“Kinda evens the score a little.”

Ernie grabbed the bloody pliers, wire cutters, and ice pick from the table.

“Leave those.”

“They’re perfectly good tools.”

“Leave ’em. Don’t let anger cloud your thinking. This isn’t about revenge.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

“Let it go, Ernie.”

“Easy for you to say.” He hurled the pliers across the room.

Leonard understood his brother’s anger. In Ernie’s third year in the United States Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth, several inmates had beaten him to the brink of death for stealing a pack of cigarettes. He’d spent fourteen weeks in the infirmary, the first two in a coma.

The fed stirred in his chair and moaned. Leonard approached and crouched down like a catcher. “You got something more to say?”

“Kill me… First…”

Leonard looked at his brother.

“Screw him. Let him feel it.”

“He’s been through enough.” Leonard stepped back, pulled his .45, and took aim. But before he could shoot, Ernie shoved him aside and lit an entire book of matches.

“Then I’ll do it.”

“Ern, stop!”

But his brother tossed the matchbook casually as dice at a craps table. The whoosh of ignition was chilling.

The burning man leaned his head back and howled.

Leonard raised his pistol again, but Ernie grabbed him and yanked him toward the door.

It was too late anyway. They retreated from the growing inferno out to the Bronco. Leonard got behind the wheel, but Ernie stood in the rain watching the fire until the heat forced him into the cab.

Leonard started to speak, but Ernie cut him off. “You’re wrong,” he said, his eyes glittering with flame. “It’s always about revenge.”

Chapter 1

Chapter  1

Stretched out in a room of the Crowne Plaza Hotel in San Diego, Nathan Daniel McBride stared at the ceiling. With a sigh, he touched his face where three deep scars reminded him of another time, another world. The longest scar started at his left ear, ran down the side of his face, and ended at the tip of his chin. The next followed a diagonal path from the top of his forehead, across the bridge of his nose, and etched his left cheek. Visibly the worst, the third drew a deep arched line from temple to jaw. Nice touch, that one. At six-foot-five, 240 pounds, he kept himself in top physical condition. His forty-fifth birthday was right around the corner.

He rolled toward the woman beside him. In contrast, Mara had flawless skin. Her kind brown eyes and black hair perfectly complemented an athletic physique. In her mid-twenties, she was nothing short of stunning. But perhaps what he appreciated the most about her was that she rarely broke their silent moments.

“Have I ever really thanked you?”

She slid a leg over his hips. “Thanked me? I should thank you. You’re not like the others.”