It should have been him, holding her tightly as they dealt with the devastation.

But Sam had pushed her away, and while it cracked the last remaining fragment of his heart to watch, he was happy that she’d found the love that he couldn’t show her.

But love he would always hold for her.

Slowly, Lucy got to her feet and turned to the group, thanking them for coming with her. Sam couldn’t hear the words, but he was certain they would have provided her with some comfort. Even Theo offered her a hug, which drew a deep breath from Sam as he shook.

He’d made his decision.

Decided the path he would take and although it was the right thing to do, he knew it was in the opposite direction to them.

As he turned to walk away, the entire graveyard shook, glitching like a broken TV aerial, and when it returned, he was no longer stood in the graveyard.

He was in the charred remains of Theo’s house; the interior devastated by the blast of a grenade. The walls were stained black; the furniture scattered in numerous pieces. The windows were blasted into a million fragments, and the smell of burnt flesh filled the air.

The rain leathered down outside, the wind sweeping it through the empty windows, crashing against him with a cold selfishness.

Slumped against the wall, Theo’s mutilated body rested. The attack on his house had been to eliminate Amy Devereaux by a powerful criminal, Frank Jackson.

The walls began to flicker, as Sam’s memories were being jolted, as if some external force was slamming itself against his brain.

Just before he was snapped back from his thoughts, Theo’s eyes shot open, the lifeless gaze burning a hole through Sam deeper than the one that had blown Theo’s chest open.

Sam could feel a tear roll down his face as he stared at his dead friend, knowing none of it was real.

Moments before Sam awoke, Theo spoke.

‘You can’t save everyone.’

Sam closed his eyes, and the cocktail of memories ended.

* * *

Edinson’s solid fist collided with Sam’s cheek and rocked him against the chair, the cable ties binding him to his seat and holding him upright. In the abandoned warehouse, Jose Vasquez had risen from his chair on the other side of the room and approached, seemingly frustrated with Sam’s resolve.

He’d been through worse.

But Sam was a long way from home, the numbing ache of the car accident still echoing inside his body.

It had all gone wrong. So very wrong.

Agent Sinclair was dead.

Alan too, most likely.