LITMIR.BIZ

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doubt because the prison riot, the murder of his men and the escape of three dangerous felons had become a media circus. Wiser to say nothing.

      “I’m sending in a team,” Sutton said, his words tight and sharp.

      “No.”

      A fist banged on wood. “Listen, Falconer, that lone-eagle crap isn’t going to fly this time.”

      “You’re glad enough for it when you need clean-up.”

      “This situation is raking in too much media. It needs containment now.”

      Sebastian stilled. “Kershaw’s here. He’s after Olivia. I’ll get him.”

      “I’m pulling you off duty. Take some personal time.”

      “Kershaw’s mine.”

      “You’re too emotionally involved.”

      What no one realized was that he always got emotionally involved. All he had to do was think of the victim and he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t walk away from Kershaw. Not when he was after Olivia. “I can—”

      “Bull! If it comes to choosing between Kershaw and your wife, you’ll pick your wife. Why do you think I don’t have any ties?”

      It wasn’t a question, but a simple statement of fact. For Sutton, the Service and life were one and the same.

      “I know Kershaw.” Sebastian bit his words to contain the temper swirling like a hurricane about to beach. “I know how his mind works—”

      “How are you going to handle this?”

      “Solo.”

      Sutton swore again.

      “I want carte blanche,” Sebastian pushed on as a plan formed in his mind. “I want a clear path in the field. I don’t want roadblocks from the locals. But if I need something, I don’t want to have to ask twice.”

      “That’s not how we operate.”

      “I’ve never let you down.”

      “This isn’t the time to go for glory.”

      Sebastian sneered. This was a bust that would garner attention, and Sutton wanted it—preferably before the Feebs beat him to it. “If it was glory I wanted, I could’ve had it years ago. I’ve let you take the credit for every one of my collars. I made my bones a long time ago. I don’t have anything to prove.”

      “What about Olivia?”

      The mention of Olivia brought back the image of her bruised face in 3-D color. He resumed his pacing. “What about her?”

      “Who’s going to watch over her while you’re out enforcing the law?”

      No, not the law. Justice.

      And there was the pinch.

      Hunter and husband. Duty and love. And in the middle, justice and obligation. He owed both to Olivia.

      The lone eagle. The clean-up guy. The guy who got the job done. People thought he worked alone because he didn’t trust anyone. That wasn’t the reason. He worked alone because he didn’t want the responsibility of someone else’s life on his shoulders. If he got himself killed, then it was his tough luck. He already had three souls on his conscience; he didn’t want any more.

      But he had a shoulderful of responsibility now. Olivia was here, in this hospital bed, in a coma, because of him, because of what he did, because of his need to rid the world of scum. Marrying her ten years ago was an act of selfishness. He knew it then; he knew it now. He’d tried to protect her.

      And failed.

      She was his strength. She was the one weakness he wasn’t able to resist. And she was paying for his flaw. He’d gambled with her safety—and lost.

      He closed his eyes and up popped the image of that purple-black bruise marring the left side of her too-white face. For once, he had to make her his priority. He had to stay by her side until she was well. And when she was, they would have to redraw the boundaries of their relationship.

      How could he live without hunting? It was in his blood. Yet how could he live without Olivia? She was his soul.

      When in doubt, act. If he couldn’t physically leave, then he’d have to figure out a different way to track.

      “Give me a team,” Sebastian said. Teamwork wasn’t his strength, but for now he was grounded. Someone else would have to do the flying. If he couldn’t do the hunting, then he wanted to head the team that would. “I’ll find him.”

      “A team?”

      “Four men.” With four men, he could cover his target. If he had to operate with a team, he wanted men he could trust. “Grayson Reed. Noah Kingsley. Dominic Skyralov. Sabriel Mercer.”

      Sutton whistled. “The best of the best.”

      “Do you want this circus over or not?”

      A heartbeat. Two. “I’ll set it up.”

      Sebastian punched out. The win should have felt good. It didn’t.

      Kershaw was on the loose. Olivia was his target. And he’d have to depend on others to catch his prey.

      SHE AWOKE THIS TIME to a view of night through a window. Clouds raced across the moon, leaving a moving trail of patchy light on the gray linoleum floor. The metallic click of an artificial pulse kept her own company. The strong smell of sickness and floor wax twitched her nose. The blanket covering her right arm was strangely heavy.

      When she moved her head to look at the warm weight, pain shrieked like a banshee and zigzagged through her brain with a lightning burn. The room spun around her. Her vision dimmed. Nausea rose and fell with roller coaster sharpness.

      What’s happening? Where am I?

      Suddenly a hard and warm wall caught her. She fought against the strangling hold until a calming murmur penetrated through the roar in her mind. “Olivia, shh, it’s okay. I’m here.”

      Olivia? Who was Olivia? Limbs shaking, she clung to the solidness of the man holding her to steady herself. Who was he? Why was he here? Did she know him?

      “Do you want me to call a nurse?”

      Nurse? “No,” she croaked.

      “Are you dizzy? The doctor said that was normal.”

      Doctor. A vague image like a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle reassembled itself in the black of her mind. Real? It seemed so opaque—as if the glue holding the pieces together wasn’t quite dry. Yesterday? Today? Brown hair streaked with white. Droopy face. Hospital. Someone—the man holding her?—answering a myriad of questions whose answers didn’t mean a thing to her. Was she making up the impatience that throbbed from him like the boom of a drum? Accident. She was in an accident. At least that’s what the man said. Car, he’d said. And the scarecrow woman, too. Her voice, thin and sharp like her body, had mixed words into a whirl until none made sense.

      Then the doctor had poked and prodded, asking her to do all sorts of things—smile, chew, swallow, follow his fingertips, walk, stand on one foot—until all she could feel was layer upon layer of pain.

      Just when she thought she could return to the security of her bed, someone had rolled in a wheelchair. Then they’d dragged her from machine to machine until fatigue took over. Finally, they’d left her alone, and she’d slipped into the welcoming blankness of sleep.

      She saw all this in her mind as if it were happening to someone else, making her feel as if she had no more substance than a ghost.

      “I should call a nurse,” the man said. His worry was crushing, and all she wanted was distance.

      “No.” She didn’t want any more poking and prodding. She wanted to be alone. Struggling out of his hold, she slipped to the other side of the

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