Sykes had abandoned him, leaving him alone to face the consequences with a tyrannical drug lord and, unless they moved swiftly, a vengeful leader of a biker gang.

Vasquez turned to Sinclair, who felt Raul press the gun to the back of his skull.

‘Give me my fucking money.’

Chapter Twenty-Seven

As Alan ventured further into the mill, he could hear the distant murmur of voices. The sound lured him closer to the forecourt, and he walked slowly, the guns gripped tightly in his hands. He approached a window; the sun trying its best to battle through the thick layer of grime that smeared the glass. Alan rubbed his elbow against the glass, clearing his view, and he peered out.

Instantly, he felt sick.

Sinclair was alive.

Despite all the evidence, he’d hoped that he and Sam had been wrong. It was strange to pray for the death of a friend but watching Sinclair stroll across the forecourt with one of Vasquez’s associates caused Alan to shake with anger. The betrayal, not only of Alan but of his brother’s memory only reinforced his decision. He looked across the open space and watched as Vasquez squatted down over the prone body of Trent Wyatt.

His heart dropped.

Vasquez and Sykes were both there.

Which meant Sam hadn’t made it.

Wyatt struggled to sit up, drawing a backhand from Vasquez, who then stepped away. On cue, Sykes took a few steps towards Wyatt, his gun primed to finish their story and begin a new chapter.

Alan turned from the window and pressed his back against the wall. Taking a few deep breaths to accept his situation, Alan thought of his brother. Peter Alan had been his hero, his inspiration to follow his footsteps into the marines and to try to be half the soldier and man he was.

Alan hoped he’d done him proud. The dog tags that still hung around his neck bore Peter’s name and rank.

The only way for Alan to survive now, with Sam out of the picture, was to hide.

To do nothing.

That wasn’t an option.

Peter deserved more than to be killed by his own comrade, and the lack of justice Sykes faced couldn’t be something Alan took to his grave. He scolded himself for his hypocrisy, having chastened Sam for the path he’d taken.

But he understood now.

There were some things that you couldn’t let go of, and that would take you to places you couldn’t get back from.

But Alan still needed to get to Alex. At least try to preserve the innocence of someone who had been drawn too far across the line. It was unlikely, but Alan would fight until the end.

Not as a DEA agent.

But as a marine.