God forgive me, he thought. What have I done?

* * *

Blake had been tempted to stop for lunch, but instead he drove straight to his next destination—a cement factory on the outskirts of town. A chain-link fence topped with razor wire surrounded the grounds. Hot gases jetted from the heating tower. Storage silos rose above the plant. Grinding mills churned noisily. He parked outside and approached the gate.

A guard scowled at his badge before letting him through the fence.

“Boss is about to leave,” the man grumbled as he escorted Blake across the lot. Bags of powdered cement were piled high on wooden pallets, waiting to be shipped out. Metal bins and barrels sat upright amidst the pallets. A front loader was on hand to transport the bags and barrels onto trucks. Cement dust was everywhere.

An odd chemical odor nagged at Blake’s memory.

Where do I know that from?

They walked past a parked cement mixer. Keeping his eyes open, Blake spotted a familiar face. He veered away from the guard to accost a driver who was standing outside the vehicle.

“Hey!” Blake called out, getting the man’s attention. The driver turned toward him. “I know you. That was you outside the stock exchange, right?”

The man’s stony face might as well as have been cast in cement. He crossed his arms belligerently.

“When?”

“When?” Blake echoed in disbelief. “When half the city’s cops were trying to pull onto Castle Street, and your truck shut them out.”

Hard to imagine the guy had forgotten that particular altercation.

“Oh, yeah,” the driver said, as though only just recognizing Blake. “You’re that cop—”

“Detective, now.”

The driver snorted, unimpressed by his promotion. Blake heard the guard come up behind him. The approaching man must have reached for something in his pocket. Metal jingled against loose change. Blake felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

“And as a detective,” he added, “I’m not allowed to believe in coincidence any more—”

He spun around, drawing his sidearm just in time to see the guard lunging at him with a knife. Reacting quickly, he swept the man’s arm aside and fired in self-defense. The sharp report of the gun cut through the factory noises and the guard toppled backwards, clutching his chest. Blood spurted from his wound.

Oh my God, Blake thought. I think I killed him.

But he couldn’t deal with that now. The driver grabbed him from behind, holding onto his arms. Blake tried to break free from the grip, but the man was strong and knew what he was doing.

Blake held on tightly to his gun, but couldn’t get off a clean shot as along as the guy kept behind him. The driver twisted Blake’s gun arm, trying to break it. The cop grunted in pain.

In desperation, he fired backward at the nearby front loader. The bullet ricocheted off the vehicle’s heavy steel bucket, catching the driver in the back. He jerked violently, then hit the ground like a bag of cement.