All righty, then. “As soon as he gets back, I’m going home,” she told the kitten, who still didn’t look up. She grinned and then pushed the door open. Fumbling for the light, she stepped inside, the carpet soft on her bare feet. Then she stopped cold, looking around. “Wow,” she breathed.

Guns and knives—all types of them—were mounted on the wall to the left, floor to ceiling. The next wall held a matching set of antique armoires that stood tall on either side of a window, underneath which was a short shelving system holding a laptop, printer, and various supplies.

It was the final wall that held her attention. She blinked several times at a wide, green glass magnetic board that took up the entire wall. Pictures, diagrams, notecards, and notes covered the surface with lines drawn between them. She’d never seen an evidence board so precise—and full. Albert Nelson’s picture was taped over to the right with one thick line drawn through it.

She swallowed. Who were the other people? A group of seven young soldiers in the desert, smiling at the camera, caught her eye. Wolfe was in the middle, and he looked . . . lighter. Happier. Then her breath caught as she moved to the next picture, which showed five coffins in an airplane hangar, all covered with the United States flag. Another picture, this one blown up, showed one of the guys from the team picture. Various lines connected his picture to other pictures, notecards, and documents. “You must be Rock,” she murmured. Just as she stepped closer for a better look, the front door banged open.

“Dana?” Wolfe bellowed.

She jumped and ran back through the living room, where Wolfe was helping a bleeding Malcolm West to sit at the kitchen table. Blood flowed down Mal’s face from a cut along his temple. Her stomach lurched. “What happened?” Her legs trembled, and she looked up at Wolfe’s hard face, not seeing the blood dripping down his arm for a minute. It caught her eye as red splotches fell onto the tile. “You’re injured, too.” Without thought, she reached for his wrist.

He pulled away and strode to a drawer by the door to the garage, returning with a first aid kit and clean towels. Even though he moved toward her, he felt miles away, and his gaze remained on Malcolm.

Dana hesitated, oddly hurt.

Wolfe handed an orange striped kitchen towel to his friend. “I’m sorry, West.”

Mal rolled his eyes and pressed the material against his head. The cotton quickly turned a deep red. “Unlike you, I wasn’t even shot. Glass from the window cut me.”

“You were shot?” Dana breathed. “Those guys in the truck shot at you again?”

“No,” Wolfe muttered. “Somebody else—who was probably there to take care of those morons.”