Dodge took the gun, turned off the safety.

“In the words of the immortal Benjamin Martin, aim small, miss small.”

“Aw, those were Dad’s words.” Dodge put his back against the wall.

“Still good. Listen, you better live through this.”

“It’s Colt you have to worry about.” He bumped his fist, then reached for the door handle, his hand on the key.

Ranger met Dodge’s eyes.

Dodge nodded.

Ranger opened the door, and Dodge swung into the lethal, swarming darkness.

Run, Tae.

Please.

Colt hunkered down, his eyes on the drone lights, searching the hangar for Sergei.

Shoot at me again, jerk. Because then he might track the sound, get a fix on the man.

Maybe even see the muzzle flash, and bingo.

He was going down. And not just for what he’d done to Tae, but to him, and generally the rest of the world.

For all humankind, Colt would take down Sergei Petrov.

But especially for Tae.

Colt’s entire body buzzed, the adrenaline hot inside him, his pulse in his ears. He took a breath. Another.

Focus.

The lights flashed, on and off, the computer still running the drone show program, a shower of red, blue, and white erratic lights. Colt had found cover behind a couple of huge tires, and now settled his gaze along the wall, searching for a shadow. An outline of gray.

Or maybe a face.

Movement caught his eye, and he jerked his attention toward it.

There—near a workbench, just outside the glow of the computer, a man. In a blink, Colt memorized him. Lean build, dark hair, wearing a black collared shirt, an emblem on the breast.

Who had he killed to get the uniform?

The question burned inside Colt, lit, and for a second, he saw Tae being slapped.

His entire body turned into an inferno.

He wanted his hands around the man’s throat. Wanted his fists in his face. Wanted him on the floor so he could—

And just like that, he was back in the cell with Ahmed. Crouching in front of him, his hand around his neck. Pressing Ahmed to the wall.

“You knew it was an ambush!”

Maybe it wouldn’t have gone so south if Ahmed hadn’t spit on him, the moisture joining with the blood that streaked Colt’s clothing, his hands, his face.

“You deserved it!”

He’d hit him for the first time then.

Ahmed was tough—had the sass of a boy soldier, someone armed too young in his life. He’d fought back.

It only made Colt angrier.

He’d come back to himself about the time the kid wrestled his hands over his face and started screaming.

The guards rushed in. Colt’s fists burned with open cuts, bruises.

The boy was still screaming, swearing, kicking, spitting, and a couple guards pushed Colt away, one in his face, yelling.

Colt pushed him off, charged back in. “Tell me where White is!”