The sun was up, scouring the wood floor in golds and pinks. He expected to see his father sitting in the recliner near the towering two-story stone fireplace, reading his Bible, but the chair sat empty. The den door was closed, so maybe his father was doing his praying in private.

Something that Ranger had started to do. Please, God, tell me what I’m supposed to do with the rest of my dark life. Probably not the right way to phrase the prayer, but that’s where he was, so . . .

At least he was back to praying instead of feeling like God had abandoned him, or worse . . . was disappointed in him. In fact, lately, he’d been sort of feeling like an answer was close.

He did like being home, however. The familiar creak in the stairs, the faded leather furniture, the braided rug, the long, worn kitchen table where his family had dinner. The island in the kitchen where he and his brothers had waged a few recent political discussions.

He loved the way the sun heated the wooden floors and the sight of Denali and its cohorts rising out of the north, filling the back window that also overlooked their runway and the Quonset hut that housed the chopper and their two planes.

A glance at it said that Dodge and the rest hadn’t come home last night, although Ranger had expected that, given the storm on the mountains.

At ten he’d tried to call, but when he got no answer, he figured they were camping at their put-down site. They had checked in when they landed, so they probably got socked in with the high-altitude storm. The weather might have also knocked out their communications.

He wouldn’t worry quite yet. Dodge was a seasoned pilot. He knew how to survive in the bush.

Ranger walked past the expansive granite island to the stove and filled the Moka pot that Noemi had convinced him to try. As she predicted, he loved the boiled, hot espresso, made Italian style.

See, a guy could change, find new ways of doing things.

He set it on the stove, then filled a teakettle with water.

Behind him, the floor creaked, and he turned, expecting his father, but the room was empty.

Strange.

He set the teakettle to boil.

Then he opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of eggs, a package of bacon. Set the ingredients on the counter.

Another creak, and this time he stilled, listened over his heartbeat. Something . . . He’d learned long ago to separate sounds, so much of his time sitting in his sniper nest, sweating in a ghillie suit, dissecting the movement of the forest or the city sounds around him.

Now, he heard a shuffle and the slightest . . . breath?

He whirled, shoved his arm up and just barely deflected the blade that should have hit his neck, found his jugular, and left him bleeding out on the floor.

What the—