“Ditto.” The corner of his mouth curved into a smile. “You’re trying to scare me away.”

“Is it working?”

“No.” He kissed her neck. “Not a chance.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Five Weeks Later

Antonio climbed into the minivan with a lidded cup of coffee.

“I miss anything?” he asked Brandon.

“No.”

Brandon lifted his binoculars, trying to get a clear view of the bench. Antonio settled into a chair in the back of the van and sipped his coffee. They were set up behind a taco truck three blocks north of the park, which was good for concealment but shitty for watching things go down.

The hunt for Michael Lloyd had been a federal operation since Brandon discovered he was being investigated by the DEA for potential crimes in both Tampa and Dallas, where—coincidentally—two of his brother’s clinics had been burglarized. Federal agents had had their eye on Michael Lloyd for nearly five years, and everything was coming to a head now, just in time to snag the case away from Brandon’s department.

As much as Brandon would have liked to be the one to bring Lloyd down, he was glad for the help, especially because the feds had a confidential informant who had been working on Lloyd for months. Yesterday the CI had contacted Lloyd on one of his burner phones and told him he needed some product.

Lloyd must have badly needed money because he’d agreed to meet.

“I hate this location,” Antonio muttered, lifting his own pair of binoculars and turning them toward the park.

Brandon hated it, too.

The rectangular park wasn’t large. It had a pair of tennis courts in one corner, a playscape in the middle, and a line of chin-up bars in the corner closest to their minivan. A woman in a bright pink sports top stood there now, stretching her quads, about fifty yards from where a utility crew made up of federal agents pretended to be working on a telephone line.

Brandon’s attention shifted back to the playscape, which was the real problem. He didn’t like it at all, but Lloyd had picked this location. The CI had chosen the meeting time—seven a.m.—which was good, because there weren’t any children around yet. But that could easily change.

Brandon checked his watch. It was 7:10. He wanted this op over. He was well past ready to stop thinking about Mason Lloyd and his dirtbag brother. Leigh’s cut had healed, and her stitches had been removed. She still had a scar, though, and each time Brandon looked at it he felt a fierce determination to finish the job. Leigh wouldn’t sleep well, and neither would he, until Michael Lloyd was off the streets.

“What’s the car again?” Antonio asked.

“A gray Volkswagen Jetta or a black Honda Pilot.”