I stumble into my bathroom and peel off my torn, bloody T-shirt. My chest and arms are a patchwork of cuts and bruises. That includes a long but shallow scrape across my shoulder. Must have been from the attacker’s knife. In the heat of battle, I guess I didn’t even notice it. I douse the wound with disinfectant, which feels like I’m bathing in acid, and it makes me groan.

But the real doozy is the welt on my temple from that crowbar. I inspect the plump, crimson mound in the mirror, then head into the kitchen and wrap a few ice cubes in a dish towel. Sagging onto a creaky wooden stool by the counter, I hold the cold compress against my head, and let out a long, jagged sigh.

I try to think back to the many men I encountered tonight. It was hard to see faces, fighting in the dark, but still, I’m trying to burn the images of their mugs into my brain. With my camera and its memory card destroyed, that’s the only record of them I have.

But then, another face pops into my mind.

Vanessa—which is a very welcome distraction. I honestly don’t know what it is about this woman that’s affected me so much. Sure, she’s smart and poised, driven and charming, with piercing eyes and a dazzling smile. But she’s also aloof. Enigmatic. Not to mention married, for God’s sake. To a less-than-stellar guy, sure. And I’ve been called a lady-killer once or twice in my day. But I’m no home-wrecker.

Shaking Vanessa from my mind, I rise and pad into my bedroom. I’m sweaty and grimy and caked with dried blood, but I just don’t have the strength right now to shower. Instead, I strip to my boxers and flop down on my bed …

When there’s a pounding at my front door.

Shit. I’m instantly alert again. My entire body stiffens with the rush of adrenaline.

Did somebody from the junkyard follow me home? Are they here to finish the job?

I quietly creep out back into the kitchen, still in just my underwear. With my phone in one hand, ready to dial 911, and a long carving knife in the other, I approach my front door as the forceful knocking continues. Damnit, I have a pistol, but it’s in the car.

“Caleb Rooney?” booms a voice on the other side. “FBI. Open the damn door.”

The feds? Here? Now?

Not taking any chances, I peer through the peephole. Sure enough, I spy a phalanx of men and women in dark suits standing like statues. Unbelievable.