Tom entered the house, flinching at the roar of noise that assaulted him. The house was normally boisterous, but today . . . It was as loud as a home team crowd at the Garden.

Some days Tom missed playing basketball, but he did not miss that noise. Bracing himself, he walked toward the kitchen, pausing once again in the doorway of the living room. Liza was sitting on the sofa in the corner, just as she’d been when he’d left for his perimeter check.

She watched Abigail playing, her expression a mix of subdued contentment and grim determination. He knew what she was thinking about. On Tuesday she was walking into a nest of hardened criminals. For Mercy. And for the little girl who sat on the floor playing with Irina’s grandchildren.

Liza might not walk out alive. But she was willing to take the risk. She’d done it before.

Please let her walk out whole and unhurt.

Rafe’s angry voice snapped him to attention. “Dammit, Hunter, we need to talk.”

Well, shit.

GRANITE BAY, CALIFORNIA

SUNDAY, MAY 28, 3:35 P.M.

DJ lowered his rifle and stepped away from Smythe’s spare bedroom window. He’d wanted to pull the trigger so damn badly. But he hadn’t. Because it would have been suicide.

The tall guy was a Fed. Special Agent Tom Hunter. DJ had seen him on the news coverage of the two dead cops and the still-unidentified female victim. Hunter had been at the crime scene the night before, with an Agent Croft, both looking serious.

Hunter and another man appeared to be on guard duty, dressed in tactical gear. DJ had seen them from his window and had felt a slight panic when they’d stopped, looking around them as if searching for something specific.

Me.

He’d grabbed his rifle out of habit and guessed he could thank his bum shoulder for keeping him from doing anything stupid. He’d felt the burn of pain when he’d lifted the rifle, which had broken the reflexive response that he’d built through hours of practice. Position, focus, fire. Kowalski had taught him how to use a rifle. DJ had perfected his skill, but this time he was glad he hadn’t automatically pulled the trigger.

The Fed would be able to track the bullet’s trajectory pretty damn quickly, and there was a small army protecting the Sokolovs’ house today. He’d be surrounded before he could blink.

“Tomorrow, then,” he murmured. “Or whenever your little party is over.”

He had time. Pastor was going to be in rehab for weeks, after all. He’d fantasized about simply blowing the Sokolov house to smithereens with the party inside, but he didn’t have the makings for a bomb. Not yet.

But Kowalski had explosives. DJ had seen him use them, and soon he’d have them, too.

He set the rifle aside and returned to his laptop. This, the photo on his screen, was where his focus needed to be today.