A soft rap on the door drew him from dark thoughts. “It’s open.”

McNinch stepped into his office, his expression contrite. “Sorry about what happened in there.”

“Par for the course.”

“Rummel knows you’re a good agent.”

“Rummel doesn’t know shit about me.”

McNinch slid into the visitor chair and pretended to be interested in the plaques, commendations and framed diploma on the wall. “It was a good deal,” he said after a moment.

“I’m not ready to retire.”

“There are a lot of things you could do, John. Things with less stress.”

The smile felt brittle on his face. “You mean like a rent-a-cop?”

McNinch frowned. “Hell, I don’t know. Private detective. Friend of mine from Houston, a former cop, went into corporate security for a major pizza company chain. Draws a decent salary. Another guy I know is now a Justice of the Peace.”

“Good for them.”

“You gotta do something, man. Rummel wants you gone. He’s like a dog and you’re the fucking bone. At the moment, you have a choice as to how you walk out that door. In six months, you may not have that luxury.”

John gave him a hard look. “I wouldn’t call any of this a luxury.”

“Hey, man, I know you got a tough break—”

“I didn’t have a tough break,” he snapped. “For chrissake, just say it. Stop with the fucking euphemisms.”

Grimacing, Denny looked down at his hands. “I’m on your side.”

“You’re on whatever side is convenient. But I get it, Denny. I’ve been around long enough to know how it works.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

Rising, the other man started toward the door.

John leaned back in his chair and watched him go. When the door clicked shut, he opened his pencil drawer and pulled out the flask, the silver finish tarnished from use. The irony that it had been a gift from his wife never ceased to give him pause every time he took a drink.

Snagging his briefcase, he set it on his lap and snapped it open. He dug into the side pocket. Relief swept through him when his fingers closed around the prescription bottle. John hated what he’d become. A sick parody of the man he’d once been. A fucking junkie. Everything he despised. Weak. Dependent. Pathetic. He wanted to blame it on the doctors. After all, it was they who’d so eagerly prescribed. But two years ago, John had been a basket case. A man truly at the end of his rope. Flirting with thoughts of suicide. Going so far as to put the gun in his mouth. He’d tasted the gun oil and his own fear, felt the cold steel rattle against his teeth.

Popping the cap, he tapped out two Xanax and one Valium. He wasn’t supposed to take them together, but he’d experimented and discovered through trial and error a cocktail of pills that provided what he needed to get through the day.

He pulled out the framed photograph and blew off the paper dust and pencil shavings. His late wife, Nancy, and his two little girls, Donna and Kelly, smiled at him as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Looking at them never got any easier. He should have been able to protect them.