“Yeah, and she was barely dressed. I stopped breathing for almost two seconds.” Which was a long time for Wolfe to forget to watch his six.

“So the two of you—”

“No.” Wolfe increased his pace. “Just friends.” Why was it when a guy found love, he assumed everyone else would, too? Some guys, like Mal, found that happiness. Guys like Wolfe did not.

Mal stiffened as the sound of yelling came from one of the homes. A woman screaming at a lazy, no-good bum. “Sometimes romance sneaks up on you.”

“Nothing sneaks up on me.” Wolfe slowed his pace near the correct house, keeping out of sight of the narrow front window that was caked with mud and bird poop. He moved to the side of the garage, barely squeezing in between the worn siding and a rough chain-link fence, and then cautiously approaching an oval-shaped window. Weeds made his boots and jeans wet. After wiping grime off the glass, a lot of it, he peered inside. Satisfaction ran through him faster than a good latte. “It’s the truck,” he whispered.

Mal slid his sunglasses up on his thick hair, his intelligent eyes piercing the haze. “You want front or back?”

“Front.” Wolfe slid out of the way to the front of the garage. “On ten?”

“Ten.” Mal sucked in air and inched by the fence to the backyard, his chest barely making it through the narrow path.

The neighborhood was quiet, and if anybody was watching through a window, they probably wouldn’t call the cops. Wolfe started counting in his head, keeping his back to the garage door and pulling his gun free of his jeans. He arrived at eight, ducked his head, and ran full bore at the front door, breaking it wide open with his right shoulder.

A half-dressed man jumped up from a torn sofa and Wolfe shoved him back down with one hand, his gun sweeping the room.

From the kitchen, Mal prodded another man in front of him toward the sofa. “Sit.” He then turned back and made quick work of the rest of the small house. “Clear,” he called out.

Wolfe smiled at the two staring defiantly up at him. The first guy was around thirty with dirty blond hair, bloodshot eyes, and open sores along his neck. The second was maybe around twenty-five years old, and was a tall guy with darker skin and a bruise on his cheekbone who had the shakes. Definitely needed a fix. “I’m going to ask this once. Why did you shoot at me?” Wolfe kept his gun pointed low, not wanting to freak them out too badly. Yet.

The blond sniffed and then shrugged. “No clue who you are.”

The other guy shook harder, his dreadlocks moving over his bony shoulders.