A week after the disastrous operation in Houston, Shane was still trying to get the image of his friend’s dead face out of his mind, but every time he closed his eyes, even to blink, he saw Scotty’s blood-soaked corpse. Past experience told him the flashbacks would fade eventually, but Shane wasn’t so sure about the guilt or the rage that consumed him from the inside out.

Scotty had died doing Shane’s job and Shane would give anything in the entire universe to go back in time and change that, even if it meant sacrificing the victim in the courthouse to a fall that could easily have broken her neck. Even if it meant Shane dying in Scotty’s place.

His eyes burned, but there was no moisture left for tears.

Yesterday morning, they’d buried David Andrew “Scotty” Monteith. Scotty had belonged to the US Coast Guard before he’d joined the Bureau. Telling Grace that Dave was dead had been the single hardest thing Shane had ever done. Special Forces training and HRT selection were nothing compared to uttering the words that had destroyed her life. To put a cherry on top of a shit sandwich, Grace was six months pregnant with child number three.

Shane had barely been able to look her in the eye at the service yesterday, but damned if she hadn’t grabbed him and held him like a baby while he’d broken down and sobbed all over her.

Tears smarted in his eyes again but he blinked them away. So much for being done with crying.

Fucking loser.

Grace was the one who needed comforting and support. He needed to put the sick murdering fucker who’d killed Scotty and Anya Baker into a prison cell or a hole in the ground. He would prefer the latter but as a law enforcement officer, he knew how to follow the rules. Prison would be hell for the shitbag—he’d guarantee it.

He couldn’t sleep so instead he was at work at HRT’s compound situated in the heart of the US Marine Base in Quantico. He’d already put two hundred rounds into targets that morning, honing his skills so that when he met that motherfucker face-to-face, he’d be ready. Shane worked on his marksmanship every single day. Screw his broken arm.

Gold team had had a call out yesterday afternoon after the funeral, to help serve a fugitive arrest warrant. Everyone in the team had felt good about putting a wanted murderer in jail where he belonged. Scotty would have been pleased. Shane would spend the rest of his life doing things that Scotty would have liked—firstly catching the motherfucker who’d killed him.

Now it was only seven in the morning and Shane sat in the equipment cage he’d shared with Scotty, cleaning his custom-made SIG Sauer P226 Mk 25 and backup Glock 22.