“Come on, Zane. I’m a trained profiler. You really think I can’t tell when someone’s head over heels in love? You were just crunching the numbers.”

“The first time I told you—”

“You were scared shitless.”

Zane was silent. He wanted to deny it, but Ty was right. The day Ty had danced with him in his living room, he’d told Ty he loved him before he’d even realized the words were slipping out.

“You were terrified as soon as it came out, weren’t you?” Ty asked.

“Yes.”

“If I hadn’t given you an out, what would you have done?”

Zane closed his eyes.

“You would have freaked out. And you were already freaking out anyway. Do you know how much it hurt to dismiss that? But you weren’t ready. And I needed you to say it for you. Not for me.”

Zane sniffed, feeling somewhat mollified. “Jesus, Ty. You know me too well.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Head over heels, huh?” Zane’s lips twitched into a very reluctant smile, and he rubbed at them, then dragged his fingers through the dark beard he’d let grow in during the past weeks as he’d been blind. He was still angry, but he tamped it down for the moment, just relieved to hear Ty’s voice. “What else do you know about me?”

Ty hummed. “I know you’re sleeping in my bed right now.”

Zane glanced around Ty’s bedroom and sighed. Dammit. “I’m still upset,” he muttered, not admitting anything. “I understand you were strung out, but goddamn, Ty. You could’ve said something, you could have talked to me about it instead of just—”

“I have no excuse. Sometimes I’m a selfish asshole.”

Dregs of the scare still sloshed through Zane, enough that he didn’t want to let it go, but he knew it wouldn’t solve anything to harp at Ty over the phone. He sighed instead. “What did Burns want?” he asked in a more even tone, knowing it was a question he wouldn’t have asked a week ago.

“I’m sorry, Zane,” Ty said, refusing to answer.

Zane’s jaw clenched. For good or for bad, Zane knew the drill. “You were ordered to go dark?”

“Yes.”

“Meaning immediate deployment off the grid, no contact with noncombatants, no trail to trace, no idea when you’ll be back.”

“I had to call you.”

Zane swallowed hard as that sank in. With this call, Ty was breaking protocol and disobeying a direct order, something Zane knew Ty didn’t take lightly. All sorts of responses crowded on his tongue before a wry observation won out. “I hope there’s not a trace on your phone, or we’re seriously busted.”

“Quite frankly, Zane, I don’t care if we are,” Ty said with conviction. “Not anymore.”

“Grady,” Zane said, throat aching. “Do what you have to and then get your ass home.”

“I’m sorry, Zane. I’ll make this up to you.

“There better be groveling involved,” Zane muttered.

“Sleep well.”

The call disconnected. Zane was left with silence and a sudden overwhelming sense of helplessness and worry. Ty was out there working a job alone, and Zane didn’t know any more now than he had a day ago. He swallowed hard and let the hand holding the phone fall to the side. After several minutes of focusing on trying to sort the upset from the lingering anger and not having much luck, he climbed out of the bed, yanked the sweaty sheets off the mattress, and headed down to the basement to put them in the washer.

He needed a shower and some iced tea—preferably from Long Island, but that wasn’t a good idea, so instant mix would do. He just hoped he could find enough work to keep him distracted until Ty returned and he could kick his ass.

RANDALL JONAS sat on Dick Burns’ couch with his head in his hands. There was a cot in the corner with pillows and folded blankets where he’d been sleeping, and there were whispers going around the office about why Burns wasn’t taking meetings.

When the cell phone in his pocket rang, Jonas nearly jumped out of his skin. Burns bit his lip to keep from smiling. His old friend had been out of the game too long for this cloak and dagger stuff.

Burns glanced over at him from where he sat at his desk. The phone was a burn phone, the number only known to two people: Burns and Blake Nichols, Julian Cross’ former handler.

Jonas turned the speaker on with an obvious sense of relief. “Nichols,” he said in a grave voice

“Hello, sir.”

“Tell me.”

“I was able to get in touch with Julian Cross, sir. He understands the situation.”

“Thank Christ.”

“But he wants no part in it.”

“Excuse me?”

“He told me that he’s out and intends to stay out, sir. He wants no part in any of it. He said if anyone is sent to pick him up, they’ll return in a body bag. Since you know where he is, he’s packing up right now and preparing to move.”

Jonas closed his eyes. Burns slid his palm across his mouth.

“Cross is my friend, sir,” Nichols’ voice said on the speaker. “I don’t want him hurt. But I also know that if this doesn’t end he’s going to be a target for the rest of his life.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I want assurances that after this is over, Julian will be left alone.”

“Assurances?”

“Your word will do.”

Jonas met Burns’ eyes across the office. “I’ll go to bat for him.”

“I suppose that will have to do. He won’t be easy to detain, but I may have a way.”

“What do you propose?”

“I can arrange for his boyfriend to be at home at a certain time. If he calls Julian, Julian will come and could possibly be detained. But it has to be today.”

“That can be done.”

“Julian won’t go gently.”

“We’re aware of that fact.”

“Even so. If I were you, sir, I’d sure as hell send more than one guy.”

THE heavy thuds of wrapped fists hitting a punching bag echoed off the concrete block walls, as did the soft grunts of effort coming from the man abusing it. The FBI Baltimore field office gym was almost empty in the very early morning. That just meant Special Agent Zane Garrett didn’t have to deal with people watching him beat the stuffing out of a bag.

Again.

He focused on his target, using hands, feet, arms, legs, whatever combination worked as he let his body attack and his mind empty. Then, after one vicious kick, the stationary bag swung backward and a deep oomph and a hard thump interrupted Zane’s concentration.

“Garrett, what’s good, man?” Special Agent Fred Perrimore muttered wryly from where he sprawled on his ass on the mat behind the punching bag he’d been holding in place.

Zane lowered his fists and wiped the trailing sweat from his forehead with the back of his forearm. “Sorry, Freddy. I figured you were paying attention.”

“I was!” the stout, muscled black man said from the floor.

Zane offered him a grin and a hand. He helped the man to his feet.

“Need to talk about the prickly thing that crawled up your ass and died?” Perrimore asked, rubbing his hip with one hand.

“What do you mean?” Zane asked as he walked to the nearby bench and picked up his towel.

“You’ve been pissed for days, Garrett. You’d think your fifteen minutes of fame would make you friendlier, but no.”

“Don’t talk about publicity with me.” Zane had not enjoyed the continued media attention after his touchdown run with a bomb at Green Mount Cemetery last week. His snowflake of a partner had been granted a reprieve, three days off work to deal with the mental fallout. But not Zane, no, because he had used up all his comp time being blind and helpless.

“I’m just glad Grady hasn’t been here. You two would be taking each other apart in the ring,” Perrimore said with a nod to the boxing ring in the middle of the gym. He sprayed his face with his water bottle. “How the hell does he have so much damn leave time, anyway? Is he on psych eval again?”

Zane shrugged. He’d been a little on edge ever since he woke up and found a good-bye letter in bed next to him instead of his lover. Zane didn’t even know if Ty’s little mental health trip had helped him. That phone call had been two days ago, and no Ty in sight.

“He needed some time after the building fell in on us,” Zane murmured.

“Hell, Zane, I don’t doubt that. I’d be shocked if he were here. In fact, I’m shocked that you’ve been here.” Perrimore crossed his arms and focused his disapproval on Zane. “You were blind for a week. And being in that building when it came down on you and Grady? You should have taken time too. The docs would have signed off on the leave, no question.”

Zane edged up one shoulder as he punched halfheartedly at the bag, watching it waver. “I had plenty of time to sit and think when I couldn’t see. I need to be doing something, even if it is just paperwork. Mac’s not letting me go out, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Perrimore said with a firm nod. “Because you’re mean. He can’t risk the PR nightmare if you were on the streets.”

Zane didn’t think his behavior had been that bad. “You’re exaggerating.”

“You told Clancy to take her pom-poms and go home.”

Zane wrinkled his nose. “She was going on about how great What’s-His-Name from Financial Crimes is.”

“Yeah, well, you probably ought to apologize.”

“I’m not apologizing when she’s dating the guy.” Zane’s phone, sitting on the bench with his towel, began to chime. He turned to pick it up.

“They hooked up? Michelle and What’s-His-Name?”

“Yeah. Keeping it quiet, though, so keep your mouth shut,” Zane said as he looked at his phone’s display. It was a Washington, DC number, one he didn’t know.

“Why is she dating a guy from Financial Crimes?” Perrimore asked. He sounded exasperated.

Zane shrugged and hit the button to answer the call. “Special Agent Zane Garrett.”

“Garrett, Burns here,” the caller said. He didn’t offer his title, even though it was an impressive one. He didn’t even offer a hello. “I need you on a plane in less than two hours.”

Zane figured he must have looked surprised, because Perrimore frowned and pointed at the phone, mouthing, “Who is it?”

Zane shook his head. “A plane to where?”

“Chicago, but I don’t have time to explain further. There will be information in your locker,” Burns said, sounding harried and impatient.

Zane glanced at the clock high on the wall. It was almost five in the morning. Normally a call at this time would have caught Zane still in bed. “Guess it’s a good thing I’m at the office.”

“Should I tap someone else for this, Agent Garrett?” Burns asked, his customary composure somewhat lacking. “Because I’ve got less than fifteen minutes to find my man a backup, and I recall that you used to be less talkative.”

Zane frowned. There was something weird about this. “No, sir. I can leave immediately.”

“You do that, then. Take a lesson from your partner, Zane. Every minute you spend being a smartass is one minute on the other side that you’re not there for someone who’s counting on you.” He ended the call without waiting for Zane’s response.

Zane pulled the phone from his ear and looked at it as if it might lunge and snap his head off. “What the hell?” Whatever had happened had Burns more riled than Zane had ever heard him. Zane looked at Perrimore. “I gotta go.” He grabbed his towel and took off at a run for the locker room.

“Hey, what’s going on? Garrett!” Perrimore called after him.

Zane didn’t stop to answer. He could be showered and dressed and in his truck in ten minutes. BWI wasn’t far away.

Chapter 2

IT HAD been a whirlwind few hours. A single card of information—airline and flight time out of Baltimore; a time and place in Chicago—had been waiting on the top shelf of Zane’s locker, along with a ticket for a nonstop to O’Hare.

Zane had, upon occasion, worked with less information. And he knew enough about how Burns worked not to even be bothered with his methods.

He’d made it to BWI with barely enough time to change into the suit he’d had in the truck. He’d taken the time during the past two days to repack the small duffel bag he kept in the truck for when he needed a change of clothes and more than a couple of spare magazines for his Glock. He’d been able to check the duffel, along with his arsenal.

That he was in a hurry to serve as backup for another agent, he understood. Why it all translated into Burns being so tense, he had no idea. It was more than a little unnerving, actually, because it brought back memories of clandestine assignments he’d thought he’d buried. It made him wonder what Ty could possibly be doing for Burns that Burns needed to call Zane in on a job. This wasn’t the first time Zane had worked for the assistant director at the order of a single phone call. It was just the first time he’d done it since he was sober.

Zane tried to clear his mind as he waited for the plane to land and taxi to the gate. After the all clear, he pulled on his wool coat and headed up the skyway with a purpose. His plane was on time, not too surprising for an early morning flight, and his contact was supposed to meet him at the security point where the gate let out of the concourse proper, near baggage claim.