The dark-haired man had been hacked with a heavy blade. What made things worse was the fact that he was bound in a chair and had had no hope of avoiding the blows. His dead face was twisted in agony. But I still recognized it: the DAS agent, Victor.

“Montoya,” Bryce confirmed. He lifted a finger and tapped the photograph. “Also found dead in the same room were his wife and six-year-old daughter.”

Feeling my gut twist, I looked to the next photograph. Pete Hillman had been killed in an alley. There were at least five bullet wounds in his torso.

The final photograph was of Robert Muir. Muir was dead as well, and his decapitated head had been placed on a table next to his corpse. He too had been bound in a chair.

It was obvious why Bryce was feeling paranoid. We were the only two surviving members of the team sent to take out Jesus Henao Abadia.

Pulling out the first two photographs again, I said, “These people?”

Bryce pointed at the dead woman in the woods. “That’s Robert Muir’s wife. The woman and boy . . . they’re Pete Hillman’s wife and son. And, as you know, Victor Montoya’s family was found alongside him.”

Not only were the members of the hit team being targeted, but also the families of those men.

“Who’s behind this, Bryce?”

“According to some people . . . you.”

That didn’t deserve a response.

“It doesn’t help that Linden Case was tortured in a similar manner.” Bryce, his eyes downcast, flicked a hand toward the photos in my hand. “Just like the rest, his family was targeted as well. Case said it was you . . .”

“Someone told him my name. It doesn’t make me responsible.”

“He described someone that fits your description.”

“Bryce, by the definition of our job, we’re supposed to be the everyman. It wouldn’t be hard to find someone my size and build, cut their hair like mine, put contact lenses in. Why’d he even kill Case? He wasn’t a member of our team.”

“Case was a decoy, I suppose. To set you up as the murderer. While the cops are hunting for you it allows the real killer to carry on with his plan.”

“To kill us?”

Bryce shuddered. “We’re the only ones left.”

“That brings us back to my first question. Who’s behind this?”

Bryce chewed his bottom lip. “My best guess? Could only be Abadia.”

“Abadia’s dead. You were there, Bryce. Schilling riddled him with rounds from a machine gun.”

“You know the protocol, Hunter.”

I should have made sure. I should have put a bullet in Abadia’s skull as operating procedure dictated.

“He couldn’t have survived,” I said. “Not possible.”

I looked at the stack of photographs fanned in my hand.

Anything’s possible, I corrected myself.

It looked like Abadia was back from the dead.

Chapter 9

9