Letting his team get killed—again—would be a bigger mistake. “What else?” Wolfe asked. Mal only poured a second glass when something was on his mind.

“Angus Force. He’s getting more and more obsessed with his search for Lassiter.” Mal swirled his liquor in the tumbler, watching the liquid catch the firelight.

“Are you worried he won’t find him?” Wolfe took another drink and grinned.

Mal jerked in a laugh. “No. I’m worried he will. So far, there hasn’t been any real evidence that Lassiter is alive. If we get even one lead, I’m not sure what Force will do.”

Wolfe sighed as the whiskey hit his belly. Force had shot and killed a serial killer named Lassiter about five years ago, but now he believed the man wasn’t really dead. They had no concrete proof, though, and it was driving Force nuts. “I’ll keep an eye on him,” Wolfe said, finishing his drink and handing over the glass. For now, he had a woman to protect in his house. First things first—he needed to find out if those shooters were after her . . . or him.

Either way, they were going to bleed.

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

She was back in the Senator’s office, strapped to the chair, and he’d cut her arms and the tops of her thighs with a sharp knife. He laughed, enjoying the moment. She kicked out and screamed.

Dana sat up in Wolfe’s bed, gasping for air, holding the covers to her chest, knocking the framed picture by the bed to the floor and scattering research notes, which she’d been trying to decipher before falling asleep.

Wolfe burst in the door, gun in hand, pointing it at the window. He looked around, dodged into the bathroom, scouted the closet, and then set the gun on the dresser. “Bad dream?”

She gulped and nodded.

The kitten hissed from the top of a tall bureau, where he’d obviously jumped.

She wiped a tear from her face. “Kat. I’m sorry. It’s okay.” She spoke soothingly, trying to reassure the frightened animal.

Wolfe stayed away from the bed.

She focused on him and then wished she hadn’t. His broad chest was bare, showing hard-cut muscle along with a couple of bullet holes and what looked like knife wounds. A military tattoo of some type covered his left bicep, and that massive chest narrowed down several roped abs to loose sweats. His hair had grown out a little, curling over his ears, and thick scruff covered his rugged jaw. But those eyes. Light brown and brilliant and masculine, they missed nothing.

The kitten gave a soft meow.

Wolfe went to him, lifting him up and setting him on his right shoulder. “It’s okay, dude. Everyone has bad dreams.”