LITMIR.BIZ

      Propped against a large piece of driftwood on Ladies Beach, J.C. adjusted his baseball cap, settled his sunglasses into a more comfortable position on his nose and flipped the tab on his soda can.

      This was why he’d come to Nantucket.

      Not a soul was visible in either direction down the long expanse of golden sand. Edith’s recommendation for a getaway spot had been perfect. At the end of a dirt road not traveled by most tourists, this secluded stretch was, as she’d promised, a quiet refuge among the busy South Shore beaches.

      Tucked in at the base of a sheltered dune, his bike propped beside him, J.C. had a panoramic view of the glistening sea. It was the perfect place to spend the afternoon of his first full day off since starting work, and he intended to make the most of it.

      A boat appeared in the distance, and he watched its steady progress as it followed a course parallel to the beach. Although it was rocked by swells, it rode them out without faltering or deviating from its route, secure in its ability to hold fast to its destination despite choppy seas.

      That was how he wanted to be. Steadfast, confident, un-shakable even in rough water. Until the shooting, he’d thought he was that way. He’d seen plenty of bad stuff in his thirteen years on the force. Some of it had kept him awake at night. Some of it had given him nightmares. But he’d always managed to move on. Until last month.

      Because this time, the responsibility for two innocent deaths rested on his shoulders.

      Not everyone agreed with that conclusion, he conceded. The internal review panel had absolved him of fault. Dennis and Ben hadn’t blamed him. Nor had the families of the two men who’d lost their lives. Burke didn’t, either. Everyone knew undercover work was dangerous. You accepted the risks, or you didn’t volunteer.

      But risks were different than mistakes. And it had to have been a mistake that had aroused his contacts’ suspicions. There was no other way to explain the setup he, Jack and Scott had walked into in that cold, empty warehouse.

      For the thousandth time, J.C. reviewed the facts.

      Surveillance had been in place, cover officers had been in position and he’d been wired and armed. Documented identities had been provided for Jack and Scott under the assumption that the drug kingpins would do background checks on their new customers, and the men had been prepared to play their parts.

      The only thing unusual about the situation had been the size of the deal, which involved the first deep-pockets customers he’d solicited for the ring. It had been big enough to persuade the leader himself to handle the transaction. Meaning it had shaped up to be exactly the kind of deal J.C. had been assigned to arrange. Catching the main man in an incriminating position would be the payoff for his nine miserable months undercover.

      Bottom line, the department had expected to take down one of the most powerful narcotics rings in the city.

      Then everything had fallen apart.

      And two of his buddies had died.

      Moisture gathered in his eyes, obscuring his vision of the sea, and he lifted an arm to wipe it away with the sleeve of his T-shirt.

      Those bullets had been meant for him, too.

      Once more, the two questions that continued to haunt him echoed in his mind.

      Why had he been allowed to live, while other good men had died?

      What had gone wrong?

      As he lost sight of the boat, J.C. picked up his Bible. He wouldn’t find an answer to the second question in the Good Book. But perhaps it would shed some light on the first one.