He dropped and rolled to hide behind a steel barrel, but popped up again almost immediately. Carlos was sprinting across the warehouse, his gaze trained on Ben. He lifted his gun, readying to shoot Ben in the head. Ben’s eyes widened, then squeezed shut, as if preparing for his final moment.

“Stop!” Emma raised her gun while still on her knees.

But Nate squeezed the trigger first.

Carlos staggered backward as two bullets hit his chest.

Thump.

Thump.

He crumpled to the ground.

“Don’t move!” Nate shouted at Emma and Gabe. “Stay where you are.”

Nate hurried to where Carlos lay and kicked the gun out of his reach. He scooped it up and shoved it in the back of his pants for safekeeping, then checked Carlos’s pulse.

Dead.

Nate’s heart was pounding from adrenaline, a raw, manic throb. He inhaled in slow, measured breaths, trying to still his heart. It had been a long time since he’d discharged his weapon.

He mentally began making a list of things he needed to do: call for backup; call Special Agents Hamilton and Greene; cordon off the scene. He thought of the poker chip he’d found and how it fit into this whole messed-up puzzle: Emma, Ben, Gabe, Santiago Martinez, Violeta Williams, the drugs, the murders. And he knew. He didn’t know why, but he sure as hell knew who was running this show.

“That’s the man who’s been following me.” Emma stared at Carlos’s body, her gun now hanging by her side.

“He thought Ben killed his brother.” Nate pried Ben’s hands away from his head to assess how bad the wound was. The bullet had ripped his ear off, leaving just a bloody stump. “He was probably trying to get to him by following you.”

He glanced at Emma’s gun again, recognized the shock settling across her face. “Why don’t you set that gun down, Em? Kick it over to me.”

Ben moaned. Nate turned to look at him. “You’ll be fine. It’s just a flesh wound. You’re lucky the bullet only got your ear, not your damn head.”

He yanked his handcuffs from his belt and cuffed Ben. The adrenaline was draining from him suddenly, leaving him furious and aware of a bone-deep chill. His fingertips were red-raw, the bitter air gnawing at his exposed skin.

Snow was falling heavier now, a barrage of white blowing in through the open door.

Emma handed the gun to Gabe and wrenched her hat off, dropping to her knees next to Ben.

“Give me your tie,” she told Nate.

He ripped it off and handed it to her. She used it to tie her balled-up hat against Ben’s ear. Her movements were brisk, businesslike, her face betraying no emotion. But then she glanced up at him and her face softened, a raw vulnerability there that made him ache.