“They’re sending an image of the guy,” Garrett told Mike as they drove.

“Good,” Mike murmured.

A minute later, Jake emailed him an image.

It was the man who’d told them he was Walter Jones.

He confirmed that to Jake. Connie in dispatch confirmed it to everyone on the hunt. Jake sent out department-wide emails with the image.

Now they knew he was not the man he’d said he was.

And they had to hope he didn’t know about LoJack in rentals or how to disable it. Though, if he did his homework on the ex-FBI agent he was impersonating, he’d know LoJack.

So, other than knowing he was not who he’d said he was, they didn’t know dick.

Primary to that being where the fuck he was.

Which was where Cher was.

And where Garrett needed to be to take care of his brown-eyed girl.

* * * * *

Cher

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Shut up.”

“He’s bleeding a lot. What’s wrong with him?”

Walter Jones stopped frantically opening and closing my kitchen cupboards and turned, shaking his gun at me.

“Shut up.”

“He’s my friend,” I chanced the whisper.

“He’s an asshole,” Jones returned. “You don’t want me in your town, you ask nice. You don’t come and get up in my shit. You get up in my shit, I get up in yours.” He pointed the gun at Ryker’s body on the floor before returning it to me. “What’s wrong with him is I got up in his shit. And that means he’s got three bullets in him.”

Oh fuck.

Oh no.

Ryker.

Lissa.

Alexis.

Fuck!

“Let me go to him, please,” I begged, doing it not knowing what I would do even if he let me.

I just needed to be with Ryker.

I just needed to do that for Ryker.

And I needed to find out if he was still alive.

Jones resumed opening and closing cupboards. “Just shut up.”

I shut up and looked from the chair at my kitchen table that Jones had planted my ass into to Ryker.

I was too far away. I couldn’t see if he was breathing.

I jumped when something crashed.

Jones was shoving all my stuff from my shelves to the ground. Bowls, plates, pitchers, everything crashing on the floor, breaking, the shards flying everywhere, hitting Ryker.

Years of yard sale finds, estate sale finds, garage sale finds, antique shop finds, my kid’s cereal bowls, the plates Merry always chose for when he made us waffles or pancakes.

My life crashing to the floor, the jagged shards hitting my brother Ryker.

Fucking motherfucker.

“What are you looking for?” I snapped.

“Cameras,” he grunted.

What the fuck?

“Cameras?” I asked.

He turned on me. “That little weasel plant cameras?”

“What are you talking about?”

“That weasel. No, not a weasel. A rat. Did he plant cameras?”

It hit me.

“Ryan?” I asked hesitantly.

“Yeah,” Jones bit out. “The rat. The rat who led them to Denny. Him. He likes to watch. He’d like to watch you. Did he plant cameras?”