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  PROLOGUE

  Zeke

  Heat hit the back of my neck as I climbed off the bus, the sounds of waves crashing, the smell of the ocean, so strong I could taste it on my tongue.

  Home.

  Fuck.

  Slinging my duffel over my shoulder, I ignored the pain it caused my wounds, and headed toward my house. It was dry as hell, heat waves wiggling up from the familiar road ahead like serpents. Each step I took kicked up sand that had been carried on the wind from the beach, and it stuck to my combat boots. My folks had moved back to Roxford, Texas from New York, five years ago. I should be happy to be here. I wasn’t. The closer I got, the more my gut fucking churned. I hadn’t seen my family, my fiancée, in six months. My last visit had only been four weeks, not long, but long enough to buy a house and knock up Diane. Truth was, knowing I had responsibilities back here was the only thing that got me through the last few weeks. Knowing I had people that were depending on me to come home.

  My family.

  Two of my buddies would never see theirs again, would never see their kids grow, would never kiss their wives again. They had me to thank for that. A split second, that’s all it took, now everything had changed. I wasn’t sure how I was going to do this anymore—live, have this life. Act like nothing had happened.

  Be normal.

  How could I do that when I was the reason those men lost their lives? How? During my career, I’d had ninety-eight confirmed kills. I was deadly accurate. One of the military’s most effective snipers. I knew how to do my job. All I’d had to do that day was aim and pull the trigger and they’d still be here. It was my job to seek out a threat and if necessary, pull the fucking trigger. That kid had walked out, explosives strapped to his chest, and I froze. I’d failed. I’d failed all of them.

  My body was still healing from that explosion, and I’d be left with scars that would be a constant reminder of what I hadn’t been able to do. Like I could ever forget?

  I deserved nothing less.

  Now I had to . . . what? Somehow put it all behind me? Be a son, a husband, a father. Pretend I was someone I wasn’t the rest of my life. Find a way to make my kid proud of me, when I felt like the lowest piece of shit on the face of this earth.

  I looked ahead, spotting the house I’d bought for Diane and me. Sweat slid down between my shoulder blades, and not just from the sweltering heat. I was used to the heat. That churning in my gut started again, and I did my best to shake it off.

  But nothing would take that feeling away, like my insides had been jammed through a meat grinder.

  Deal with it, asshole. It’s the least you deserve.

  The whole forward momentum thing wasn’t easy, not when I wanted to turn around and never come back. I focused on the house in front of me. My house. It was small, needed some work, but it was only two down from where my folks lived and right on the beach. I’d wanted Diane to have someone she knew, that she could count on, close by. The grass looked long, the gardens overgrown. Music was coming from inside. Loud music. I hadn’t told anyone I was coming home. I didn’t want any fuss. Me getting home in one piece from my latest deployment was nothing to celebrate, so I knew it wasn’t a welcome home party. The front door was locked. I banged on it, but I doubted Diane could hear me.

  I headed round back. There was a white pickup parked there with “Wayne’s Auto Repairs” written on the side. I frowned as I took the stairs to the back door and pushed it open. I strode through the kitchen and down the short hall to the living room and pulled up short.

  Wayne, owner of the truck parked behind my house, was sitting on my couch, legs spread, looking down, watching my fiancée suck his dick. He looked up at me and paled. I dropped my duffel to the floor as Wayne tightened his grip on Diane’s hair and tugged.

  She slapped at his hand, and kept going.

  He tugged again. “Diane!”

  She pulled off with a pop. “What the hell, Wayne! If you don’t stop pulling my hair, you can suck your own dick.”

  Wayne pushed her off and tilted his head to me while he shoved his dick back in his pants.

  Diane spun around. Her eyes widened and she shot to her feet. “Now, Zeke . . .”

  It was weird. I felt . . . nothing, not really. My emotions had been running full-throttle for weeks, so this? It barely registered. There was only one thing that concerned me. I did a sweep of her body, taking her in from head to toe. She should be showing by now, from what I’d read. Her belly was flat. “The baby?”

  She dragged the back of her hand across her mouth. “This isn’t what it looks like . . . I was lonely, and you were gone . . . You’re always gone . . .”

  “The baby?” I said again, voice flat.

  She took a step toward me and I shook my head.

  She stopped where she was and planted her hands on her hips. “Look, I . . . I wasn’t ready to be a mother . . . I’m young . . . I . . .”

  “You got rid of it?” Even I was surprised by the coldness that had seeped into my voice.

  She bit her lip, then finally nodded.

  The hot jagged knot I’d had in my gut for weeks, sharpened, dug deeper.

  I was being punished. I’d always wanted to be a father. Shit, two months ago, I’d been so damn excited, looking forward to coming home. I didn’t deserve it, not anymore, and the only good thing I had left had been taken away from me.

  “Wayne was here for me when you weren’t,” she said. “I was lonely . . . I . . .”

  I had nothing to say, so I turned and walked out.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Zeke

  “I have him,” I said into the hands-free walkie I was wearing. “Third floor, second apartment from the left. He’s alone.”

  “Keep him in your sights, we’re moving in now,” Van said back.

  Van King and his brother Hunter owned the King Agency, the P.I. firm I worked for. Van and I had also gone to high school and enlisted together. We had our own way of doing things, and often that meant working outside the law.

  Not this time, though.

  My finger rested along the barrel of my rifle. I hadn’t moved in an hour and a half, my focus razor sharp, locked on the guy across the street. If he tried to leave that apartment, I’d immobilize him. We’d been paid to bring this guy in by any means. He was wanted in four states, had robbed three jewelry stores and two pawn shops. He’d also killed three innocent people and injured two others. The cops couldn’t pin this asshole down and, though highly irregular, had brought us in to work alongside local law enforcement to get the job done.

  Mainly because we had contacts, ways of getting information the NYPD didn’t. Contacts we wouldn’t share and the cops preferred not to know about.

  My target grabbed a bag and started stuffing something in it. Clothes. “He’s packing up, about to head out,” I said.

  Van’s walkie crackled in my ear. “Don’t let him leave.”

  I inched my finger back to the trigger . . .

  An image flashed thro
ugh my head, flickering like an old movie projector behind my eyes. Suddenly, I was on a different roof, in a different country, at a different time. I squeezed my eyes closed, trying to shake it. But I knew what was coming and I also knew I couldn’t stop it. Sweat slid down my temples. I had to hold it. Just a few more minutes.

  My hand started to shake.

  Shit.

  I took a deep breath, focused on my breathing, slow and steady. It was the only thing that helped me keep my shit together when this happened, when the memories forced their way into my frontal lobe and tried to fuck me up.

  Tightening my muscles, I worked at controlling the shakes. The target slung his bag over his head . . . then turned to go. Now or never.

  I got the guy in my crosshairs, released a breath, . . . and squeezed the trigger. The sound of shattering glass was swallowed by a frenetic New York City during rush hour. I watched through my sight as blood spread, soaking his shirt at the shoulder, his mouth open in a soundless scream. I lined him up again for another shot. If that didn’t slow him down, I’d take out one of his legs. The target dropped to the floor, though, propping himself against the wall.

  I didn’t take my eyes off him until the door burst open three minutes later. Which would have been more than enough time for the guy to get away. Van and Neco, another of our agents, ran into the room. Ruby, a recent addition to our field team, and Neco’s woman, came into view as well. Her gun was on our target while Neco cuffed him, and Van checked out the rest of the apartment.

  I rolled to my back, put my rifle on the ground beside me, and pulled myself up so I was leaning against the small wall edging the roof. The tremor in my hand intensified and I curled my fingers into a fist. Those images I didn’t want in my damn head forced their way deeper. Blood. Bodies, now unrecognizable, sprawled across the ground.

  Grief overwhelmed me, hit so hard I didn’t know how to process it. It had been over a year and at times like this, it felt like yesterday. These . . . attacks, shit, I didn’t know what to call them, hit at random, like my subconscious popping in for a “hi, how are ya,” followed by a giant “fuck you.” Dragging back all the pain, making sure I never forgot the way I felt that day. Taking me back to a time when I hadn’t taken the damn shot, when I’d hesitated—when I’d second guessed, and my men had paid the price for it.

  I’d been lost when I got home, but in the end I’d called Van and finally accepted the job my friend had been offering me since he set up his P.I. firm. I’d made a vow to myself that day, and to those men that lost their lives and their families. I’d take down as many pieces of garbage as I could, like the asshole I’d shot tonight, and I’d keep on doing it, until I couldn’t do it anymore. It wouldn’t bring my guys back, or make up for my failure, my soul would be forever marked by what I’d done—but I could do this.

  It was all I had. All I could offer.

  Nothing else got me out of bed in the morning, no one else, and that’s how I wanted it.

  I was empty, had nothing else to give. I’d die on the job and I didn’t care when or how. The weight of those souls, they were heavy, a burden that I more than deserved to carry, but tonight, they were almost more than I could bear. Which is why I stayed where I was when I heard the scrape of a boot on the rooftop not far from me, when someone moved out of the shadows. I didn’t reach for my gun or the knife down the side of my boot, choosing not to think about why, and stared down the barrel of the nine-millimeter aimed at me. I sat, and waited. This guy, whoever he was, had been tailing me for a week. I’d let him. I’d been waiting for him to make his move, had counted on it. Looked like tonight was the night.

  “To your knees,” the guy said. “Hands out at your sides.”

  I did as he asked. “Do I know you?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “You knew my brother, though. He was sentenced to ten fucking years because of you.”

  In this job, we sent a lot of assholes away. I had no idea who he was talking about.

  He dragged his forearm across his mouth. “Killed himself a week ago.”

  I said nothing. What could I say?

  The guy sneered. “You hunted him down like a dog and dragged him in. So I’ve been doing the same to you. Watching you, following you.” He held the gun with two hands now. “How about I blow your motherfucking brains out?”

  This wasn’t how I imagined it would happen, but I was ready. More than ready. I wasn’t scared of what came next, I was . . . relieved. I lifted my head and stared him in the eyes, and waited.

  “You got nothing to say?” he snarled.

  I kept my arms out at my sides. “Do what you have to do.”

  The guy blinked. “I’m not fucking with you, I mean it.” He started shaking. “I’m going to kill you!” he screamed.

  Jesus, I was tired. So fucking tired.

  “I mean it,” he said again.

  “Then do it,” I roared back, then closed my eyes, locking out his shocked stare. My men never saw it coming, I deserved nothing more.

  The sound of a gun cocking echoed around us and I braced . . .

  “Drop the gun, now.”

  Van.

  The sound of running came next, a shot, shouting.

  I opened my eyes. Neco was in pursuit and, pumped with adrenaline, my stalker sprinted toward the edge of the building. Neco was quicker, though, and tackled the guy to the ground before he could leap. I turned back to Van. He was standing in front of me, expression troubled. “What the fuck was that?”

  I shrugged and climbed to my feet. “Unhappy customer.”

  Jude, an ex-cop and the agency’s persuasion specialist, among other things, appeared and joined Van. I walked past both of them and headed for the roof top door.

  “Zeke, hold up . . .” Van called after me.

  I ignored him. There was nothing to say. And sure as fuck nothing I wanted to talk about. They had everything in hand, so I took the elevator to the ground floor and kept on walking.

  * * *

  I stared down at my third glass of Jameson and worked at forgetting the look on Van’s face. Shit. The guy’s uneasy expression was branded on my brain. He’d been waiting for me to flip the fuck out since I started working for him, had several times mentioned counseling. Jesus. I didn’t need him on my case about this, well intentioned or not. I downed the rest of my drink and motioned to the barman for another. The place wasn’t overly busy, and no one was looking my way. If anyone did, it was never for long.

  Most people were unsettled by me, avoided making eye contact. Not something I worked at, but I was okay with it. I didn’t like to talk. When people talked, they gave away too much of themselves. They got close, formed connections. I didn’t want that, not from anyone. The only people who knew anything about what happened in Afghanistan were Van and my father, and neither of them knew the full story. Van and I enlisted together, were deployed the first time together. He’d been my closest friend before we were shipped out.

  I didn’t know what we were anymore.

  My hand lifted to the center of my chest and I rubbed at the ache. There was something inside me tonight, a feeling I couldn’t identify, didn’t know what to do with. A dark emptiness behind my ribs and a twisted voice in my head urging me to walk out of this bar and headfirst into a situation that would make that feeling go away, that would end it all . . .

  I was done fighting it.

  I was about to stand, when the door opened. My eyes slid to the woman that walked in. Blond hair, wavy. Lots of it. Subtle makeup. My gaze lifted back to her hair. Shit, it looked soft. She slipped off her jacket and revealed a curvy figure, lush. Denim hugged her round hips, and the blue top she was wearing was doing the same with her breasts and small waist. She had silver bracelets on both wrists and an intricate necklace. It looked like knotted leather, some glass and silver beads as well. Unusual. Her boots were brown leather and had spiked heels. She was alone and as she moved toward the bar, more than a few sets of eyes followed her, including mine.
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  The most important skill for a sniper is observation, picking out any irregularity, any possible threat. Sitting still and looking for anything out of the ordinary.

  This woman . . . she was far from ordinary.

  I needed a pair of shades just to look at her, she was so bright. Like a light shone from within. Fucking walking, talking sunshine, and I wasn’t the only one that noticed as she moved to the bar and ordered a glass of wine. I found myself straining to hear her voice. I bet she smelled good, too. She handed over the money for her drink. Her hands were small, delicate, and she had a wide gold ring on her thumb. Not silver like the rest of her jewelry, and it was obviously a man’s ring. She was twisting is as she stood there. A nervous habit, or maybe she was drawing strength from it? Because she looked a little nervous. The piece held sentiment. Someone she cared about. My gaze slid back to her face in time to watch her draw in a deep breath and glance around the bar. Yeah, definitely nervous. Tucking her hair behind one ear, she glanced at the door, then she turned back and . . . her eyes slid to me . . .

  The oxygen punched from my lungs. Her eyes were wide and the brightest blue . . . shit, no, they were almost violet.

  They darted away for several seconds, then she glanced back. I stared, unable to do anything else. She quickly looked away again and took a step . . .

  Her hip collided with the stool, knocking it over. She flushed red and quickly righted it then tried to walk away again, but instead slammed into one of the waitresses, knocking a tray of empties to the floor. Sunshine dumped her bag and coat on the bar and got on the floor, helping pick everything up, apologizing and flushing darker. She laughed at something the waitress said, and her entire face lit up. My gut tightened and I shifted on my seat. As she handed over one of the glasses, I noticed a fading bruise on her elbow, then what looked like a burn on the side of her thumb, a scar on her ring finger. That, plus what I’d just witnessed—the woman was obviously prone to accidents.

  Something inside me expanded until it almost hurt.