office for questioning.”

The comment triggered Dean’s eyes to widen into the size of silver dollars. “What did you just say?”

“Come on,” the red-haired guy groaned. “You really think that Fournier wasn’t going to put some contingencies into place? He’s making sure you don’t foul up before you get back home. You fuck around, your whole family’s going to be in deep shit.”

Dean pivoted his focus between the two men. “You’ve got people watching my family?”

“Of course we do,” the raven-haired guy said. “It’s our job, hombre.”

“Right now?” Dean replied. “You’ve got eyes on my home as we speak?”

The raven-haired guy nodded. “One-hundred percent.”

Dean closed his eyes.

He balled his hands into a pair of fists.

That same rage he invested so much time into locking away in his mental vault, the one that triggered him time and time again to chase after and put away—or put down—all of the bad people in the world had returned. The one thing he fought to preserve, the one thing that mattered to him in the entire world, the only thing that would make him say “all bets are off” had been threatened by a pair of buzzcut gun toting dipshits he was in the SUV with: his family.

That’s it.

Dean sucked in a gust of air.

That’s the last goddamn straw.

He glanced over at the man beside him and tallied that the guy was a buck-ninety-five; all muscle, and the bulge that stuck out on his right side flagged where his weapon was.

Dean took a beat.

He cleared his throat.

Then he said, “What’s it like living with the fact that you guys have no qualms threatening a man’s family?”

“I call it every other Tuesday,” the red-haired prick said. “Comes with the job.”

Dean clicked his teeth and did a scan of the Nebraska terrain outside his window—a four-lane stretch of highway with flatlands and flaxen-hued straw with no end seemingly in sight. Every couple of minutes, the SUV passed the occasional car, but past that, they were in the middle of nowhere.

Good, he figured.

Less chance of collateral damage.

Dean jutted his chin at the raven-haired guy next to him. “What’s your name, boss?”

“Quiet,” the raven-haired guy grunted.

“Where are you from? Iowa? Ohio? I guess it could be a number of places. All you corn-fed dipshits look the same to me.” Dean squinted. “You look like someone, by the way. I just can’t put my finger on it.”

The lines in the raven-haired guy’s face screwed into a grimace. He looked at Dean. Then he lowered his voice an octave and clapped his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Fournier said to get you to your final destination,” he said. “He never specified in what kind of condition you were supposed to be in by the time we got you there.”

“How foreboding.”

“I mean it.”

“Don’t tease me.”

The raven-haired guy held up a fist. “I mean it, shit stick. Keep this up, and I’ll knock your teeth into your goddamn throat.”

“My God,” Dean groaned. “Your poor wife…”

The raven-haired guy lowered his fist, huffed, pulled out his cell, and started fiddling with a text. As a few moments of drive time ticked by, Dean planted his feet on the floor mats, shifted his weight, and started to slap together a plan.

“So, what are you guys?” he said. “JSOC? SEALs? GRS?”

The raven-haired guy put his focus on the windshield. “Shut your mouth, man.”

“I was a Ranger myself.”

“No one cares.”

Dean snapped his fingers and then pointed at the raven-haired guy. “McSteamy!” he said. “That’s who you look like. Took me a second to figure it out. You guys ever watch that show? My girlfriend is a big fan. I’m more of a 911: Lone Star guy myself. I can’t understand for the life of me why Rob Lowe has that god-awful haircut, though. It’s kind of a turnoff.”

The raven-haired guy nudged the driver’s seat. “Switch on the goddamn radio, man,” he grumbled. “Tune this son of a bitch out before I do it myself.”

The red-haired guy complied. A moment later, “Let Your Love Flow” by the Bellamy Brothers pumped through the car's speakers as the four-lane highway narrowed into two.

Dean tapped his finger on his leg to the country rock beat.

He nodded his head in sync.

Surveyed the highway.

Then he put his focus on the speedometer and saw that the SUV was cruising at a steady sixty miles-per-hour.

Dean’s gaze drifted to the door beside him.

Then the one beside the raven-haired man.

Then he appraised the dashboard, the seats, and every other inch of the SUV before he went about cracking his knuckles.

“Solid ride,” Dean said. “This thing could roll over six times and we’d probably be safe and sound.” He tapped his knuckles on the door beside him. “It’s probably got run-flat tires, right? Additional airbags? Stuff like that?”

The raven-haired guy nodded. “Big time.”

Dean smirked, and said, “Swingin’,” before he drew up his right arm, cocked it back, and threw his elbow into the temple of the raven-haired man as the chorus of the song on the radio kicked into high gear.

50

The guy’s head smacked against the bullet-proof window a moment after Dean’s elbow made contact with it. Between the fresh concussion and the whiplash, he was too dazed to register that Dean had whisked the 1911 Colt out of his side holster.

“Jesus,” the guy grumbled. “How the fu⁠—?”

Dean struck the pistol against his head, knocked him into a slumber, and then put his sights on the red-haired guy behind the wheel.

The wide-eyed red-haired guy cursed and made a move for his holstered sidearm, but the moment his fingertips brushed against the cold metal steel, he felt the muzzle of his downed partner’s Colt being pressed flush against the back of his skull.

“Cut the shit,” Dean said. “Take your hand off the piece.”

As the color drained from his face, the redhead-haired guy, his teeth gnashed and a stream of colorful curse words spilling out of his mouth, placed his hands on the steering wheel and sat up straight.

“Turn the radio off,” Dean said. “As much as I dig this song, it’s drowning my voice out a bit.”

The red-haired guy did as instructed.

“Good,” Dean said. “Let’s just take a breather here. Slow things down a little bit. How’s that sound?”

“You fucked up.” The red-haired guy glanced at Dean through the rear-view mirror. “You know that, right?”

“Your boy back here was the one who dropped his guard, dipshit.” Dean tapped the gun against the side of the guy’s head. “And unless you want to catch a bullet, I suggest you start treating me like you’re a concierge at a five-star hotel. Now, slow the car down and take the next exit.”

“Where the hell are you going to go⁠—?”

Dean whacked the weapon upside the red-haired guy’s head. “I’m having a hard time debating if you're the weakest link or the missing link here. Now take the next exit.” He gestured the weapon toward the two-way radio in the center console. “And while you’re at it, be a chum and hand that sucker over.”

After he passed the radio back to Dean, the red-haired guy toggled his turn indicator, merged into the next lane, and took the exit. Dean instructed him to keep driving and take the SUV as far as he could away from the highway, and ten minutes later, the red-haired guy, per Dean’s instructions, pulled down a dirt road that appeared to be miles away from the nearest looky-loo.

“Put the rig in park,” Dean said. “Slowly. After that, toss your piece. I’m feeling a bit salty right now, so if you stray from what I tell you, I’ll blow your head off.”

“You won’t do it,” the red-haired guy said. “I read your file. You’re a boy scout.”

“Yeah, but the moment people start threatening my family,” Dean coiled his finger around the trigger, “I slip into Dirty Harry mode. Now, you wanna comply with what I’m telling you, or find out if the concepts of heaven and hell are a reality?”

The red-haired guy threw the shifter into park. Then he tossed his weapon on the floor mat on the passenger’s side. Once Dean was satisfied, he ordered the guy to slide out of the car—slowly—and then found himself surrounded on all sides by barren, American midwest flatlands replete with a chilled wind and the faint shape of what Dean deduced as a farm several miles off to the west.

“You CIA pricks have zip ties, I’m assuming,” Dean said. “Right?”

The guy threw up his hands. “And?”

“So,” Dean nodded toward the unconscious guy in the back seat, “get to work, genius. I don’t have the time or the crayons to spell this out for you.”

After the red-haired guy secured his raven-haired partner’s wrists and ankles with zip ties, Dean instructed him to walk several paces away from the SUV, ordered him to get down on his knees, and made sure to angle his body in a way that he had a good line of sight on the SUV in case the raven-haired guy woke up and broke free of his restraints.

“Now,” Dean said, “I’m going to ask you a few questions. You’re going to answer them. When we’re done, I’m taking your ride. Don’t worry, though. I’m sure some highway patrol unit will roll by sooner or later. If not, well,” he shrugged, “maybe some hog farmer will come along and give you boys an assist.”

“You don’t get it, man,” the red-haired guy said, “you just dug yourself into a hole so deep you don’t even know⁠—”

Dean swung up the weapon in his hand on the red-haired guy and squeezed the trigger three times. The rounds punched their way into the dirt around the red-haired guy—close enough that they didn’t hit him but still close enough that it drilled holes into the dirt around his knees.

“Damn it!” the red-haired guy shouted as he shot his hands into the sky. “Are you nuts?”

“Irritated,” Dean replied. “Short of patience. And if you keep droning on with your cue-card rhetoric, I’m going to put one in your leg for good measure.”

The display compelled the red-haired guy to shut his mouth.

“Alright,” Dean said. “Let’s start from the top. Now, was it or was it not a bullshit claim that Fournier and your pals have people watching my house in LA?”

The red-haired guy hung his head. “It’s just a surveillance team. They’re not door-kickers. It’s just some guys with cameras. That’s all.”

Dean shook his head and refrained from striking the guy upside the head with the Colt. “Where’s Dan Bolton?”

“We don’t know.” The red-haired guy held his hands up higher. “That’s the truth. We’re still looking for him.”

“What’s Fournier’s next play?”

“To find Bolton, destroy the drive he has, and then locate the guy that was trying to kill you and Bazz.”

“And Maddy O’Neill? What happens to her?”

The red-haired guy shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Fournier’s probably going to hold onto her until this is all sorted out. He’s not going to kill her, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He flexed his brow. “I’m pretty sure.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “You’re pretty sure?”

“What do you want me to tell you, Blackwood?” The red-haired guy shook his head. “You should’ve walked when you had the chance. You know that, don’t you? Now you’re fucked. You’re in this thing so deep now that you’re going to be on our radar for the rest of your miserable life.”

Sweat glazed the palm Dean had gripped onto the Colt.

He’s right.

The second Fournier threatened his family, all Dean saw was red. It was the one line that he never allowed anyone to cross. But the red-haired blockhead in front of him was right—he could’ve bitten his tongue, did as Fournier said, and gone back home.

What’s wrong with you, Dean?

Why can’t you just be a normal guy like everyone else?

“Listen, Blackwood,” the red-haired guy said, “we can still salvage this. Just put the gun down, hand it over, and we’ll get you on the plane. We’ll put this whole thing behind us, all right?”

Dean cocked his head to the side, huffed, and then laughed. “Right,” he said. “And I take it the two of you won’t try to dish out some retribution on the way there.”

The red-haired guy shook his head. “We won’t.” He flattened his palm over his chest. “You have my word.”

“Bullshit.” Dean inched closer and raised the gun higher. “Look me in the eye and tell me that Fournier didn’t give you a shoot-on-sight order if I tried to pull anything.”

The red-haired guy said nothing.

And that managed to tell Dean everything.

“Empty your pockets,” Dean said. “Do it slowly. I want your wallet and any spare cash you’ve got on you.”

The red-haired guy furrowed his brow. “What for?”

“Because I’m going shopping at Macy’s.” Dean lined up the guy’s head flush between the Colt’s sights. “Just do it.”

The guy complied and tossed over his wallet. Dean went about discarding all of the contents save for the grand in cash the guy had tucked inside.

“Damn.” Dean whistled. “They let you carry this much on you?”

“For emergencies,” the guy said. “Just in case.”

“Tax-payer money, I’m assuming,” Dean said as he stuffed the bills in his pockets. “Technically, it’s kind of like I’m taking back what I already paid.”

The red-haired guy’s face turned a beet shade of red. “Just don’t kill me. The last thing I want to do is die out here in the middle of goddamn nowhere.”

“I’m not going to kill you. Your file was right when it said I was a boy scout. I don’t take anyone’s life unless they have it coming.”

“Well,” the red-haired guy said, “you better learn to be a little more cold than that if you’re going to survive this. Fournier’s gonna come for you and your entire family now that you⁠—”

Dean thwacked the Colt hard upside the guy’s head and sent him to sleep. As soon as the guy’s body hit the earth, Dean stuffed the weapon in the back of his jeans, stepped back, and said, “Cold enough?” before he made his way over to the SUV.

Dean got behind the wheel of the SUV and started driving, thinking of what he was going to do next and jittery at the fact that he just committed himself to the one-man war he was about to wage against the CIA.

Make this count, Deano.

Oh, man.

You better make this count.

51

Things going south was something Bolton was well accustomed to by now. He’d lived long enough, many of those years dedicated to military and intelligence service, that he’d seen his fair share of operations going sideways. It just happened. That was war. That was life—but the whole Bazz, O’Neill, Murphy situation was a fuck-up of such colossal proportions that Bolton had never experienced, one that, if he didn’t clean it up quickly, would land him in a grave so fast that he wouldn’t even see it coming.

Bolton, behind the wheel of the KIA rental he procured from the airport when he arrived in Nebraska, gritted his teeth as he pulled into the Motel 6 just off the highway.

Fournier probably has his hands on Maddy and Blackwood right now.

Bolton slammed his fist on the steering wheel before he put the car into park.

Which means it’s only a matter of time before he catches up with me.

He did a scan of the motel outside his windshield, a shabby, four-story L-shaped building with a 76 gas station two-hundred yards away to its left and a Wendy’s one-hundred yards away on its right, the kind of place where people went to drink or shoot up or engage in extramarital affairs far away from prying eyes.

Bolton reached over to the glove box, opened it, and pulled out the .38 Special revolver inside. After he checked the six rounds in the cylinder, he stuffed it into his waistband, stepped out of the KIA, and made a beeline for room twelve on the second floor.

He arrived at the door.

He knocked twice.

Then he uttered the word, “Greenpeace,” and waited for the door to open.

Roy Ellis then cracked open the door, a suppressed H&K P30L Luger in his hand and a pensive look plastered on his face.

“Bolton,” Roy said as he poked the weapon through the crack in the door, “you’re…”

“Easy,” Bolton said. “There’s a lot I need to explain to you, Ellis.”

The lines in Roy looked ’s face pulled back into a baffled countenance.

“I’m Dallas,” Bolton said. “I’ve been your contact the entire time. I hate to just drop this bombshell on you, but we don’t have a lot of time.”

“You’re…” Roy blinked his eyes, “you’re Dallas?”

“I am.”

Roy caressed the trigger of his weapon. “Prove it.”

“Cuba, 2002,” Bolton said. “I tasked you with taking care of that crooked station agent we had in place at the time, Andrew Davies. Only the two of us knew about the job.” He smirked. “Hell, only the two of us knew about all of the jobs you pulled. Our code-in call sign was ‘Hatchet.’”

Roy took a beat.

He lowered his weapon.

Then he stood aside and motioned for Bolton—a.k.a. “Dallas”—to enter.

“I never knew,” Roy said. “I never knew you were…well, who you were.”

Bolton nudged Roy aside and stepped inside the room. “That was the whole point, slick.” He locked the door. “Total anonymity.” He did a scan of the room, stepped into the bathroom, switched on the faucet, and then splashed some water on his face.

“So…” Roy shrugged. “What do I call you?”

“Doesn’t matter anymore,” Bolton said. “You screwed the pooch on this one, Ellis. Again.” He clenched his teeth. “You dumb bastard,” he grumbled. “Five million was spent teaching you what you know. Your abilities were meant to rival any other operative on the planet, and you have failed now, twice, to succeed in your mission.”

A stone-faced Roy Ellis, standing in the doorway of the bathroom, replied with nothing.

“How?” Bolton said. “How in the hell is this possible?” He spun around. “My instructions were clear from the get-go.”

Roy jutted his chin. “Did you get the drive?”

Bolton dug into the pockets of his jacket, pulled out the flash drive, and tossed it in the sink. “John O’Neill might as well have made a dozen copies of that thing,” he said. “For all I know, he did.” He raised his fist, shot a finger, and directed it at Roy. “And after your most recent screw-up, we have to assume that Fournier is either on his way to intercept or has already intercepted Blackwood and O’Neill’s daughter.” He shrugged. “How does that sit with you, soldier? How’s that make you feel?”

Roy clasped his hands in front of him, stood at attention, and said nothing.

“Well,” Bolton threw up his hands. “What do we do now, my friend? Huh? Where are we supposed to go from here?”

“I finish the mission,” Roy said with a level and calm tone. “I locate Madeline O’Neill. Then I track down Blackwood. Then I put them both down and we can go back to living our lives. The mission can still be salvaged.”

“Ellis…” Bolton slowly strode toward Roy, his face a study of shock as he gripped onto his pet assassin’s shoulders and squeezed. “You just totaled a six-figure sports car into oblivion. You rolled it six times, ran it into a traffic light, and then set the goddamn thing on fire. Not even the tires can be saved at this point. There is nothing, and I repeat, nothing here that can be salvaged.”

“How much information do you have on Blackwood?”

“I have everything,” Bolton said. “Addresses, phone numbers, his home address in LA.”

“Where is it?”

Bolton patted his jacket. “Right here. But I’m not giving it to you. We need to pivot our plan here. This op is no longer about taking out Blackwood or Madeline O’Neill. It’s about making our exit. Consider that a direct order.”

An expressionless Ellis said nothing.

“We need to get our shit together,” Bolton said as he moved into the bedroom. “Maddy O’Neill and Dean Blackwood are no longer on the playing board. They’re not our problem anymore.”

“They know too much.”

“That they do.”

“Then we need to put them down.”

Bolton’s eyes widened. “Are you reading me here, soldier? Do you understand what’s going on? Is it computing for you? You fucked up. You failed to kill your targets.” He threw up his hands. “Why? Please, tell me what prohibited you from taking them both out. I mean, Jesus Christ!” He balled up a fist and slammed it on the nightstand beside the bed. “I walked right into that house and set them all up for a clean kill. You had a clear vantage point on all of them, and you didn’t take the shot.” He inched closer to Roy. “Why didn’t you take it?”

Roy’s mouth opened but the words took a moment to come out. Finally, he said, “Because I didn’t want to.”

“You…” Bolton held up his hands, laughed, and blinked his eyes several times, “didn’t want to? What the hell are you talking about?”

“I didn’t want to, Dallas,” Roy repeated. “It’s as simple as that.”

“For God’s sake! You killed men, women, and children for over twenty years, then all of a sudden…what? You developed a goddamn conscience?”

Roy—slowly—nodded his head. “After my daughter was born,” he said, his eyes glossing over as he recounted the memory, “something happened. I learned how precious life could be. It got me thinking, about all of it, about everything I did when I worked for you. My mind was never the same after that.”

A few moments of silence were shared between the two. Bolton then waved Roy off, turned his back toward him, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Your mind is fried,” Bolton said. “You spent too much time playing house with that bitch of yours that you⁠—”

“Keep my wife out of this.”

“I should have known better.” Bolton turned and faced his asset. “I should have rung up another one of the assets to handle this. This is my fault. Hell,” he swiped his hand through the air, “maybe I was out of the game for so long that I suffered from the same complacency that you have. My body and my mind aren’t what they used to be.”

“I will finish this,” Roy said. “There’s no other choice. I’ll take care of Blackwood and Madeline O’Neill. I can’t risk having what they know getting spilled out into the open. I can’t run the risk of that leading back to my family. Now that I know that, I can finish the job.”

“You’re not going back to your family!” Bolton shouted as he put his back to Roy once again. “It’s over. Don’t you get that? You’re going to have to go underground now, you breeze-brained fool. Both of us are! The life you knew, all of that is⁠—”

Bolton lurched forward.

He felt the air knocked clean out of his lungs.

A second after that, his brain registered the muffled gunshot.

Bolton turned around.

His legs turned to rubber.

After he blinked his eyes slowly in a fruitless bid to shake off his daze, the first thing he saw when he put his focus on Roy was the pillow the assassin had placed over his suppressed H&K P30L in his hands to drown out the shot that he had fired.

The laughter that spilled out of Bolton’s mouth was involuntary. Even though the bullet lodged in his back might not kill him, he knew the shots Roy would fire next certainly would.

“I’m sorry,” Roy said as he held the weapon up for Bolton to see. “But you put me in this position. I knew that I probably wasn’t going to walk out of this room alive. Then you show up. After all you did for me, I thought about giving you a pass.” He shook his head. “But I can’t. I can’t risk my family’s safety.”

The level of oxygen Bolton pulled into his lungs became more shallow with each breath he took. He couldn’t speak. He could barely stand. After a moment, whatever fragments of energy he had left retreated from his body and triggered him to fall to his knees.

Bolton shot his hand out toward the bed in an attempt to break his fall. As he secured a weak grip on the stale comforter, he pulled it down to the floor, fell onto his belly, and felt his heart rate slow to an alarming forty beats per minute.

He was about to die.

Now he just wanted Roy to put a bullet in his head to put him out of his misery.

As Bolton drew a wheezy breath, he watched as his assassin crept toward him, got down on one knee, and palmed the H&K over to his other hand.

“I’ll clean this up,” Roy whispered as he emptied the contents in Bolton’s pockets. “This is my mess. I’m responsible for this. I want you to know you have my word. I’ll make sure that I do what I was instructed to do. You have my deepest condolences for failing to do it before.”

Bolton closed his eyes.

He felt the cold metal of the gun being pressed to his head.

A second later, his world cut to black.

52

Dean’s phone was gone. Same with his wallet and his credit cards and cash and anything else he needed to float. All he had was a commandeered SUV, the radio he’d swiped off the red-haired guy, and a fleet of CIA agents who would be hot on heels in just a matter of time.

What are you going to do, Deano? There’s no turning back.

You can’t just go home, hug your family, and head to Buca di Beppo for some grub and call it a day.

You have to find Bolton.

You have to find Bazz’s killer.

You have to fix this damn thing and find a way out.

The depth of Dean’s situation triggered his mind to run in circles, and in turn, it induced a headache that pinched the back of his neck with a vice-like grip. He told himself he couldn’t dwell on what had happened. He couldn’t curse himself out or live with regrets. He needed to think like the investigator he was. He had to figure out how to track down Bolton and Bazz’s killer and maybe, just maybe, getting to them before Fournier and his boys did.

“Okay,” Dean said as he focused on the highway in front of him. “Where do you go? What do you do? What’s the endgame?”

You have to learn what O’Neill learned.

Now that the drive is gone, you have to find a way to get your hands on it.

But how?

The drive is gone, Deano.

Close to a half-hour of drive time went by as Dean replayed everything that had happened in the past few days, every conversation he’ had with Bazz, Maddy, and even the one he had with Dan Bolton in an effort to find some piece of information that would assist him in remedying the situation.

Then it hit him.

An exchange he had with Maddy.

Something she said that stuck out, a comment that Maddy made about her father, John, that Dean replayed over and over again.

“No plan could be trusted,” he could hear Maddy say, “even if it was something as simple as a trip to a grocery store. He always had contingencies in place. He always insisted on having a little backup plan in place—for everything.”

Backup plans.

Contingencies.

Backup plans for everything…

“Is it possible?” Dean whispered. “Is the solution really that easy?”

A plan formed in Dean’s mind.

He put the pedal to the floor.

Twenty minutes later, he found a diner, headed inside, and made a collect call to the Honolulu Police Department.

53

When Layla answered the door, she laid eyes on two men. One was black. The other was white. Their skin tones may have been different, but she had interviewed and been in the company of a plethora of government and local authority members to know when she was in the presence of people who wielded badges and service weapons.

“Miss Adrian,” the white man said. “My name is Richard Gibbons.” He motioned to the man beside him. “This is Eric Lloyd. May we come in, please?”

Layla’s lips bowed up into a shit-eating grin. “No,” she said. “You can’t. And before you say anything else, I’d like to know who you’re here representing.”

“State Department,” Lloyd said before he gestured over his shoulder. “And it’s probably best if we do this out of earshot of your neighbors. We don’t want to cause a scene.”

Layla leaned her weight against the doorframe. “I’ve been up all night with an infant trying desperately to wreak havoc on my sanity, Mr. Lloyd. Any scene that we might cause here on my porch will pale in comparison. Believe me.”

The two men exchanged glances before the one who called himself Gibbons took over. “Is your partner, Dean Blackwood, home?”

“No.” Layla shook her head. “He isn’t.”

“When’s the last time you spoke with him?”

The anger that welled inside of Layla bristled the hairs on the back of her neck as she reached out, palmed the door handle, and closed the door a couple of inches.

“Tell me why you’re here,” she said, her tone flat and without any hint of cordiality, “or I’ll start calling up every single contact I have at the Times and Substack to tell them that members from the State Department have been harassing me at home. If you know me, if you know what I’ve done during my career, then you damn well know that I have the kind of pull to get every reporter who’s chomping at the bit to expose government corruption to flood your phone lines.”

Gibbons looked at Lloyd.

Lloyd nodded.

Then he took the reins of the conversation.

“Miss Adrian,” Lloyd said, “our department just spoke to your partner, Mr. Blackwood, in a police interrogation room in Nebraska a little over twelve hours ago. He was involved in a shooting that took place at a domestic residence involving a…” he shot a furtive look at his partner, “well, with a member of our department.”

Layla squinted. “Cliff Bazz?”

“He’s deceased,” Gibbons said. “He was killed in the shootout. Did Dean mention this to you at all?”

The newsbreak made Layla feel like her heart dropped into her stomach—but she kept her composure, held her head high, and then nodded.

“No,” she said. “Dean and I spoke over the phone last night, but he didn’t tell me that Cliff was killed.”

“Well, not long after we pulled Dean in for questioning,” Lloyd said, “we were in the middle of taking him to a plane that was set to arrive back here in LA. It looks like,” he winced, “well, that Blackwood assaulted the men that were escorting him while they were en route to the airport. We haven’t been able to locate him since then.”

Layla clenched her jaw to the point that she thought her molars would fracture.

Damn it, Dean.

What have you done?

“The next and most obvious step for us to take,” Gibbons said, “was to come by here, his residence,” he fixed his unblinking gaze to Layla, “your shared residence, to see if there was a chance that Dean came back here.”

“He didn’t,” Layla quickly replied. “He hasn’t even so much as called. I have no idea where he is.”

“You’re sure of that?” Lloyd said, his voice reflecting an air of skepticism. “I mean, if we were to do a walkthrough of your home, we wouldn’t⁠—”

“You’re not coming into my house.” Layla stepped closer toward both men. “And I want you off my porch—both of you. And if I even so much as feel like one of your government-issued vehicles is doing laps around my block, I’ll follow through on my previous threat.”

“This is a serious matter, Miss Adrian,” Gibbons said, speaking to Layla in a condescending tone. “Dean assaulted two agents. One of them had his jaw shattered.”

“I’m sure it was,” Layla said. “Dean’s got a pretty wicked jab based on the stories I know about him.”

Lloyd crooked a finger. “He’s in serious trouble, Miss Adrian. If you hear from him, if he attempts to contact you in any way, shape, or form…” he took out a business card and handed it to Layla, “you need to call us immediately⁠—”

Layla slammed the door shut, put her back against it, and waited until she heard the men leave the porch and pile into their car. After she made out the low rumble of the car moving down the street, she headed into the bedroom, scooped up Grace, and held her in her arms.

“Jesus, Dean,” Layla whispered. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into?”

54

It wasn’t an easy feat for Dean to get flown into Hawaii, but he had Lee Fox to thank for the assist. After he landed on the decision to scope out John O’Neill’s residence first-hand, he rolled the dice driving back to the airstrip in Omaha in the chance that Fox was still there—and he was.

The pilot was half-in-the-bag when Dean rolled up in his stolen SUV and pleaded with Fox to help him out, and between Fox’s already good-hearted nature and the troika of whiskey shots he’d taken before Dean arrived, Fox agreed to fly him to the islands for half of the two grand that Dean swiped off the redhead-haired guy—and with the stipulation that he got to keep the stolen SUV.

“It belongs to the CIA,” Dean told Fox. “They might be looking for it.”

A sauced-up Fox laughed. “I was with the agency for a long time, friend-o,” he said as he slapped Dean on the back. “I’ll find a way to forge those pink slips. Heck,” he nodded toward his plane, “how do you think I got my hands on that nifty little aircraft over there?”

Ten hours—and a handful of turbulent moments where Fox almost nodded off in the aircraft—later, Dean touched down in Hawaii, and thanks to the phone call he made to Honolulu PD—where he feigned being an insurance investigator who was working at the behest of John O’Neill’s family to locate O’Neill’s home—he had the address in hand for the residence where John was killed. After Dean paid Fox, he got him to put him in touch with Fox’s “buddy” that Fox had in the area who loaned Dean a Jeep that he took over to the home where John O’Neill was murdered.

It was the first time Dean had ever stepped foot in Hawaii, and even though the circumstances that brought him there weren’t exactly ideal ones, he couldn’t help noting its breathtaking natural splendor. Even the air smelled sweeter, and as he approached the front door of John O’Neill’s former residence in Oahu, the only thing that momentarily distracted him from ogling the pristine beach beyond the dwelling was the yellow police tape that cordoned off the front door.

Dean crept toward the front door of O’Neill’s house, the Colt he swiped off the raven-haired agent clutched in his hand as he appraised his surroundings and made sure that the coast was clear.

Slow and easy, Deano.

Slow…and…easy.

Dean kicked open the front door, moved inside, and cleared every room. As Dean went from one room to the next, he saw that most of the furniture was positioned at unnatural, very “un-feng shui” angles. Drawers had been opened. Books and other various items had been moved and set aside.

Someone was in here.

They were looking for something.

Probably for the exact same thing that I’m looking for right now.

After making sure the home was void of any strangers—or yet another CIA goon or assassin because they seemed to be in ripe supply—Dean tucked the Colt away in his jacket, padded his way through the kitchen, and tried to think of where John O’Neill would have hidden a backup to the flash drive he sent to his daughter.

Then he thought about Grace.

About Layla.

Jeremy.

Then Dean thought about what his home life was going to look like once he got back—if he ever got back. The one thing Layla made him promise, to walk away if he thought he would become submerged in a situation that became untenable, was a promise that Dean could officially say he had broken.

Deal with that later.

Work the problem.

You won’t have a home life to fix if you can’t live to go back home to it in the first place.

Dean put away thoughts of his family and buried them deep in the recesses of his mind. Then he pulled in a breath, closed his eyes, held the breath, and then slowly released it before he ran his hand along the desk inside of John O’Neill’s study, the drawers and papers and other items on the desk shuffled around, some of them on the floor as a result of whoever—most likely Fournier’s people—had torn through there looking for a backup of the drive.

“Did they find it?” Dean whispered. “Was it even here?”

The more items that Dean spotted overturned or chucked aside indicated that the person—or people—executing the search had become frustrated with their lack of results, pissed-off to the point that they just started tearing things apart.

The CIA would have been able to stay in here as long as they wanted.

No one would have bothered them.

Even if someone did, they could have gotten rid of them.

There was no need to trash the place like this…not unless they were getting irked at the fact that they couldn’t turn up anything.

“Your daughter knew you well,” Dean whispered, speaking as though the ghost of John O’Neill was in the room with him. “You’ve got a backup of that file. You’ve got it here somewhere. You wouldn’t risk a bank vault or a PO box—you’d want to keep it close by.” He closed his eyes. “I need it, Johnny. I need it to save my own family.” Dean moved to the desk and perused it with his eyes. “Help me out here, boss. Do it for Bazz. Do it for Maddy.”

Dean's eyes skimmed the desk. The file cabinets. Every inch of the office from floors to ceiling. He did the same with the living room. The bathroom. The master bedroom. Then he made his way into the guest bedroom, and right when Dean felt like all was at a loss, his eyes became fixed to the framed photo of an alive and smiling John O’Neill on the beach with his arm wrapped around a young Madeline O’Neill.

Dean crept toward the photo.

He stared at it.

Then he pulled it off the wall, brushed his fingertips across it, and turned the frame over.

He smirked.

Pulled off the backing.

Then Dean located a tiny SIM card taped to the back of the photograph.

55

The SIM card that Dean handed over to Fox prompted the pilot to wince. “What is this?” Fox said. “This tech is older than hell.”

“It’s for a camera,” Dean said as he checked over his shoulder inside of the airplane hangar. “Older model. Not sure what kind. I was hoping a company man like you might be able to access it somehow. I know it’s a shot in the dark, but I can’t exactly hit up the Geek Squad for assistance here.”

The pilot held the SIM card in his palm for a moment.

He flashed the whites of his eyes.

Then he told Dean, “You’re lucky I’m a fan of relics,” moved to a sagging wooden desk in the corner of the hangar, and started rifling through the small mountain of contents on top of it.

Fox returned a moment later, a Nikon camera that looked ten years behind the curve in his hand that he displayed proudly to Dean as though it were a winning lottery ticket.

“This thing should still work,” the pilot said as he powered up the camera. “The SIM card should be compatible.”

A few moments ticked by as Fox fiddled with the camera. As he did, Dean kept a close eye on the tarmac outside the hangar, assuming at any moment that a fleet of Fournier’s goons would ascend on his location to put a bullet in his head.

“Here,” Fox said as he held out the Nikon to Dean. “There’s one file on there, an MP4. It’s small.”

Dean took the camera from Fox, got a brief tutorial on how to use it, and then pressed “PLAY” on the device and was immediately greeted by the face of John O’Neill.

O’Neill was pale. Frowning. His shoulders slumped and his entire countenance one of defeat. Based on the way he looked in the MP4 file, Dean sensed that he was looking at a guy who was at his wits end.

“To whoever gets this,” John O’Neill said, “be it Bazz, Maddy, or…” he closed his eyes, “or whoever else, I—” He snapped open his eyes and cleared his throat. “Well, I just felt like it was necessary to record a backup of what I learned. The details and proof of what I’m about to say have been stored on a disk that I’ve given to my daughter. Another has been placed in a secondary location. Should anything happen to myself or Madeline,” O’Neill closed his eyes, “or Bazz, contingencies have been put into place for it to be released after a certain period of time.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Maybe in a lot of ways, what I am about to say is a confession. Maybe this is more for myself than anything else…”

As Dean pulled the camera in closer, he felt Fox cozy up behind his shoulder to get a front-row view.

“The man Cliff Bazz and I killed,” John O’Neill said on the MP4 file, “was not Alec Murphy. I know that now. I always had my suspicions. Something always felt off about it. It was too easy to kill him. A professional like the real Alec Murphy wouldn’t have gone down that easy.”

Dean huffed.

I figured the same…

“The man that we did pull the trigger on,” O’Neill continued, “was named Quentin Hendrix. He was a nobody. Just some rookie that Bolton had sent in as a patsy to take the real Alec Murphy’s place.”

Dean shook his head.

I guess Bolton wasn’t lying about that.

Doesn’t make him any less of an asshole, though…

“I would have kept this a secret,” O’Neill went on. “It pained me to know that I took the life of a man who wasn’t the real Alec Murphy, but…” he clicked his teeth, “that’s just what happens when you go to work for the agency. Lies and deceptions are cornerstones to the operation. Killing the wrong man was something that I accepted, something that I had to come to terms with.” He pinned his narrowed eyes to the camera, Dean feeling like the distraught spy was staring right into his soul. “But I couldn’t live with the truth about my daughter that I discovered when I was learning the truth about who Bazz and I really killed…”

Dean held his breath.

“Dan Bolton,” O’Neill said, “was a man I held in great regard. He took care of me after I left the agency. He gave me a life. He gave me means to take care of the ones I loved. More importantly, he gave me a daughter when my wife and I couldn’t have one of our own…”

Dean tightened his grip on the camera.

“Bolton,” O’Neill continued as he hung his head, “told me that he could help me when I said I couldn’t have children of my own. He told me there was a way that he could help, that I could have exactly what I wanted, and six months later, I was holding my little Madeline in my arms. My world was complete. I felt whole for the first time ever in my life…”

Dean made out O’Neill tensing his jaw muscles.

He saw the fire in the man’s eyes.

Then O'Neill continued on with the next part of his story.

“But even though I had a daughter,” he said, “the story behind how Bolton got her was one that I recently learned was false. It was a ruse. It was a lie. Bolton said that he got Madeline from an agency, that he cut through all of the red tape so that I wouldn’t have to go through the same rigorous process of adopting a child like everyone else—but that wasn’t true, and it was only when I started looking into the murder I partook in that I discovered where Madeline really came from…”

Dean took a deep breath.

This was never about Alec Murphy.

This was all about something else.…

“Sometimes I hate how good I can be at digging up information,” O’Neill continued. “I always saw it as more of a curse than a gift. Either way, what I learned during the process of looking into the murder of Quentin Hendrix was this: Madeline’s mother, her real mother, is a woman named Adriana Carver. Adriana was a former asset of Dan Bolton…” he brought a hand to his forehead and covered it, “and the current spouse of Roy Ellis, otherwise known as Alec Murphy—the real Alec Murphy.”

56

By the time Dean was finished with the MP4 file, his world was spinning. After O’Neill explained the truth of Maddy’s origins, of where she really came from, the pieces all started to line up. Once the file had played out, he took out the SIM card, pocketed it, and handed the Nikon back to Fox.

The pilot offered Dean a drink as Dean slid down on a chair. Though Dean declined, Fox went ahead and poured himself a splash of gin before topping it off with an ice cube, in Fox’s words, “In the name of health.”

“Just so I’m straight on this,” Fox then said, “John O’Neill did some digging on this murder he and Bazz committed, and in the process, he discovers that his daughter is the spawn of some old female assassin of Dan Bolton’s?”

Dean motioned to the Nikon on the desk. “You were watching alongside me there, Fox. Did you not catch all of that?”

The pilot held up his drink. “I’m toasted more often than not, buddy boy. My brain isn’t what it used to be.”

“But you can fly a plane no problem, right?”

Fox smirked and tapped the rim of his glass.

Dean shook his head. He rubbed his temples. Then he went about recapping the story for Fox’s sake. “O’Neill’s daughter Madeline is the daughter of this Adriana Carver woman. She didn’t want the baby, made it Bolton’s problem to get rid of it, and then Bolton finds a way to make O’Neill’s dreams of having a kid come true while taking a problem off Adriana’s hands. O’Neill gets the baby, then Adriana, according to what O’Neill said, gets to spend the rest of her life in marital bliss with the Special Activities Division’s rockstar, a.k.a., Alec Murphy.” Dean thought back to when he met Roy Ellis on the plane. “But he’s changed his name since then…”

Fox raised his glass to his lips. “So,” he took a sip, “why the hell would O’Neill risk telling anyone this? Why not just keep it a secret?”

“He was smart,” Dean said. “He probably tried to keep it under wraps, but in the process of learning all of this, he probably triggered some alarms. Maybe Bolton or someone else who wanted to keep a lid on this knew O’Neill was looking into all of this, so they tried to kill him before he could look any further. O’Neill, being as savvy as he was, probably knew that someone was hot on his heels by that point, so he decided to record all of this for Bazz and his daughter so they could bring it to light in case he got killed.” He flexed his brow. “Which he did.”

“Is Alec Murphy Maddy’s biological father?” Fox said. “Did O’Neill ever mention that?”

“No.” Dean shook his head. “It looks like this Adriana Carver woman got pregnant at some point by accident. She didn’t want the baby. She wanted to start a new life with Murphy, who, according to O’Neill, Adriana Carver was tasked with monitoring. Then they fall in love, Adriana has Bolton take care of the baby, and the rest I hope you’re squared away on because I’m not in the mood to draft a diagram for you.”

“But what about Murphy? How was he going to miss that Adriana was pregnant? That a baby happened and somehow it, what, just went missing?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe she went away, had the kid, then went back to Murphy. There are lots of ways that it could have played out, but it seems like Murphy was never aware that Adriana had a kid before they got together.” Dean shook his head. “Bolton wanted to keep a lid on this,” he said, speaking more to himself than Fox in a bid to clear up any questions he still had. “He knew John O’Neill figured this out somehow. Instead of trying to reason or talk to O’Neill, he sends Alec Murphy, also known as Roy Ellis, to kill him. Before O’Neill bites the bullet, he contacts Bazz, sends what he knows to Maddy as a backup so she could learn the truth about where she was from, and then Bazz ropes me into this in the hopes that I could solve it.”

“Which you did,” Fox said as he held up his glass in a toast. “Kudos to you.” He threw back the last of his drink and set it down on a table. “The only question is what you’re going to do about it.”

“Everything that O’Neill learned,” Dean replied, “can only be verified via the hard documents he put on that drive, the one that’s now in Bolton’s possession, wherever he may be. I can’t fix that. There’s nothing I can do about that. All I know is that my family and I won’t be out of this until Alec Murphy is taken care of.”

The pilot shrugged. “How do you figure?”

Dean looked at Fox. “If Alec Murphy-slash-Roy Ellis knows I’m still out there, he knows there’s a chance that I figured out who he really is, which I did. That’s a risk to his family and the little life that he’s made for himself with Adriana Carver. He’ll have to terminate the compromise. That’s the only way. I have to lure him out. I have to bring him to me. I have to get to Murphy before he has the chance to do what I know he’s going to do, and once I find him…” he looked away, “I’ll have to bring him in. Alive. I turn him over to Fournier, and then I go back home.”

“You have to find him first,” the pilot said as he set about pouring himself another drink. “And I know I’m just a lowly pilot, but it might be a tad difficult trying to bait one of the CIA’s top-tier assassins who trained in being a ghost.”

Dean knew Fox was right. Still, he had to figure out a way to lure in Murphy—and after a few moments of thinking, the solution was right there in front of his nose.

“I don’t have to find him,” Dean said. “He’s going to find me.”

The pilot flexed his brow. “How?”

Dean’s hands trembled. “He’s going to come right to me. My family.” His eyes widened. “My God, how could I not have seen this? If Murphy is half as smart as O’Neill was, he’ll do what anyone would in this situation in an effort to get to me.”

Fox’s complexion paled. “Your family,” he said. “He’s going to use them to get to you.”

57

When Layla heard the ringing in Dean’s office, she knew it wasn’t her phone or Dean’s. It sounded like was one of those cheap rings she recalled from her youth, back when people still had rubber button pads on their phones, and when she scoured through the desk drawers in Dean’s office to pinpoint the ringing, she found a cheap prepaid phone stuffed in his desk drawer buzzing and waiting to be answered.

Layla pulled out the phone. She held it in her hand and debated answering, but on the third ring, she decided to pick up. “Hello?”

“Thank God,” Dean replied. “It still works.”

“Dean?” Layla huffed. “What the hell…? What phone are you calling from?”

“It’s for work. I keep it in case I have to make calls on an unmonitored line.”

Layla closed her eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me⁠—”

“Just listen,” Dean cut in. “I don’t have much time. I need you to do as I say, exactly how I tell you to do it. This is important.”

“Dean,” Layla clenched her teeth, “I’ve got people from the State Department ringing our doorbell telling me that you just assaulted agents and are⁠—”

“Layla,” he grumbled. “We don’t have time for this. I need you to do as I say.”

“Dean—”

“Just listen. If you trust me, then I need you to put everything else aside that we have to hash out until later. You, Jeremy, Grace, Claire, and even Geoff are in danger here.”

The rhythm of Layla’s heart beat intensified.

This is happening again.

Dean always brings the threat with him back home.

Layla shook her head.

Worry about that later.

Listen to what Dean says.

“Okay,” she said as she held a hand to her face. “Tell me what to do.”

“Pack a bag,” Dean told her. “Enough for a few days. Then I need you and Grace to go to Claire’s place over in Santa Monica. Then all of you need to leave town. Go as far as you can. And don’t take your phone. Don’t take anything that can be tracked. Are you following me so far?”

Layla was already in the bedroom by the time Dean was halfway through his plan. “I am,” she said as she grabbed the suitcase from the closet, threw it on the bed, and then whisked open her dresser drawers. “How long are we going to be gone for?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe a day or two. And make sure that when you get to Claire’s, you tell her and Jeremy and Geoff to not take anything with them that can be tracked or monitored, either.”

“I get it,” Layla replied as she pulled several articles of clothing out from her drawer. “I’m sure Claire will, too.” She shook her head. “I think she had to go through this rigmarole once or twice before.”

Dean sighed. “You told me someone came to the house. People from the State Department, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then they’ll follow you once you leave. They probably still have eyes on you right now. When you leave, make a quick exit. Make sure you make a big display of packing up the house. I need them to follow you.”

“Okay.”

“Did they leave anything?”

Layla winced. “Who?”

“Those State Department guys,” Dean said. “Did they leave anything? Some way to get in touch with them?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “They left a card.”

“Put it on my desk. Make sure it’s somewhere where I can see it. I may have to ring them up.”

“What about you?” Layla said. “You’ve breezed over the part where you tell me what you plan on doing, Dean.”

“I’m coming home,” he told her. “I need to prep the place for an incoming guest.”

58

The house was shrouded in the black of night by the time Dean arrived. Thanks once again to Fox, he had procured a ride after touching down in Burbank and made the quick twenty-minute drive over to his house in Eagle Rock. Dean drove around the block three times to make sure there was no one standing guard, that it was free of any of Fournier’s people—or Murphy—before he parked the Honda Civic that Fox gave him three doors down from his house, slipped out, and threaded his way carefully toward the back door of his dwelling.

The Colt Dean swiped off the raven-haired guy was clutched in his hand as he moved through the back gate, his eyes probing the windows on the side of his house and his head ducked low in case someone was inside that shouldn’t have been. Once he emerged into the back yard, he moved to the sliding door that led into the living room, fiddled it open, slunk inside, and immediately felt his nostrils teased by the lingering aroma of baby shampoo.

Grace.

Dean drew a breath.

Layla.

He blinked his eyes.

Focus, Ace.

Get the place ready.

Dean cleared the house. He locked the doors. Once he made sure that the house was secured, he drifted into his study, flayed open the closet beside his desk, and knelt down to the gun safe he’d inherited from his father.

Dean spun the dial.

He opened the safe.

Then he palmed the Beretta 1301 shotgun inside of it, and the Glock 21 he had field tested at the range but never hoped he would have to use in a real-world scenario. After Dean took out the weapons, he loaded them up, took the hip holster from inside of the safe, and then stuffed it into the appendix holster nestled against his right hip. After counting that he had two magazines for the Glock—twenty-six rounds in total—he tallied the eight shells in the shotgun and the sixteen he had in reserve, and padded his way out of the room. His hardware locked and loaded, Dean then topped it off by taking the Jack Carr Combat Flathead from the safe, pulled it out of his sheath, ran his finger over the edge, and then stuffed it into his boot as a last measure in case he had to take down—or take out—Murphy with his bare hands.

It won’t be long, Dean told himself as he moved into the bedroom and took the black windbreaker out of the closet. Minutes. A few hours at the most. Dean checked the G-Shock on his wrist and clocked that it was two minutes past four in the morning. He’ll want to hit this place before the sun comes up. The neighbors might hear. That’s fine if they do. Cops will come running, and I’ll look like the guy just trying to defend his home.

After Dean zipped up his windbreaker, he snagged a black beanie, pulled it over his head, and placed the shotgun on the bed. Then he sat down and slapped together a plan and resolved himself to bring Murphy down intact.

Subdue him.

Call the cavalry.

Fournier won’t be far behind them.

You turn Murphy over, then you use him as a bargaining chip to secure a clean exit from the situation. If it doesn’t work…

Dean pressed his lips together.

…then Murphy has to die.

Dean glanced at his watch again—six minutes past one in the morning.

He drew a deep breath.

Slowed the rhythm of his heart.

Then he waited for the man of the hour to arrive.

59

Alittle over an hour ticked by, time that Dean spent sitting in the kitchen with one arm cradling the Glock and the other on top of the shotgun he’d placed on the kitchen table. He didn’t stir as he waited for Murphy to arrive; the idle hour he spent anticipating his opponent's arrival conjuring up memories of his time in the Middle East, specifically the time he spent in some dinky village in a bombed-out dwelling with a gaggle of his fellow Rangers.

Dean and his buddies spent six hours waiting in silence for a group of insurgents that were destined to arrive, men that were responsible for the suicide bombing of a platoon of Marines three weeks prior. The mission was simple: kill or capture them all, and the only thing that made that set of circumstances different from the one he was in now was the fact that he was waiting in his own home to carry out those very same orders.

Two of them lived.

Three of them died.

And I wasn’t as thirsty in that desert hellhole as I am right now in my three-bedroom home.

Oh, the irony.

Dean stood up and crept his way toward the sink, the curtains drawn over the window above the sink that he turned on before filling up a glass of water. He downed the glass in three gulps, and after he turned around and made his way back to the kitchen table, he caught a glimpse of the framed photos on the wall, a vast array of memories that showcased his entire family.

Dean inched closer to the photos, the one in the center of him, Jeremy, Claire, Geoff, Layla, and Grace the center of his focus. Everyone was smiling, brimming from ear to ear in the backyard just ten paces away and basking in the glow of the Southern California sun.

Did I screw this up?

Can I really fix all of this after this is done?

Regret washed over Dean like a tidal wave, his chest muscles constricting as he contemplated what would have happened if he’d turned Bazz down on the request to join him in the escapade that led him to this very moment. Dean tallied that it was the eighth or maybe the ninth time he had pondered that particular what-if, and the one thing he knew for sure was that if he made it out of this alive, if he took down Murphy, turned him over to Fournier and managed to get off with a slap on the wrist, he’d drive a bus, work in an office, or play lifeguard at the YMCA for the rest of his life if it meant he could have a normal life.

That’s up to Layla, though, he told himself as he ran his finger across the photo on the wall. And Jeremy. And Grace. And Claire. And everyone else that you care about. You keep putting them in this position, Dean.

You’re the one that keeps putting them in harm’s way.

He closed his eyes.

He shook his head.

Then Dean heard the snap of a twig from the backyard, snapped out of his daze, and snatched the shotgun from the kitchen table.

60

The snap was forty yards away, Dean figured, toward the west end of the lawn near the shed where the barbecue and the tools were housed, and it made sense. If Murphy had arrived, if it truly was him and not one of the coyotes that lived in the hills behind the house, he would have infiltrated his way via the road above the hillside and crept his way down. Murphy would have the higher ground advantage from the get-go, and he could move in slowly, one step at a time, before storming his way inside and—as far as Murphy was concerned, the way Dean saw it—take Dean’s family hostage and use them to get to Dean.

Dean flexed his grip on the shotgun.

But he’ll have the surprise of his life.

He got low, stayed to the left of the doorway that led into the living room, and held the shotgun in both hands.

He’ll be dealing with me…

A few moments passed as Dean nestled the shotgun in his shoulder and fixed the sights on the closed curtains that covered the sliding glass door ten meters away.

He breathed.

He waited.

Then he saw a silhouette creep its way toward the screen.

Wait.

Don’t shoot.

You want to take him alive.

The silhouette ballooned as it closed in on the screen door. The closer it came, the more it morphed into a human shape.

Dean made out a hand.

Then fingers.

Then the fingers splayed and reached out toward the door handle—but then, it hesitated.

The silhouette withdrew its hand quickly.

Then it backed away and disappeared into the shadows and triggered Dean to gnash his teeth.

Maybe he knows.

This guy is trained so well he can probably smell me…

Footsteps softly gnawed the grass on the back lawn toward the east. Dean figured his opponent was making his way toward the side of the house, possibly to slip in through a window in the study or maybe the bedroom because those were the two most vulnerable entry points in the house aside from the front or the back door, or the side door that led into the kitchen.

Let him come to you, Dean thought as he backed away from the doorway and side-stepped his way into the kitchen toward the hallway that led to the back bedrooms. The entire walk he could hear his opponent scraping his way along the side of the house near the master bedroom, Dean seeing the shadow as it strafed past the window beside the bed he shared with Layla before it terminated its stride and came to a stop.

Dean stepped back, moved to his left, and concealed himself behind the wall just outside of the hallway.

Let him walk right in.

Trap him.

Box his ass in and cage him like an animal.

The shadow crept toward the window.

Then Dean heard the soft scratching of a lock pick.

As he trained the shotgun’s sights on the window, he took another step back, waited a beat, and then heard the window slide open.

A black-clad figure spilled in through the window, the curtains fluttering in the breeze, the sight harkening back to images of those old horror movies Dean’s mother would chide him and his late brother Tommy for watching when they weren’t supposed to.

Wait.

Dean caressed the trigger of the shotgun with his index finger.

Not yet.

The figure stepped into the room.

It stood up straight.

When Dean saw the black rectangular mass that had to be a sidearm in the figure’s hand, he chambered a round into the shotgun, the click-clack of metal-on-metal echoing through the hallway like a clapboard on a film set.

“Don’t move,” Dean growled. “Keep your hands right where they are.”

The figure breathed a sigh. “Blackwood,” he said, not questioning if it was him but stating it as a fact.

A beat ticked by.

No one stirred.

Then Dean said, “What do I call you? Murphy? Ellis? Something else entirely?”

The figure puffed its chest. “I should’ve known better,” he whispered. “I knew you were smart when we first shook hands. Of course you’d be here instead of your family.”

“It’s just me,” Dean said as he prepared to coil his finger around the trigger. “Sorry to disappoint. Now drop the gun.”

The figure’s head dipped as he glanced down at the weapon. “I never should have listened to Bolton. I could have hung up the phone and just lived my life. Funny how that happens, right? How a single call from a friend can fuck up your whole day?”

Dean huffed as his thoughts momentarily fixated on the late Cliff Bazz. “Yeah,” he said. “Lot of that going around lately.”

Murphy remained fixed in place.

Dean did the same.

After a few moments of this, Dean said, “Let’s not do this. Let’s call it quits before it even begins. I don’t want to kill you.”

Murphy shook his head. “Can’t risk it,” he replied. “You know I can’t.”

“Buddy…” Dean took a step toward his opponent, “this isn’t going to end well. You know that.”

“For me or for you?”

“I’m one squeeze of the trigger away from blowing your head clean off.”

Another beat ticked by.

Murphy sighed.

Dean sensed that something terrible was on the cusp of happening, and he desperately didn’t want it to.

“I have a family,” Murphy said. “I have to protect them. You know too much. I can’t allow you to live. I respect you, Blackwood. I do. But you know I have to protect them.”

“Same goes for me,” Dean told him. “I can’t back down.”

“Well,” Murphy shrugged, “looks like you’ll have to take that shot then, won’t you?”

Time went by. How much, Dean wasn’t sure. As he waited to make his move, all he heard was the sound of the clock in the bathroom, the tick-tick-tick filling the void as he stared at Murphy’s silhouette and prepared to pull the trigger.

“I made a lot of mistakes in the past few days,” Murphy said. “I had plenty of chances to fix this—but I didn’t.”

Dean parted his lips. He paused. Then he said, “I’m right there with you, pal.”

Murphy was quiet.

Dean focused on the tick of the clock like it was a metronome.

A moment later, Murphy raised his weapon and fired.

61

Right as Murphy raised his weapon, Dean squeezed the trigger, but to his dismay—and shock—Murphy had managed to pop off a round that struck him in the hand he had gripped onto the pump-action lever of the shotgun. The bullet drilled a hole in the back of Dean’s right hand and forced him to drop the shotgun to the carpeted floors of the hallway, his eyes wide and his brain catching up to register what had happened just as Murphy clapped off three more shots that clipped the plaster of the wall Dean was hiding behind.

Dean jinked to his left into the living room.

Murphy fired two more shots.

As Dean whisked out the Glock, he dove toward the carpets just as Murphy emerged into the living room. Dean went onto his back, his finger applying pressure to the trigger before he was able to line up a clean shot at Murphy, who was just a few paces away.

Dean fired three shots, the staccato tempo of the gunshots booming like the reverbs of a cannon throughout the house. Even though the muzzle flashes obscured his vision, he could still tell that his second or third shot hit its target because Murphy grunted and then staggered.

The smoke cleared.

Dean stood.

Murphy was nowhere to be seen.

The first thing Dean saw when he got to his feet were the splotches of blood on the tile inside the foyer where Murphy had been standing, and a quick second after, he heard something scuffle on the carpeted floors of the hallway.

Dean did a press-check of his rounds. Then he side-stepped through the doorway on his right into the kitchen, strafed his way through it, and then turned left at the doorway that opened up into the hallway—and there Murphy was, struggling to stand with a bloodied hand pressed to the wall for balance.

“Stop!” Dean shouted. “All this noise, someone definitely called this in by now.”

His back to Dean, Murphy, blood speckled on the carpets beneath him, lapped in oxygen through panted breaths. “No doubt,” he said. “Nice shooting, by the way. You got me in the stomach.”

“Call it quits, Murphy.” Dean inched closer, the business end of his weapon fixed on the back of his opponent’s neck. “Things are going to start to get really painful for you in a moment. A bullet to the stomach is no joke. It’s a death sentence unless we get you some medical attention.”

Murphy hung his head. His shoulders slumped. Then his legs bent at the knees as he struggled to keep the crimson-soaked hand he had pressed against the wall to balance himself. “I thought this would drag out longer,” he told Dean. “Thought we were going to duke it out and go one-on-one for a few rounds.”

“Enough,” Dean said. “Just toss your shit and get down on the ground.”

“Bolton was right.” Murphy put his eyes on the ceiling. “I got old. Weak. Complacent.” He snickered. “I stopped being Alec Murphy a long, long time ago.”

“Where is he?”

“Bolton?”

“Yeah.”

Murphy glanced over his shoulder. “Gone,” he said. “Dead. There was no other way.”

Dean’s eyelids narrowed. “Did you look at it?”

“At what?”

“At the drive. The one that Bolton took. Did you look at what was on it?”

“No,” Murphy replied. “There was no point. I destroyed it. I didn’t need to look at it. I already knew what was on there.”

Dean shook his head.

He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know about his wife.

That she had a child.

Who his wife really is or the secrets that Bolton helped her keep hidden.

Dean opened his mouth, ready to spill every juicy detail that he learned from John O’Neill himself—but then he hesitated. He figured there was no point in telling Murphy right now. If the assassin, the tired, worn-out shell of a hit man that he used to be, didn't get to a hospital—and quickly—he was going to die.

Pain seared in Dean’s right hand and triggered him to wince. The adrenaline that had pumped through his veins moments before had subsided, and after he registered the quarter-sized hole in his limp right hand, he cursed under his breath and whatever rehab he would have to inevitably undergo.

“Enough,” Dean grumbled, sweat beading on his brow as he kept his left hand gripped onto the Glock as steady as he could. “Just tap out. I’ll call an ambulance. No one has to die here.”

“I can’t go home,” Murphy said with a defeated grunt. “How am I going to explain this to my family? What am I supposed to tell them? As soon as Fournier gets his hands on me, all of this is…” he sighed, “my life is over.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way.”

Murphy breathed deeply. “I meant it, Blackwood,” he said. “I meant what I told you before when I said I liked you. You’re clearly a good man…and I’m sorry I had to bring you into this.”

“Murphy…” Dean tightened his grip on the Glock, “don’t.”

“Don’t let my family find out about me,” Murphy asked with a pleading tone. “Promise me that much. Just give me that. Make sure that Fournier makes sure the one thing that was pure in my life stays that way.”

Dean clenched his jaw.

Don’t do it, man.

Please don’t make me kill you.

“I’m counting on you, Blackwood,” Murphy said as Dean spotted the man’s hand drifting toward his pockets. “I can tell you’re the kind of guy who will do the right thing.”

“Murphy.”

“So long.”

Murphy spun around with a gun in his hand.

Dean knew there was no other choice.

Before Murphy could swing the arm up fully that he had gripped onto the weapon, Dean fired a single shot that seemed to echo louder than all of the others.

62

The first people to arrive at Dean’s house weren’t the cops. It wasn’t a pair of EMTs, the neighbors, or some curious bystander down the block—it was Phillip Fournier, dressed in the same suit Dean had seen him in before, this time with a black man and a white man in suits—though they didn’t appear to be as expensive as Fournier’s—following in-step with him.

Dean had opened the front door after he killed Murphy to allow whoever would arrive to check on the gunshots to walk right inside. After he opened the front door, he grabbed a towel and the first-aid kit from the bathroom—having stepped over Murphy’s dead body on the way there—and did a quick cleanse of his hand, wrapped it, and then made his way back into the kitchen, where he sat at the table.

Only ten minutes passed before Fournier graced the house with his presence.

Based on that, Dean was pretty sure the guy had been loitering close by the entire time.

Dean watched Fournier as he stepped through the open front door, his gaze fixed and unblinking as he tracked Fournier and his two friends as they headed into the hallway, surveyed Alec Murphy’s body, and mumbled to one another in hushed tones. Fournier then patted the black man on the shoulder, and as he headed into the kitchen, the man and his white partner quickly headed outside to the car Dean spotted parked near the curb by his sloping driveway.

Fournier shot his cuffs.

Approached the table where Dean was sitting.

Then he pulled out a chair, sat down, and looked at Dean with the same neutral expression he did back at the police station in Nebraska.

“Some night, huh?” Fournier said with a sardonic smirk.

“Yeah,” Dean said as he held his wounded hand. “Some night.” He put his focus on the front door. “Where are the cops?”

“We’ve got it under control. Same with the neighbors.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Oh, you know kids are these days.” Fournier swiped his hand through the air. “Illegal firecrackers are still a problem in this part of Southern California.”

Dean said nothing.

Then he reached into his pocket, took out the SIM card he’d found at John O’Neill’s house, held it up, and tossed it over to Fournier. The deputy director cupped his hands and caught the card, his eyes pinned to Dean as he asked for an explanation for what he had just received.

“You might want to take a look at that,” Dean said. “It’s the last few pieces of the puzzle.”

Fournier lingered for a moment. Then he stood up, headed outside, and not long after he made his exit, the men with him walked back inside the house with plastic sheets and duct tape gripped in their hands.

Dean listened as he heard the two men wrapping up Murphy’s body. Several minutes into the process, Fournier had returned with an expression on his face that looked both amused and irritated all at the same time.

“Quite a story,” he said as he sat back down at the table. “Don’t suppose you’ve got the drive that Murphy sent you to back this story up. Everything I just watched on that MP4 is nothing more than hearsay without it. O’Neill mentioned something about a backup he stored in a PO box somewhere.” Fourner shrugged. “Don’t suppose you know where that is?”

“I don’t. But you guys are clever. I’m sure you’ll figure it out yourselves.” Dean glanced toward the hallway where Fournier’s boys were still dealing with Murphy’s corpse. “Bolton’s dead,” he told the deputy director. “I’m sure that Murphy took care of whatever was left before he came here. Same goes for the drive that Bolton took after Bazz was killed.”

Fournier’s eyebrows met in the middle. “Murphy told you this?”

Dean nodded slowly.

“All right.” Fournier tapped his finger on the table twice. “What now, Mr. Blackwood? Where do we go from here?”

“Nowhere,” Dean said. “Bazz is dead. So is Bolton, Murphy, and O’Neill. All that’s left is to cut Madeline O’Neill loose, pay her something in the way of severance. Once that’s done. I trust you’ll leave her the hell alone for the rest of her life.”

“What about this story that O’Neill uncovered? About Adriana Carver? The fact that Madeline is her⁠—”

“Leave it alone,” Dean cut in. “There’s no point in resurrecting the past. That’s what kicked this whole thing off to begin with. If John O’Neill had just left well enough alone, none of us would be here.”

“You don’t think Madeline should know the truth?” Fournier said. “About who she really is?”

Dean shrugged. “What good will it do? You have a sit-down with Madeline and Adriana and, what then? What will telling them all of this accomplish?”

Fournier said nothing.

Dean shifted his weight in his chair. “The biggest problems you faced,” he said, “the most pressing issues you had to deal with, Bolton and Murphy, are dead. They’re gone. As for the collateral damage, the people that will suffer from it are myself, Madeline O’Neill, and my family.”

“And I suppose,” Fournier said, “that you’ll want some sort of recompense for this? Some sort of compensation?”

“Only in the form of staying the hell away from me and my family. You’ve got that SIM card I just gave you. As for the backups, find it, destroy it, and move on. That’s everything that’s left in the way of proof. Feel free to look through my house if you think I’m lying. All I want,” Dean leaned over the table, “what’s most important to me, is that once you remove Alec Murphy’s body and leave this house, you steer clear of me and my family for the rest of our days. If not,” Dean shrugged, “well, you know what I’m capable of when someone threatens my family, and you damn well know that I don’t care how many of you there are or what kind of resources you have. You might be able to kill me, but I’ll make sure a few people go down with me before that happens.”

Fournier flashed a smirk.

Dean kept his expression stern and unyielding.

“Did it ever occur to you,” Fournier said, “that I had a hunch this all might go down this way? That I allowed you to escape by putting two of my most lackluster people on you when I had you escorted out of that police station?”

Dean averted his gaze.

He thought it through.

All of it started to make sense.

“You wanted me to take out Murphy for you,” he said. “You had a sense how this might play out, so you let Murphy and I go toe-to-toe with one another.”

“And if you failed,” Fournier said, “we were close by to intercept after that happened.” He stretched out his hands. “I’m not in the position I’m in because I’m a fool, Mr. Blackwood. I’m quite the opposite. My life has been spent calculating the odds and determining⁠—”

“Eat shit, fancy boy,” Dean said. “I don’t care. Just promise me that you’ll abide by my stipulations. Promise me that when you haul that body out of here, it’ll be the last time I hear from you or any of your people.”

Fournier nodded. “Agreed. Anything else?”

“Send someone in to clean these carpets,” Dean said. “Right away. Same goes for these holes in the wall. I want it handled before the day is out.”

Fournier nodded again. “Consider it done.” He rapped his knuckles softly on the table. “I guess we’re done here.”

“Assure me that we are,” Dean said as he looked deep into the deputy director’s eyes. “And I’ll know if you’re telling me a lie.”

Fournier held his head high. “You have my word,” he said, and Dean sensed no deception at all in the man’s tone. “And you have my condolences for everything that has happened.” He gestured to Dean’s wounded hand. “And I have an ambulance on standby to take you to the hospital to get that particular situation remedied. It’ll arrive shortly after we depart.”

The reply from Dean came in the form of a nod. Fournier then stood up, stepped out of the room, and was escorted by his two men who hauled out the plastic-wrapped body of Alec Murphy/Roy Ellis by his arms. Fournier let the two men exit through the front first, and as he trailed behind them, he stopped, turned around, and crooked a finger at Dean.

“What would you say,” the deputy director began, “if I asked you to consider taking up a career with my department? How does that prospect sit with you?”

Dean turned up his gaze. “Fournier?”

The deputy director flexed his brow.

“Get the fuck out of my house.”

Fournier laughed.

He nodded.

Then he turned on his heel, left the house, and closed the door behind him.

Dean took a moment to breathe, his body taxed and head pounding as he looked at the blood on his floors, the holes in the wall, and the impression on the carpet where Murphy’s body had been. Moments later, someone knocked at the door, didn’t wait for a reply, and quickly after that a pair of EMTs rushed inside.

Dean stood.

He said nothing.

A moment after he stepped outside with the EMTs and then got into the ambulance, he laid back on the gurney, put his head down, and allowed himself to sleep.

63

“Ihave your word,” Fournier said to Adriana, “that you’ll keep this matter a secret. That you won’t tell your daughter. That everything I have just told you will be something you will guard closely and keep hidden under lock and key.”

The wife of the late Roy Ellis—Alec Murphy—seated in the living room of the home she once shared with her now deceased husband, nodded her head.

Fournier, seated across from her, scooted forward on the couch. “I have your assurances,” he said, “that you’ll go on living your life, that you’ll tell your daughter the story I’ve instructed you to tell to explain the demise of your late husband.”

Adriana cleared her throat. “Roy died in a car accident,” she said, speaking in monotone like she was reading off cue cards. “He was hit in a head-on collision while he was out of town. He died instantly.”

A cocksure Fournier nodded. “Good. And you understand that I’ll have to keep a close eye on you for some time to make sure this all stays between us, that you won’t stray from this agreement for the sake of your daughter and the life you’ve built for yourself. After all, it was you who contacted Dan Bolton and set this whole fiasco into motion. Roy or Alec, whatever you called him, his death is on you. You understand that, don’t you?”

A single tear slid down Adriana’s cheek. “Does she know?” she said weakly. “Does my…” She closed her eyes. “Does Madeline know who she is? Where she came from? That she’s my…” She couldn’t bring herself to say the rest.

Fournier shook his head. “No,” he said. “And she never will. It’s best that things go back to the way they were. For everyone’s sake.”

Adriana nodded.

Moments after, Fournier—accompanied by two men—left the house.

That night, Adriana would tell her daughter Taylor what happened to her father—exactly how Fournier told her to tell the story. The mother and daughter wept over Roy, and long after Adriana went to bed, she was sure that she spotted a car parked across the street with a pair of men inside of it.

She resolved herself to never reveal the truth—to anyone.

She was far too terrified of the repercussions that would surely follow.

64

The check in Madeline O’Neill’s hand specified two million dollars. No change. A solid seven figures.

“I hope,” Phillip Fournier said as he lingered on the porch outside Madeline’s house in Colorado, “that this will serve as an expression of my regret for what has happened. Your father was a good man, and I’m sorry for what has happened.”

Though the check counted for a lot, it weighed little in Maddy’s hand. “And you won’t come back,” she said, tears in her eyes as she shot Fournier a heated gaze. “This is the last time I’ll ever hear from you or anyone my father used to work with ever again.”

“Yes.” Fournier nodded. “You have my word.”

Madeline returned the nod. “Thank you.”

“Thank Dean Blackwood,” the deputy director said. “He’s the one that got you out of this mess.” He turned to leave—but Maddy stopped him in his tracks when she felt the need to ask one last question.

“That drive,” she said. “The one my father sent. The one that caused all of this. What was on it? What did my father learn that made all of this happen?”

Fournier shook his head. “It’s best to let sleeping dogs lie, Madeline.” He padded his way off the porch. “Take care of yourself.”

Maddy waited until Fournier slipped in his car and took off before she closed the door. After she placed the check in her kitchen—which was part way through being boxed up like the rest of the house—she headed into the living room, sat down on the couch, and thought.

She thought about her father, about all of the memories she shared with him and the ones that they were cheated out of making.

Then her mind pivoted to Bazz, regretful of what happened to him and wishing she could bring him back to life.

Then Maddy thought about Dean Blackwood, the man who saved her life, her knight in shining armor, who, according to Fournier, set her up with a nest egg that she would use to start a new life far away from the one she used to know.

“Thank you, Dean,” Maddy whispered. “Thank you for everything.”

She lingered for a few moments. Then she set about packing the rest of her belongings followed by booking a plane ticket to a destination where she would do exactly what Fournier had told her to do—to leave everything, all of it, in the past where it should be.

65

THREE MONTHS LATER…

“Does it hurt?” Layla said.

Dean glanced down at the ace bandage around his hand, shrugged, and then put his focus on the stroller in front of them that Layla was pushing through the Adams Square Mini Park. The sun was shining. The wind was blowing. Normally, Dean would have relished the picturesque circumstances he was in, but he was too fixated on the fact that it was only the second time he’d seen Layla and Grace since the night of the Alec Murphy debacle inside of their home—and the fact that Layla was still clearly on the fence about giving him more of these kinds of opportunities.

“It’s sore,” Dean said as he held up his bandaged hand. “I’m still working on getting some mobility back. Doctors said it’s going to take a while to get it back to where it was before.”

“But it still works?” Layla said. “You’ll be alright?”

Dean nodded. “I just have to stick with it.” He surveyed the other families and children laughing and hugging and playing throughout the park. “It’ll get better.”

Layla and Dean continued pushing Grace in her stroller around the pathway that snaked through the park.

“You never said what happened at the house,” Layla said, her tone glazed with a palpable level of scorn. “Or what happened to Bazz. Or anything that happened that led you to getting shot in the hand.”

“And I can’t, Layla,” Dean said. “It’s better if you don’t know.”

“Why?”

“It just is. It’s just the deal that I cut with the people that helped bring an end to what happened.”

“Dean—”

“I can’t, Layla,” he said. “But it’s over. I need you to understand that, even if I can’t tell you what happened or why.”

Layla shook her head.

She took a moment.

Then she said, “Did you get the person that killed Bazz? I can only assume that’s what happened, knowing you as well as I do.”

Dean’s mind conjured up the face of Alec Murphy. “Yeah,” he said. “I did.”

The answer stimulated a grim look to wash across Layla’s face, something that Dean had seen her do more often than not ever since he’d shown her the hole in his hand and the bullet holes in the wall of their home.

Grace let out a whimper that prompted Layla to terminate her stride and pull her out of the stroller. Layla cooed in Grace’s ear to assure her that everything was alright before she put her attention on Dean.

“She’s been like this all week,” Layla said. “She misses you.”

Dean fought back the tears and cleared his throat to dislodge the choke that was building up inside of it. “I miss her, too,” he said before he put his focus on Layla. “I miss both of you.” He turned his gaze down to the pathway. “And I’d like you guys to come back home. There’s no point in dancing around saying what I want to say.”

Layla smirked, the smile laced with heavy hints of sarcasm. “The home with the bullet holes in the wall,” she said. “And the blood on the floor.”

Dean held up his palm. “Those are gone. I made sure of that.”

“It’s more the metaphor of it all that I’m focused on, Dean. The memories that are now there, the ones that you keep adding on to year after year…”

“Layla,” Dean stepped toward his partner and daughter, “I’m sorry for what happened. I am. I should have listened to you when you⁠—”

“You should have never gone with Bazz,” Layla said. “And I should have stopped you from going. We both made choices, but now we’re here, and…” she looked down at Grace, “it is what it is.”

Dean turned his gaze up toward the bright sun shielded by the billowing clouds overhead—the day was beautiful and a stark contrast to the feelings he was experiencing.

He shuddered.

Then his stomach twisted into a knot when he realized the moment he was sharing with Layla was nearly identical to the one he had with Claire years before when she told him to stay away.

Jesus.

Dean shook his head.

Everything is a circle.

A repeat.

The same situation playing back over and over again.

“Dean,” Layla said, “we need time. There’s no other way around it. It’s like…” she shrugged, “I don’t know, like this magnetism of yours, this knack for attracting chaos, just won’t go away no matter how hard you try.”

“But I’ll keep trying,” he assured her. “That will never stop.”

“I know you will. And I love you for that. But…” Layla nodded at Grace, “it’s not just about you and me anymore. It hasn’t been since Grace was born. I have to think about her best interests. About mine. And yours. You have to understand that until I can be sure that we’re all safe…” Her gaze drifted, Dean sensing that she was at a loss of what to say next.

“We need time, Dean,” Layla said. “That’s all. I need to be with Grace. We’ll be fine for the time being. In the meantime, you need to figure things out, and I have to be sure that this life of yours and all of the madness it brings with it won’t affect our lives anymore. I can’t come back until I know that for sure.”

Dean, like Layla had been a moment before, was unsure of what to say. His eyes glossed over, and for the first time in what felt like years, he felt like he was about to weep.

“Dean,” Layla said softly as she reached out her hand and gently cupped his face, “we’re not going anywhere. We’re not leaving you. That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?” he replied weakly. “What’s the takeaway from all of this?”

“Time,” she said. “That’s all. We’re still your family. We’re not going anywhere, and know that without any doubt in your mind, I love you with all of my heart. I always will. That will never change.” She withdrew her hand. “But we need to be on our own for a while.”

“How long?”

Layla shrugged. “However long it takes for you to distance yourself, to really put this life behind you…if you can.”

Dean reached out and stroked his finger across Grace’s puffy little cheek.

Can I?

Will I?

No matter how hard I try, this life, this madness clings to me like a disease.

“We have to go,” Layla said. “We’re flying out to see my mother later tonight. We’ll be back in a couple weeks.”

“Call me when you get there?” Dean said. “I mean, if that’s okay.”

“Of course we’ll call. And we’ll see you when we get back.” Layla leaned in, planted a kiss on Dean’s forehead, and then stood back. “I mean it when I say that we’re not going anywhere.”

Dean smiled, took Grace into his arms, and held her as he trailed Layla back to her car, assisted her with loading Grace in the car seat, and seconds later, Layla and Grace pulled away from the curb, headed down the block, took a right turn, and then disappeared from sight.

Dean lingered a moment.

He hung his head.

Then he headed to an empty bench in the park a few paces away, sat down, and took stock of the happy and seemingly normal families all around him, people with sane lives and normal jobs and regular routines that he just couldn’t seem to have on his own.

Dean sat back.

He rested his chin on his hand.

Then he felt a single tear roll its way slowly down his cheek.

EPILOGUE

Looking forward to Jeremy’s little league game was considerable consolation for Dean after his last conversation with Layla. Claire, Jeremy’s mother, was well in the loop on what had gone down with the whole “house getting shot up/hole in the hand” ordeal—though Dean, like he did with Layla, spared Claire the details of how it all went down—but like Layla, Claire was rightfully concerned and worried and insisted that she be present while Dean was around. From Dean’s vantage point, it appeared that his entire family now regarded him as a liability—one that they loved—but still a liability, nonetheless.

Dean knew he couldn’t dwell on the current state of affairs. Bazz was dead. Dean had made sure he was buried properly at Forest Lawn—per Bazz’s will—and stopped by every couple of weeks to stare at the headstone and laugh to himself at all of the times they’d used to share—but he was gone. Dean couldn’t bring him back. Layla had made her choice, and until things changed on that end, Dean knew he still needed to support his family, and as he sat behind the desk of his office in his PI firm, he sorted through the missed calls for potential cases and decided which one he was going to take next in order to make that happen.

A missing person’s case.

Another unfaithful spouse.

An insurance scam, a guy looking for his lost brother, and a kid that’s been missing since 2017.

Dean cracked his knuckles. “All right, Blackwood,” he whispered. “Which one are you going to take?”

A knock sounded on the office door. Without turning up his head, Dean called out for the visitor to enter, and a moment later, a lanky kid built like a point guard strolled in, whistling and flexing his brow like a used car salesman trying to dump a lemon.

“Howdy howdy!” the kid said. “You Blackwood? Dean Blackwood?”

Dean looked up from his desk and ogled the guest from his toes to his temples. The kid was five-eleven-maybe-ten with thick auburn hair, a million-dollar smile, and a flawless complexion that Dean was sure members of the kid’s opposite sex couldn’t help but take a second glance at when they passed him on the street.

“Who’s asking?” Dean said.

The kid, without asking, plopped down in the chair across from Dean’s. “I was told to hit you up if I ever needed a favor.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes-sir-e.”

“By whom?”

The kid propped his Converse High Top-clad feet on the table. “Nice place,” he said. “Kind of reminds me of a recruitment office. I should know.” The kid flexed his brow. “I’ve been turned away from a handful of them. My IQ tests are off the charts, but according to several people, I’ve got a problem with authority.”

Dean reclined back in his chair.

He had a sense of who he was talking to, but he wanted to hear it straight from the source. “Well,” he said, “what do you want?”

“A job,” the kid said. “I was told you were the man to see for that sort of thing.”

“I’m not hiring.”

“I think you’ll make an exception.”

“And why the hell would I do that?”

The vainglorious smile on the kid’s face dissolved. “Because you knew my uncle,” he said. “Because he was the only one I could trust. Because I’m broke, I’ve got no home, and I was told if I ever needed a helping hand that I could depend on you.”

Dean was sure who he was looking at now.

“Tell me who you are,” Dean said. “Give me your name, and we’ll try and go from there.”

“Freddy Bazz,” the kid said as his smile returned and he shot out his hand toward Dean. “Pleased to meet you.”

Dean hesitated.

He smirked.

Then he placed his hand into the kid’s and shook. “I know a little about you, Freddy,” he said as he withdrew his hand. “Your uncle hinted that you might come in here one day. I don’t know if you know, but your uncle Cliff⁠—”

“Yeah, I know,” Freddy said. “Some guy called me and told me. Not long after that, my landlord gave me the big stinky boot from my apartment because I was six months behind on rent. I used what cash I had left to book a flight out here.” He widened his eyes. “I had three different layovers before I got here. Plus, I hate flying, so there’s that.”

Dean probed the kid with an assessing gaze, sizing him up and—much to his concern—seeing a bit of himself in the kid back when he was around his age.

“So,” Freddy said as he perched forward in his seat, shrugged, and looked at Dean with a petitioning pair of puppy dog eyes, “can you help me? I’ll do anything. Sweep floors, take out the trash. You name it, I’ll do it. Please, man. I’m desperate, and my uncle said if I needed help, you were the man.”

Dean took his time to answer.

You owe it to Bazz.

You know you do.

Do the right thing.

“We’ll figure something out,” Dean said. “You can count on it. I owe it to your uncle. I just need some time to find what I can do for you.”

A toothy-grinned Freddy rapped his fist on the table. “My man!” he said. “I knew I could count on you. Uncle Cliffy said I could.” He gestured around the office. “I’ll start today. Make me the receptionist or something. Think of me as one of those pencil-skirted ladies from Mad Men answering all of your calls.”

Dean held up his hand. “Easy,” he said. “First, I need to know a little more⁠—”

The phone on his desk rang, but as Dean reached out to pick it up, Freddy swooped in, scooped up the receiver, and held it to his ear.

“You got Freddy,” the kid said. “Dean Blackwood’s assistant. How can I help you?” He snapped his fingers at Dean. “Yo, you got a pen? This lady is talking like she just took speed or something.”

Dean blinked his eyes slowly.

Chip off the old block.

He smirked.

This is going to be interesting.

AUTHOR’S NOTES

Thank you for reading Paradise Kill, book 4 of 5 in the Dean Blackwood series.

Be sure to check out Book 5, Winter Kill. I’ve included a sneak peek on the next page.

As an independent author, reaching more readers can be challenging, and that’s where I could really use your help. If you enjoyed the story, I’d be grateful if you could leave a brief review on Amazon. Your support makes all the difference.

Click here to leave a review or go to: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0D22S9WPQ

SNEAK PEEK - WINTER KILL

Winter is coming…  

And it’s bringing death to small-town USA.

Two teens have been murdered.  

Cops are telling lies.  

And I’m not buying any of it.

When the grieving mother of one of the slain teens reaches out to me, I’m on the next flight to Somerset, Illinois—a snow-covered oasis straight out of a Hallmark movie.

Beneath the charming holiday façade, something sinister lurks in this Christmas-themed town.

This time, I’ve got a little extra help: the motormouth nephew of an old friend—a rule-breaker I’ve reluctantly started calling my “sidekick.”

Kids are dying, and the townsfolk are hiding secrets.  

Whoever’s behind this Christmas cover-up is getting a stocking full of lead.

(Click here to get this book)

PROLOGUE

Somerset, Illinois

December 15th

Sean Patterson stared at the dried blood on his hands. The dark red, almost brown, color didn’t look real. Part of him thought he might be dreaming.

It’s not a dream, Sean thought. You saw them.

You touched the bodies.

His hands trembled.

They’re gone.

His heart drummed inside his chest.

Holy shit.

A hot tear rolled down his cheek.

Both of my friends are dead!

As Sean’s breathing turned into shallow, razor-thin wheezes, Sheriff Curtis, seated across from him in the interrogation room, reached over and squeezed the boy’s wrist. 

“It’s alright, Seany,” Curtis said, the tall, dark-skinned man towering over the seventeen year old. “Just breathe.”

“My dad,” Sean whimpered. “Where is he?”

“He’s on his way back from your aunt’s place in Aurora. It’s going to take him a couple hours to get back. He’ll be here soon.” Curtis motioned to the ceramic mug glazed with the 

Somerset Sheriff’s Dept. seal. “Drink that water for me. I need you to try and walk me through what happened.”

“Shannon,” Sean said as he reached his trembling hand toward the mug. “Where is she?”

“She's in the next room.”

“Is she in trouble?” Sean’s eyes widened. “Are we in trouble?”

“Not at all.” Curtis shook his head. “I’m just glad that the two of you are okay.” He leaned over the table. “But I need you to tell me what happened, Sean, everything that happened, as best as you can remember it. You saw them. You saw Luke and Daria’s bodies.” 

Sean placed his bloodstained hands in his lap so that he didn’t have to look at them. 

“You saw what happened to them. And I need to know what happened before we found them,” Curtis said. “I need to know what you kids were doing in your dad’s house before you found the bodies.”

A few moments ticked by.

Sean played back the memory.

His stomach twisted into a knot.

“We were…” Sean squeezed his eyelids shut. “Shit.” He hung his head. “My dad is going to kill me. I was supposed to be home alone. None of us were supposed to be there. He’s going to flip out when he finds out I brought my friends over to drink.”

“Just walk me through what happened,” Curtis said. “I promise, I swear to you that you’re not going to get in any trouble. You have my word.”

Sean fidgeted.

Took a sip of water. 

A few deep breaths later, he managed to calm his nerves.

“Shannon, Luke, and Daria came over to my house,” Sean said. “We were just hanging out. We were listening to music and making some drinks.” Dad is going to fucking kill me. “After we ran out of beer, Shannon and I left to go to Eric’s.”

“Eric Hughes?” Curtis said. “Or Eric Walters?”

“Eric Hughes,” Sean said. “He always has a couple of sixers in his fridge, so we went to snag one from him. Shannon and I went to Eric’s, hung out for like twenty minutes, got one of his sixers, and then we walked back to my house.” Sean’s shoulders dropped. “When I started walking toward my front door, I saw that the bay window was broken. There were bits of glass all over the porch.”

“Okay,” Curtis said. “What happened next? What did you do?”

“Shannon stayed outside on the porch.” Sean balled his bloodied hands into fists as he played back the memory of the night’s events with crystal-clear resolution. “I told her to call the cops. Then I pushed open the door⁠—”

“The door was already open?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you leave it open before the two of you left to go to Eric’s?”

“No.” Sean squinted. “I mean, I don’t think so.”

“Okay,” Curtis said. “So after you went inside, what did you do next?”

“I went into the living room,” Sean said. “It was pretty trashed. Someone had knocked over the Christmas tree and threw a bunch of stuff around.” Sean motioned to his left, imagining himself back in his living room. “I grabbed a poker from the stand by the fireplace,” he said. “Then I went into the kitchen. Shannon was yelling at me to come back outside, but I was worried about Luke and Daria. I kept calling out their names, but they wouldn’t answer me.”

“Alright,” Curtis said, mentally jotting down the details of Sean’s story. “So, after you grabbed the poker, you said you went into the kitchen.”

“Yeah.” Sean nodded. “It looked like someone had torn that room apart too. There was crap everywhere. I could tell that stuff was missing.”

“Stuff was missing?”

“Some of my dad’s booze,” Sean said. “His expensive stuff. There was also some stuff missing from the living room too: the TV, the stereo. When I went into my dad’s study after I went into the kitchen, I saw that his laptop and some of his collectibles from his shelf were gone.” He winced. “I’m trying to remember what else was missing.”

“Some of the deputies are walking through your dad’s house right now,” Curtis explained. “They’re taking inventory of everything that was stolen, so you don’t need to worry about remembering all of that right now. I just need to know what happened when you went downstairs into the basement.”

“Okay.” Sean took a deep breath, terrified to tell the next part of the story. “After I went into the study, I walked back out into the hallway and saw that the basement door was open—it’s never open. My dad says I’m not supposed to go down there. He stores a bunch of his expensive wine bottles on the shelves.” Sean huffed. “I guess he’s worried I’m going to steal it or something.”

“What happened after that, Sean?” Curtis shrugged. “Tell me what you saw.”

The memory, burning brightly in Sean’s mind, was one that he knew, no matter how long he lived, he would never forget.

“I walked downstairs into the basement,” Sean said, his vocal chords clenched. “I went over to the furnace.” His hands shook. “Then I…” His entire body vibrated. “I saw Luke and Daria. They were lying on the ground. They were…” Sean dropped his head into his dirty hands, sobbing uncontrollably, his words shooting out at a rapid-fire pace. “I knew they were dead. They had blood all over them. I could see where the bullets hit them.” Sean flicked up his reddened eyes toward the sheriff. “I touched them. I know you’re supposed to check for a pulse or something, so that’s what I did, but they were…”

Sean, panting, shot up from the table, moved to the corner of the room, and buried his face into it. “I’m so sorry!” he screamed. “Oh, God.” He slid down to the floor and curled into a ball. “Shannon and I shouldn’t have left; we should have stayed home. If I hadn’t told everyone to come over, none of this would have happened!”

“It’s okay, Sean.” Curtis walked over and placed his arm around Sean’s shoulder. “Everything’s going to be alright.”

“They’re dead,” Sean whimpered. “Both of my friends are gone!”

After consoling Sean for close to twenty minutes, Curtis escorted him into his office, told him to lay down on the couch. As soon as Sean closed his eyes, he was out cold. 

Curtis wrapped his department-issued windbreaker around Sean like a blanket.

Slipped out of the room.

Closed the door.

Then he instructed the rookie deputy working the switchboard—Purvis—to hold down the fort, returned to Michael Patterson’s house three blocks away, and oversaw the collection of Luke DeFeo’s and Daria Brennan’s bodies. A short twenty minutes after Curtis watched the van drive away and head east toward the funeral home, he was in Angie Brennan’s home informing her that her daughter had been killed in the midst of a home invasion.

***

Angie Brennan felt nothing seconds after Curtis told her that Daria was dead. She just stared at the feather flock wallpaper in the kitchen, her body and mind free of any sensation, as though her spirit had evacuated her body.

This can’t be real, she thought. It can’t.

This is just a bad dream.

Angie closed her eyes.

Wake up.

Snap out of it.

Maybe if you wish hard enough, you can undo this.

For the first twenty-four hours, Angie felt like a zombie; she didn’t eat, sleep, or leave the house. She couldn’t even bring herself to call her sister to let her know that Daria was dead, much less go to the funeral home to identify the body. Eventually, two days after Curtis broke the news, Angie did go to the funeral home, and when she saw her baby girl’s body on the cold metal slab, she broke down in tears and hyperventilated to the point that Curtis had to drive her to Somerset General where they jabbed her with a sedative.

Angie, still shaking off the sedation, returned home and spent another full day in bed. She called her sister. Started making arrangements for the funeral. Kept calling the sheriff for an update, but he just kept telling her the same thing over and over.

“It’s a home invasion,” Curtis said. “We’re looking for the culprits. We don’t know if we’ll find them. I need you to stay patient.”

So Angie waited; three more days went by.

No progress in the investigation was made.

Her grief turned into anger.

She wanted answers, and she knew that no one in the Somerset Sheriff’s Department was going to give it to her—then Angie remembered her friend, Erika Quint, her old roommate from college who called her six months prior explaining how she had gotten divorced after the private investigator she hired had uncovered her (now ex) husband’s affair. 

Maybe I should call, Angie thought. Maybe the man who helped Erika might be able to help me.

So Angie called Erika. She explained that the Somerset Sheriff’s Department was making no headway in the case, that there were no arrests being made in regard to her daughter’s death—murder.

“I think I need to outsource some assistance with this,” Angie explained. “I know this town. I know what the sheriff is like. If I don’t ask someone else to look into this, whoever did this is going to get away with it.”

“I’ll give you the number of the private investigator that helped me,” Erika said. “He’s a good man. He even called some friends of his who helped with the divorce proceedings. When it was over, he wouldn’t even take payment from me; he just said that he was glad that he could help, that it was ‘the right thing to do.’”

“His name,” Angie said as she grabbed a pen and notepad from her kitchen. “What is it?”

“His name’s Blackwood,” Erika said. “Dean Blackwood.”

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