Unable to sleep, Jules found his way into the kitchen, looking for God knows what.

Only the dimmest of lights was on, but Sam was sitting on one of the four stools at the big center island counter, dressed down in cutoff sweats and a well-worn T-shirt, big bare feet hooked in the rungs. Cold cuts and bread were spread out in front of him as he ate a sandwich.

“Hey,” he greeted Jules through a mouthful of turkey and Swiss on what looked like marble rye.

“Hey.” Jules opened the refrigerator and stared at the contents. It was well-stocked—with absolutely nothing that he wanted. Because he didn’t really want anything to eat.

What he wanted was for three innocent people—one of them a child—to not be dead.

But his stomach churned and burbled and he knew he had to put something into it. He wasn’t going to be able to hunt down the killer if he made himself sick.

As opposed to heartsick, which he already was.

“How about I make you a sandwich?” Sam asked. It wasn’t really a question, because he was already doing it—taking a couple of slices of bread from the bag and plopping them onto the same plate he was using.

Jules closed the fridge with a sigh. “Sure, why not?” He sat on the stool down at the end, leaving one empty between them. “Thanks.”

“You should probably stay off the Internet for a few days,” the former SEAL advised him as he squeezed a generous amount of spicy brown mustard onto the bread. “Robin is getting reamed by all of the celebrity gossip sites. It’s not going to help your blood pressure to see that circus.”

Jules laughed, even though he wanted to cry. “You know what Robin told me?”

“Nope. What did Robin tell you?” Sam used up the rest of the turkey and started opening the other packs of meat.

“Hey.”

They both looked up to see Jimmy Nash, leaning on a cane for support as he hobbled his way into the kitchen. His dark hair was a mess and he was wearing his plaid pajama pants with a T-shirt.

“Look at you,” Jules said. “Up and about like a big boy.”

“Barely,” Nash said.

“You know,” Jules said, “when you get the doctor’s approval to begin physical therapy, it generally means you can begin physical therapy. Which means that you still spend a certain amount of time taking it slow and using a wheelchair and okay, I can see that you’ve already tuned me out. I’m talking to myself, aren’t I? Yes, I am.”

“I’m making sandwiches,” Sam told Nash. “You want one?”

“Thanks.” Nash planted himself on the stool on the other side of Sam. “Ham and cheese.”

“Is this just a sandwich?” Sam asked. “Or is this a sandwich?”

Nash didn’t look at either of them. He clearly knew of Sam’s theory that the perfect post-sex food was, hands down, the sandwich. “None of your business.”

“You’re right,” Sam said. “It’s not, but... I’m just one of those guys who’re in love with love. Just tell me this. The diaper thing? Thumbs-up or thumbs-down?”

“Are you drunk?” Nash asked.

“Nope,” Sam said. “No alcohol in this house. I am, however, celebrating a milestone. Ash said da-da tonight,” he reported. “And okay, he actually said da-da-da-da-da, but who’s counting? He was looking right at me. Boy’s a genius.” He glanced at Jules. “It helped bring balance to a bad-news day. But it’s not always so obvious. Sometimes you’ve got to look for it, you know? It’s there—the little things, the people who love you. Sometimes you’ve got to resist the urge to put up a wall, or create distance. You’ve got to draw people close, not push ’em away.”

“You think I’m pushing Robin away,” Jules surmised.

Sam shrugged. “I think that you’re here, talking to me, instead of talking to the Boy Wonder. Which brings us back to what you were saying.”

Jules squinted, trying to remember. “What was I saying?”

“You said, You know what Robin told me?” Sam repeated. “I said, What?”

“Right,” Jules said. “He said, Oh, well.” He imitated Robin’s melodic voice. “He said, Hey, babe, it’s going to be all right. If I don’t do this movie, there’re going to be others. And if there aren’t, fuck it. I’ll do theater. It’ll be fun. Fun. I’m ruining his career. Everyone’s always saying that Robin ruined my career, but look what I’m doing to his.”

Sam used a deadly-looking knife to cut the towering sandwich in two and pushed the plate in front of Jules. “He did ruin your career. You’re wasting your time in Boston, and you know it.”

“Fuck you,” Jules said. “I love Boston. And what is wrong with you? There’s no way I can eat all of that. Even if I was hungry. It’s not a sandwich, it’s a freaking deli counter.” He leaned forward to talk across Sam. “Nash, do you want—”

“He wants ham and cheese,” Sam answered for him. “Besides, I was counting on an appearance from The Little Engine That Could.” He gestured with his head to the doorway where, indeed, Robin was coming into the kitchen. He’d thrown on his bathrobe, and it hung open over a pair of boxers. “Oh, to be twenty-something and be able to eat from dawn to dusk.”

Jules looked at him. “What are you talking about? You eat all the time.”

“Yeah, but I work it, hard, to keep my girlish figure.” Sam pointed his knife at Robin. “’Bout time you got down here, B.W.”

“Yeah, well, if no one bothers to wake me up when they can’t sleep...” Robin shuffled over to the refrigerator and opened it. Like Jules had done, he stared, squinting, into the brightly lit and well-stocked shelves, and closed the door without taking anything out.

“You were so tired,” Jules told him.

Robin turned to face him, leaning back against the far counter, arms crossed. “Really? And of course, you’re never tired when I wake you up if I’m having a nightmare.” He narrowed his eyes at Jules “Or, oh, say, when I can’t sleep because my brain’s going too fast and some nasty little voice in my head starts whispering about how easy it would be to take that edge off, just by having a drink—reminding me what it would taste like, what it would feel like—”

“No,” Jules said. “No—”

“We’re a team,” Robin told him. “That’s what you always say when I wake you up. So tell me, are we a team, or is that just—”

“I get it,” Jules said.

“Do you?”

He nodded. “I do. You’re right—I should have woken you.”

Robin was right. Their relationship wouldn’t work if it wasn’t two-way, if it was all about Jules taking care of Robin, with nothing in return. And, frankly? The last thing either of them needed was for Robin to feel as if he couldn’t wake Jules in the middle of the night.

“I am sorry,” Jules said again. “But it’s making me crazy that on top of a dead child—as if that weren’t bad enough—I’m fucking up your career.”

“Do you hear me complaining?” Robin asked.

“No,” Jules said. “But you should be.”

“Let me get this straight,” Robin said. “I should be upset because you think I should be upset? Should I also check with you to find out if I’m hungry?”

“You’re hungry,” Sam chimed in. “He’s always hungry,” he told Nash.

“Okay,” Jules said. “You’re right again. I’m being an idiot. A great, big, wrong-about-everything idiot.”

Robin came over, grabbed Jules by the front of his T-shirt, and kissed him. “But a really cute one.” He sat down on the empty stool between Jules and Sam, and aimed his next words at Sam and Nash. “Any word about... anything?”

Sam added lettuce to Nash’s sandwich. “You mean besides your longtime heroin habit?”

“Seriously? Like being an alcoholic doesn’t give the story enough teeth?” Robin started to laugh, but he tried to stifle it as he turned to Jules. “Sorry, babe, I know you don’t think this is funny.”

“It’s not. Comedy equals tragedy plus time,” Jules pointed out as Sam cut Nash’s sandwich and pushed over the plate.

“Thanks,” Nash said.

“Where’s the tragedy?” Robin asked, helping himself to half of Jules’s sandwich, just as Sam had predicted he would. Predicted and planned for—typical SEAL. “I just don’t see it. You and Tess aren’t dead. You could’ve been killed,” he said with his mouth full. “Instead, you get to wake up tomorrow—which is really great. Personally? I’m enjoying the idea of you waking up the day after tomorrow, too. So let the tabloids say I’ve sprouted gills and can breathe underwater. You’re alive and I’m alive, too. Everything else is bullshit, babe. Everything else.”

Jules nodded as he let himself get lost in Robin’s eyes.

“That’s better,” Robin murmured. “At least you’re looking at me now. Did you know you cut almost all eye contact when you’re jammed up too far inside your own head?”

“No, I don’t,” Jules said. “Do I?”

“Did Starrett tell you about the meth lab at the Seaside Heights motel?” Nash asked, as Robin and Sam both nodded.

“Meth lab,” Jules repeated, leaning forward to look past Robin. “As in crystal meth?”

“It’s highly flammable,” Nash said.

“No shit,” Jules said.

“The police report,” Sam explained, “has a meth lab as the cause of the explosion. It was, apparently, in the room next to yours. The evening desk clerk was killed in the blast. He was believed to have been cooking meth in there for months.”

Robin looked from Jules to Sam to Nash. “We don’t actually believe that, do we?” he asked. “I mean, that it was a coincidence? That Jules and Tess just happened to pick the motel with the meth lab, and get the room next to it?”

“Right now we believe that whoever engineered the blast wants the police to think it was a meth lab explosion,” Sam told him. “We, however, know it was not.”

“This was another message,” Nash said tightly. “To me. It was supposed to be a bloody one, with a body count.”

“It’ll be easy enough to prove,” Jules said. “I mean, that there really wasn’t a meth lab there before today.” If the motel had been used to cook drugs for any length of time, toxic by-products would be on the grounds and in the structure itself. “I’ll request a chemical analysis of the area.”

“Two people—a man and a woman—fled the scene in a truck,” Nash said. “That was in the police report, too.”

“Decker and Tracy,” Sam said.

“Anyone report shots fired?” Jules asked.

“Only Deck and Tracy,” Nash confirmed.

“Best guess?” Sam said. “Is that the shooter mistook Tracy for Tess.”

“Or maybe they didn’t really care who they killed,” Nash pointed out grimly. “As long it was someone who knew me.”

“Any word on when they’ll be back here?” Jules asked. “Deck and Tracy?”

“Not yet,” Sam said. “But with any luck, they’ll be here soon.”

They sat there, then, in silence, just eating their sandwiches.

“I was thinking,” Nash said. “About Robin. Rumor going around is that he’s in rehab again. But he’s not. He’s right here. And he’s clean. You’re clean, right?”

“Squeaky,” Robin said.

“When this is over—and it’s going to be over soon, one way or another,” Nash said. “But when it’s over, if you still care what anyone thinks? Make a statement. You weren’t in rehab, but you knew there’d be rumors, so you took a drug test every day, and here are the results. Clean, clean, and clean.”

Robin looked at Jules, who felt himself look away. He closed his eyes and stopped himself, and made himself look back at this man whom he’d loved enough to marry. “I hate that you have to do that,” Jules told him.

Robin nodded as he touched Jules’s foot with his on the rung of the stool. His toes were cold. Jules had bought him slippers, but he never wore them. Even when he was cold.

Correction—even when Jules thought he was cold.

“I know,” Robin said quietly. “But it’s a good idea, so I’ll do it. It’s just part of, you know.” He shrugged. “The bullshit that doesn’t matter.” He slipped off the stool and held out his hand to Jules. “Let’s go see if I can’t get you to fall asleep.”

“You want me to call you when we hear from Decker?” Sam asked.

“Nope,” Robin said.

“Yes,” Jules answered, squeezing Robin’s hand. “Please.”

“Hey, Cassidy,” Nash said, and Jules turned back from the doorway to look at him. “Tess wants to see that list that I, uh, wrote. Will you get me a copy of that in the morning?”

Jules came back into the kitchen. “Yeah,” he said. Nash was referring to a lengthy and detail-filled list that he’d drawn up, chronicling the black op missions—including deletions—he’d undertaken for the Agency, from the beginning of his career, right up until a few months ago. He’d specifically requested that Jules not share it with Tess. Apparently, he’d changed his mind. “You want me to, um, be there when you show it to her?”

Nash didn’t answer right away. He looked at Jules, but then his gaze flickered over to the doorway, where Robin was standing.

“No,” he told Jules quietly. “Thank you, but... I gotta do this one alone.” He smiled wryly. “Well, not exactly alone. I mean, I’ll be with Tess. She says we’re a team, too. It’s funny, she used that same word.” He nodded. “I guess I’m going to find out if she means it.”

“She does,” Robin said, and Jules turned to look at him. He was standing there looking like the movie star that he was, with his casually covered muscles and that almost too-beautiful face that still often graced magazine covers. “She loves you, Jim. Unconditionally. I know because...”—he smiled at Jules—“I’ve got someone who loves me like that, too.”

Jules looked at Sam, who was shaking his head.

“You know, Rob, you are sometimes just so fucking gay,” he said. “Ow!”

Nash had smacked Sam with the back of his hand, as Jules rolled his eyes and pulled Robin down the hall.

“What the fuck?” he heard Sam say, laughter in his voice, as he followed Robin up the stairs that led to their third-floor suite.

“That was nice.” Nash’s voice carried, too. “What he said. It was... really nice.”

“I was kidding,” Sam protested. “They know I was...” He raised his voice. “Hey, you guys know I was kidding, right?”

“Good night, Sam,” Jules called, as Robin pulled him into the darkness of their bedroom, and shut the door behind them.

And then Jules closed his eyes as he lost himself in the sweetness and fire of Robin’s kiss.

“We need to get out of here,” Decker said with his usual quiet-yet-staccato grim. “And we need to do it now.”

“At least let me check my laptap,” Tracy persisted, following him into the kitchen, where Lopez had nailed a piece of wood over the window she’d broken. The SEAL locked the door and nodded to Deck. “To see if the pictures—”

Lopez spoke over her. “It’s as secure as it’s going to get, Chief.”

“Good enough. Let’s go.” Deck took Tracy’s arm and moved her back into the main part of the little house. “Your pictures of Michael aren’t going to be there,” he told her.

It was clear that he believed Tracy absolutely—that it was, indeed, the man she’d met at the rock climbing gym, who told her his name was Michael Peterson, in those photos with Jo.

Michael Peterson. He hadn’t even bothered to give himself a completely new name—probably because he thought Tracy was lacking in the logic and reasoning department. And oh, my God. Big giant ew. The idea that she and Jo both had sex with the same sleazoid con artist was humiliating.

Although Tracy had to admit that her own humiliation wasn’t quite as awful as the doctor’s. At least there weren’t graphic photos out there of Tracy and Michael getting it on, with Tracy looking at him with that same, adoring what did I do to deserve a stud-muffin like you look on her obviously sex-starved face. At least she hoped there weren’t photos.

Oh, please God, don’t let there be photos.

“But shouldn’t we see?” Tracy asked Decker again. “If we’ve got a picture of this man, of his face—”

“Let’s not waste time,” Decker dismissed her again. “We’ve already been here too long.”

“What’s the plan, boss?” Lindsey was by the front door, with Jo Heissman standing beside her. The older woman was carrying a small bag and was clearly ready to go. She, too, was watching Decker with great interest—no doubt waiting for him to save the world, or maybe just to save her.

“We should at least check my computer,” Tracy said, digging in her heels. “For all we know, that’s where the tracking device is. And we’re, like, carrying it around. Hello, come and get us. We’re too stupid to live.”

Decker nodded. “That’s the plan,” he said. “In fact, we should take Dr. Heissman’s laptop, too.”

“What?”

“Whoever these people are,” Deck told her, told all of them, “they gained access to Dr. Heissman’s computer—and probably yours, too. There’s a solid chance they left behind a cyber-fingerprint. If they did, Tess’ll find it. And with luck, it’ll help us find them.”

Tracy alone argued as Lopez grabbed Jo’s laptop, and with the doctor’s help packed it up. “Tess didn’t find it before.” All of the computers that came and went from the Troubleshooters office were regularly checked for this type of security breach. Tess herself had checked Tracy’s laptop a number of times, post-Michael.

Deck was undaunted. “Yeah, well, now she’ll know what she’s looking for.”

“What is she looking for?” Tracy asked. “A tracking device doesn’t make sense.”

“He didn’t put a tracking device in your computer,” Decker agreed. “They didn’t use a tracking device to follow us to the motel—”

“Because I used my traitorous computer to access that e-mail from Tess,” Tracy finished for him, “which had the motel’s address. Hello, we’re too stupid to live—come blow us up.”

The bomb at the Seaside Heights Motor Lodge had been set in advance of their arrival. Except...

“That e-mail from Tess came into your e-mail account, not mine,” Tracy argued.

“That’s right,” Deck said. “Which means when Tess looks, she’ll search for some kind of spyware or virus that gives the user access to all computer activity. You’ll have an opportunity to talk directly to her, if you want, with any ideas or suggestions. But right now my priority is to get you and Dr. Heissman to a secure location.”

“Me and Dr. Heissman?” Tracy repeated.

Decker nodded as he gazed steadily into her eyes. “They made a mistake,” he told her. “And they know it. You and Jo Heissman were never supposed to meet. She’s not working with the Agency, the way I thought. In fact, she never was.”

Over by the door, Jo inhaled sharply. “You really believe that?” she asked.

Decker gave her only the briefest of glances. “Yes, I do. I owe you my apology, Doctor.” He turned his complete focus back to Tracy. “The fact that the doctor was hired by Tom, to work with us at Troubleshooters...? That was a coincidence. One that’s working now in our favor.”

“I don’t understand,” Tracy said.

“They used you, honey,” he told her. “To monitor Nash. You kept everyone’s schedule on your computer. They didn’t need Dr. Heissman to do what you were already doing for them.”

“Oh, my God,” she said.

“Your relationship with Michael started back in January?”

She nodded. “It ended in January, too. He broke up with me just a few days after he...”—she had to look away from him—“... spent the night at my place.”

“Where he had access to your laptop,” Decker said, his eyes and voice gentle.

“He didn’t,” she insisted. “I have password protection. I’m careful about not letting anyone use my—”

Lindsey chimed in. “Was there ever a time when you weren’t with him, maybe while you were sleeping?”

“He had access to your laptop,” Decker said again, in that way he had of making a statement sound absolute.

And Tracy had to face it—it was absolute. She exhaled her frustration. “I’m such an idiot.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes it was,” she said. “I should have known he was too good to be true.”

“Live and learn.”

“Right,” she said. “Great. But I still don’t get how any of this connects to Jo. Other than it’s backwards proof that she wasn’t there in the office to spy on Jimmy Nash because, like you said, she didn’t have to.”

“These are not people who make mistakes,” Decker explained, “these people we’re up against. I don’t believe they would knowingly attempt to blackmail Dr. Heissman with photos that include pictures of a man you had an intimate relationship with, if they thought you were going to get anywhere near either Dr. Heissman or these photos.”

Tracy agreed. “It seems sloppy at least.”

“Yes, it does.” He nodded. “That tells us one of two things,” he said. “That they’re either desperate enough to take that risk, or they didn’t count on your connection to... me.”

He meant Nash. Didn’t he? Maybe he didn’t. Tracy liked—too much—the fact that Decker thought she had a connection to him. God, she was an idiot. There was no way this thing that had sprung to life between them could end with anything even remotely close to the words and they lived happily ever after.

“Either way, they’ve made a mistake,” Deck continued. “They’ve given us the man known as both Michael Peterson and Peter Olivetti. We don’t need a photo of him, Tracy. I’m going to call a police sketch artist and have the two of you describe him. We can do it over the phone, via computer. We’ll get something that’s close enough—see if we can’t ID him from that. But step one is to get you and Dr. Heissman somewhere secure. Because whoever was shooting at us outside of the motel...? Honey, I’m now certain that they were trying to kill you.”

“Me,” Tracy heard herself squeak.

Decker nodded. “I thought I was their target, or that maybe they thought you were Tess, but... Killing you—and probably Dr. Heissman now, too—is a priority for them. They know you have information that can hurt them. You can both sit in a witness stand and point a finger at the man you knew as Olivetti or Peterson. We’re all in danger—that’s very clear—but you’re at the top of their hit list.”

She felt the blood drain from her face. “Oh, my God,” she said. “Oh, my God.”

“I’m not going to let them hurt you,” Decker said, in that manner he had of making her believe he could change the orbit of the earth if he wanted to.

Tracy nodded. “I know. I’m just... Okay. I’m okay. I’m not happy about this, but... I’m okay.” She drew in a deep breath and exhaled hard. These terribly dangerous killers—who had absolutely no problem murdering innocent people—saw her as their prime threat. She made herself focus. “Okay,” she said again. “So where, then, are we going? Because I definitely don’t think we should go... to the place where we were originally going.” She didn’t want even to mention the safe house. “Because if they’re after me? Well, let’s absolutely not lead them there.”

“I agree.” Deck included Lindsey, Lopez, and Dr. Heissman in his next words—which were really just a series of letters. “TS HQ.”

TS, Troubleshooters. HQ, headquarters. They were going into the office where they worked—which wasn’t just an office. It was a highly secure, well-fortified building where there was not only a cache of weapons, but a vast array of high-tech equipment. Good plan. Good plan.

“Let’s do it,” Decker said. “Lindsey, with the doctor. Tracy, you’re with me.”

Words to warm her heart. He cared about her enough to want to protect her himself.

“Lopez called for backup—those are the headlights you’re going to see out there, so don’t be scared,” Deck continued. “There’re four additional vehicles—Lindsey, you and Jo are going in Silverman’s SUV. You know Bill Silverman?”

Lindsey nodded.

“Have him take the bridge to Harbor Drive,” Deck continued. “Stay off the 5.”

“Roger that,” she said.

“Junior and Fred’ll be your escort—one in front, one in back. But they’re going to drop you and go,” Decker told her. “So when you get to the office? I want every security system on and running at full alert.”

“Yes, sir.”

Decker wasn’t done. “Lopez, glue yourself to my rear bumper—I want Warner right behind you. Targets—I want you on the floor, heads down. Let’s do this—let’s go.”

Tracy did exactly as she was told—she ran across the lawn, bent in half, then scrambled quickly into Decker’s truck, keeping her head down.

She was silent, too. But that didn’t last for long.

“Are they SEALs?” she asked. “Warner and the others?”

“Silverman and Junior are with Team Sixteen,” Deck told her as he started the engine of his truck. “Warner and Fred drive the team’s delivery vehicles.”

To his surprise, she knew exactly what he was referring to. “From the Special Boat Squadron. They’re SWCCs. Special Warfare Combatant-Craft Crewmen.”

“Very impressive.” She even pronounced it right. Swicks.

“I dated a SWCC once,” she told him, then immediately recanted. “It wasn’t a real date. It was as a favor to Lindsey and Mark. This guy Bob was trying to get this waitress named Jeanne to take him seriously, so we went to dinner to, I don’t know, make her jealous or something.”

If she was frightened, it wasn’t evident from her voice. It didn’t wobble or break. But she did seem to want to keep talking.

“Believe me when I say I now know everything there is to know about MK-Vs and SWCCs,” Tracy continued. “And Jeanne.”

So Deck kept the conversation going. “Did it work?” He put the truck into gear, waiting as half of the vehicles peeled off, leaving to follow Lindsey and Dr. Heissman in Silverman’s car.

“Like a charm,” Tracy said, adding, “Chief.”

“Lopez shouldn’t call me that,” Decker said as she tried to make herself more comfortable down on the floor. She was still holding that paper towel around the cuts on her arm. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been a SEAL.”

“Jay Lopez isn’t the only one,” Tracy said. “I’ve heard Tom call you Chief. More than once. Sam Starrett, too. In fact, all of the operatives who are former SEALs do it. The non-military operatives—like Dave Malkoff—call you sir.”

He glanced down at her as he backed into a neighbor’s driveway and turned his truck around. She was looking at him, hard, as if trying to see inside of his head.

“So why did you leave the teams?” she asked.

Deck didn’t have to answer her. He didn’t have time to answer her. He needed his full attention on the street in front of him. He needed to watch for the attack—which was coming. He knew it was coming. It was just a matter of where and when. And it was his utmost priority to get Tracy out of his truck before it happened. Jesus, what he would’ve given for ten or fifteen trucks and SUVs filled with SEALs and SWCCs—even someone who was desperate would’ve backed off from that.

Still, as he pulled out onto the main road, with Lopez and Warner right behind him, he found himself telling Tracy why he’d left the teams. “You ever hear of the Khobar Towers bombing?” he asked her.

“Of course,” she said, as if she were insulted that he would think she was that utterly ignorant. She went on to give him the Headline News version of the story—probably as proof that she knew her recent American history. “It happened in Saudi Arabia, at a military apartment complex at the airbase near Dhahran. Terrorists took out an entire building, severely damaged a second one. It was... way before 9/11. Pre–USS Cole, too. I want to say, ooh...” She squinted as she thought about it. “1997?”

“Close. ’96,” he corrected her. Jesus, had it really been twelve years? “It was kind of a tipping point for me. I was due to reup right after—it happened in late June and... Up to then, I was career Navy, but after the terrorist attack, I got out. We weren’t doing enough—at least my team wasn’t, not directly. We couldn’t—I understood that, but... Then I got tapped by the Agency. It was a chance for me to go into some of the countries where terrorists lived and trained—something we couldn’t do with impunity in the military. That changed some after 9/11, but back then?” He shook his head. “I needed to do something, and the Agency had very few rules. It was a good fit—at least at the beginning.”

“Were you in Al Khobar?” she asked. “During the attack?”

“No,” Decker told her. “But I was there a few days after. A good friend of mine was stationed there.”

He glanced at her, and he could see her watching him from the darkness, her somber face intermittently lit by street lamps. She was doing the math—and he saw that she figured it out. So he said it. “I went to bring what was left of his body home.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said quietly. “That must’ve been devastating.”

“It was hard,” he agreed.

The Surfside Plaza was as good a place as any, and he pulled into the strip mall’s parking lot without signaling or slowing down. Lopez, good man, was right behind him, following him over the crumbling driveway, back behind the auto parts store, where the dumpster sat, out of view from the street.

“When I tell you to,” Decker told Tracy, “get out, stay low, and get into the backseat of Lopez’s car.”

“What!?” She said it as if he’d asked her to build a sandcastle out of horse manure.

“Don’t argue,” he said as he braked to a stop on the far side of the dumpster. “Not with me, not with him. And whatever happens? Do exactly what he says.”

“Decker, what are you planning?”

“Trust me,” he said, reaching down to touch her face, his thumb against the softness of her cheek. “Do you trust me?”

She hesitated only briefly before she nodded, her heart completely in her eyes, right there, laid bare for him to see. It should have been terrifying, knowing that somehow, someway, this spark between them wasn’t just about sex anymore—at least not for Tracy. Somehow, someway, he’d started to matter—he’d become significant to her. And being Tracy, she wasn’t afraid to let him know it.

But then she said, “Don’t you dare get anything important shot off before we finish what we started.”

And Decker laughed. He couldn’t help himself, and he leaned over and kissed her. He caught her off-guard and he didn’t give her time to kiss him back, which was a good thing, because she had to get moving. Her life depended on it. “Game on,” he told her. “Go. Now.”

“I’ll see you over there,” she said, and she was gone.