And when another guard tried to intervene, Colt leveled him too.

It worked. He’d cracked the kid, and he blubbered out a location—not far from the one they’d attacked.

“Scum like you shouldn’t be allowed to live.”

The words still resounded through Colt, even after he’d rescued Nelson and Rags, the bodies of Elvis and Nuggsy. Even after Ace hauled him into HQ after the op and told him that Ahmed had died of a heart attack, a rare condition possibly exacerbated by Colt’s actions. All the way until they told him the kid had only been seventeen.

Colt had gotten up, walked out of HQ, and lost it.

And then went back in and asked to be released from duty.

Now, as Colt stared at Sergei, who also searched the darkness for the woman Colt loved, he heard the words again . . . “Scum like you shouldn’t be allowed to live.” And again, tasted the fury, the desperate hunger for justice.

The urge to hurt the people who had hurt those he loved.

It all boiled up inside him. But this time, it wasn’t a kid but a man who had terrorized the woman he loved.

Colt waited until the drones moved away from him, then ran along the edge of the building, scooting in behind a rolling toolbox. Closer.

Sergei had gotten to his feet, was crouching. Smiled. “Gdye toodah?”

Where are you? See, he could figure out Russian.

Sergei’s shot pinged off the ceiling, rebounded into the room.

Gotcha—

And then Tae screamed.

What was she still doing in the building?

This needed to be over.

Colt launched himself at Sergei—ten steps, but by the time the man saw him, he was close enough to kick the gun from his hand.

The crash to the cement floor cost him, jerked out his breath, just for a second. Then, Sergei landed on him and sent a punch into his chest that nearly swept the wind out of him again.

But Colt wasn’t done that easily. He rolled and swept up his leg. Sergei slammed into the concrete. Colt followed with an elbow to the man’s chest.

Then he lurched up and landed a fist, right in the sternum.

Sergei sucked wind like a fish, and Colt scrambled to his feet.

But he was slow—slower than normal—and by the time he turned, Sergei had found his knees and was lunging for the gun.

Colt leaped toward the weapon, but Sergei grabbed his foot and tripped him.

He crashed onto the floor, pain spiking up his knee. Then Sergei landed a kick to his ribs.

Oh—

Something broke inside of Colt. Wounds opened, his heart slammed against his ribs.

Everything hurt.

He lay, breathing hard, pain shredding him. “Scum like you shouldn’t be allowed to live.”

The memory razed through him, and with a shudder he realized . . .

Maybe, all these years, he’d been talking about himself.