The SWAT team scampered out of two black vans. They moved with the precision of a NASCAR pit crew, each member knowing exactly what they were supposed to do and when they were supposed to do it. Early in her career, Sam had considered SWAT but decided against it when she realized they did a lot of waiting for situations to arise while detectives were constantly in the thick of things.

With officers in place on the roof, in the street and on the ground they stormed the front door.

“Damn,” Freddie said reverently. “I never get tired of watching them in action.” A rumble of activity lit up the radio, and he reached for the door handle. “They’re coming. Stay here.”

“Screw you.” Sam got out and was hit with another wave of nausea that nearly brought her to her knees. She forced the stars from her eyes and watched them bring a broken, bawling, handcuffed Preston Sinclair out of his son’s house.

The SWAT lieutenant handed her a 9-millimeter handgun zipped into a plastic bag. “We got there just in time. He was going to off himself.”

Malone and Gonzo arrived on the scene.

“I’m not even going to ask what the hell you’re doing here, Holland,” Malone said. “But why am I not surprised?”

Sam took the bag containing the gun. “Got the guy, got the weapon,” she said with a smug smile. Even that small movement cost her. To Gonzo, she added, “Get him to HQ, put him in a room and stay with him until I call you. Don’t even step out to take a leak, got me?” She handed him the gun. “Have Jeannie trace it. I want proof that Diandra bought it. Get it for me.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Gonzo took Preston by the arm and escorted him to the car.

Malone raised an eyebrow as he studied Sam. “What’re you up to, Holland?”

“I need someone to pick up Diandra Sinclair at the GW ICU.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I’ll do it.” Freddie flagged down a uniformed officer directing traffic around the scene. “We’ll take his squad car and leave my car here. I’ll meet you at HQ.”

“Don’t bring her in until I tell you to. Wait for my call.”

“Got it.” His face full of concern, Freddie turned to Malone. “Captain, you’ll escort Lieutenant Holland back to HQ?”

“I’ll escort her back to the hospital,” Malone said.

“Then I’ll grab a cab,” Sam said, raising her chin—painfully—in defiance, “but either way, I’m going to HQ.” The blinding light of the sun over his shoulder brought tears to her eyes, but she didn’t look away.

“Fine, but the minute you finish this, you’re on medical leave until I say otherwise.”

“Fine.”