An attack was imminent.

He could feel it in his gut.

Dropping his dinner, he dived for cover—and felt the vapor bulge of a bullet that had come much too close for comfort before it ricocheted off the concrete wall behind him, sending chips flying.

He rolled behind the nearest car as another shot ripped through the air, the silencer not all that silent in the echo chamber of the garage.

It took him too long to yank the compact Glock from his concealed carry holster, but by then he’d spotted the shadowy figure fifty feet away who was using cars for cover as he worked himself closer for the kill.

Not happening.

Zeke kept his Glock trained on the amorphous outline of his attacker.

When the guy attempted to gain another few feet, Zeke fired.

The shadow scuttled back into the darkness as the pop reverberated in the cavernous space.

Zeke repositioned himself into a crouch, ignoring the protests from his leg.

His turn to be the aggressor—after he called in backup.

Keeping his focus on the car where the guy had taken cover, he pulled out his cell and punched in 911 to report an active shooter.

Although the operator advised him to stay on the line, he ended the call.

And when the guy darted away, keeping low to the ground, he followed.

No way was he letting the man get—

The door from the building to the garage opened, and a woman with two small children in tow exited ten feet in front of him.

Between him and his attacker.

Zeke muttered a word he rarely used.

The man fired again and bolted, weaving in and out of the cars.

The woman screamed.

The kids started crying.

“Get back inside!” Zeke dashed forward and put himself between the woman and the fleeing man. Grabbing her arm, he propelled her toward the door. Pushed her and the kids through. “Go back to your condo. Help is coming.”

Once she was secure, he sprinted in the direction the guy had run.

But the man had vanished.

In the distance, sirens pierced the night air.

Too late.

Zeke exhaled, his breath a frosty puff in the cold air, every taut nerve in his body vibrating as he powered down self-defense autopilot, kicked his brain into gear, and pulled out his cell to call his handler.

For the sake of the DEA investigation, this would have to be positioned as an attempted robbery. The brass could make that happen.

But the truth was, he’d been targeted.

And that could mean only one thing.

His cover was blown.

Someone knew his real identity.

The question was whether that someone was an old enemy who’d happened to recognize him—and he had an abundance of those from both his DEA and St. Louis PD days—or an operative in the local cartel pipeline distribution organization.