It took ten minutes for Braden to walk to his car from Angie’s; enough time to run the brief text message through his head fifty or sixty times.

“Eighty-seventh and Foster. Need pick up. C.”

According to Braden’s GPS, he’d have time to run the message through his head a couple hundred more times before he caught up with his brother. There was nothing menacing about the message, no 911 at the end indicating an emergency. The same text from any other member of his family would have sparked only an idle curiosity, maybe the anticipation of an entertaining story. But from Chase? It had him wondering how many stitches would be necessary.

Braden pressed the call button on the steering wheel and growled, “Dial Chase.” His call went straight to voice mail. Just like the last three times he’d tried. “Dammit, Chase.” He cranked the volume and let the Rolling Stones distract him as he drove across town.

Forty-five rainy minutes later, Braden’s GPS cut into “Paint It Black” to tell him he’d arrived at Eighty-seventh and Foster. He pulled up to the curb, flicked on his hazards and glanced around. The area was exactly what he expected: derelict and depressing. Of the dozen or so buildings lining the street, more than half were boarded up or condemned, several had broken windows and one had been gutted by fire some time ago. Under the afternoon’s gray mist, the entire street seemed to sag under the weight of age and circumstance. Braden could only imagine what kind of crime and human decay these buildings stood silent witness to on a day-to-day basis. He had no desire to stick around and find out.

Up the block on the left, the halogen lights from a tiny gas station and mini-mart glowed unnaturally bright against the dinge of the street. A few cars sat in the lot, but the gas station remained as still as the rest of the area. In fact, the only movement Braden detected was the flickering neon sign of a tattoo parlor a few hundred feet up the street. But no people and no Chase.

“Where the hell are you, Chase?” Cursing his brother for being so damn difficult, Braden reached into the backseat and grabbed his jacket. He was already frustrated and worried; add cold and wet and he’d be plain pissed off. Braden got out of the car, turned the collar of his jacket up and slammed the door shut. “I swear, Chase, if you aren’t dying, I’m going to kill you.”

Braden began picking his way up the block toward the gas station. He’d work his way up, and if he had to, he could work his way back down on the other side. With any luck he wouldn’t have to figure out what to do if he got all the way back to the car without his brother.

He stepped closer to the row of buildings, pressing in under the narrow overhangs that provided a little protection from the wet weather. He maneuvered his way up the street, ducking his head into alleys and glancing into abandoned storefronts. He bypassed the tattoo parlor entirely—not a chance in hell Chase would set foot inside there. Maybe the gas station?

“Hey sugar, looking for some company?” A woman with bleach-blond hair and long, red nails stepped out of a narrow alley separating the tattoo parlor from the next building. She casually tossed a cigarette as she gave him an assessing once over.

“No thanks.” Braden ducked his head and tried to step around her. Keep moving, avoid eye contact.

“You sure, honey? You look a little cold, bet I could warm you up.”

Braden sidestepped to avoid the nails she tried to drag down the front of his jacket.

“I’m just looking for someone.” Ah, shit. Judging from the slow smile that curled her lips he’d said exactly the wrong thing. Every step he took to his left to try to ease around her she matched with a step to her right until they’d switched positions.

“Baby, we’re all looking for someone.” She advanced toward him, teetering on high heels that matched the hue of her nails. The cheap vinyl of her shiny black raincoat crinkling with each step.

Braden choked. Since they’d switched positions, the light from the gas station on the corner played across her face. Desperate to look at anything but the Adam’s apple and the five o’clock shadow, Braden caught movement down an alley to his left. Fifteen feet down his brother was leaning against a dumpster, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face.

Thirty seconds from homicide, Braden ground out, “A little help?”

Chase planted his feet and pushed away from the dumpster, his first steps stiff and uncoordinated. The way he had his arm draped across his upper abdomen sent Braden rushing into the alley.

“Hey,” Chase acknowledged. “Thanks for the ride.” His clenched teeth and labored breathing spoke louder than his forced casualness.

“What the hell happened to you?” Braden reached out to place a steadying hand under his brother’s elbow.

“I’m fine.” Chase scowled, wrenching his arm out of Braden’s grip.

“Oh, yeah, you’re fine.” Braden maneuvered his brother out of the rain and against the wall of the tattoo parlor to gauge the damage. Chase’s hair was damp and plastered against the side of his face, his normally tan skin ashen except for the bluish tinge under his eyes. Judging from the hair along his jaw, he hadn’t shaved since Braden had seen him four days ago.

He probably hasn’t bothered to change clothes, either.

To top it off, blood stained the sweatshirt where Chase had his hand pressed against his ribs. Great. Typical Chase: single-minded to the point of self-destruction.

Braden kept one hand pressing his brother’s shoulder against the brick wall and used the other to try and lift the sweatshirt away from whatever wound his brother was going to insist didn’t exist.

“Don’t.” Chase barked, tension spiking through his body.

Braden froze, his wrist caught in Chase’s unyielding grip. It was typical of Chase to laugh off a minor problem or scoff at what he considered his family’s overprotective mothering. But the slight shift in Chase’s stance, the strain coursing through every fiber of his body and the cold defiance in his eyes said Chase felt defensive, cornered. That reaction set Braden’s teeth on edge.

“I’m not in the mood, Chase.” Braden met his brother’s cold gaze with a steely look of his own. When the grip on his wrist didn’t recede, Braden tightened his hold on Chase’s upper arm and growled, “This isn’t up for discussion. I need to know what we’re dealing with.” The grip on his wrist relaxed.

Braden slid his arm out of Chase’s grasp and gently took hold of the sweatshirt again. The moment he began lifting the material, Chase shifted his weight further into the wall and dropped his head. For a moment a hunted twelve-year-old stood in place of his brother.

Braden lifted the shirt and bit back a curse. Chase’s left side, starting above the waistband of his jeans and spreading up through his shoulder, was turning livid shades of blue and black. He’d bet anything the bruising extended along his back as well.

“Christ. What’d you do? Go ten rounds with a bus?”

“Actually, I think it was a ’75 Cutlass.”

“Ouch. Probably would have done better against the bus.” Concentrating, Braden ran his hand gently over his brother’s ribs, none felt broken, thank God, but a six-inch gash wrapped from the underside of his ribs around toward his back. Chase’s sweatshirt had absorbed most of the blood and the cut seemed to be clotting. Still, it looked nasty. “This is gonna need stitches.”

Chase wrenched his sweatshirt down. “It’s fine. Looks worse than it is.”

Braden counted backwards from ten. Twice. “Whatever. I’m not having this argument here. I’ll go get the car.”

“I can walk.” Chase pulled away and started up the alley.

“Fine.” Braden focused on keeping his mouth shut around his frustration and matching Chase’s pace as they emerged onto the street.

“I’d have been more fun, sugar.” The blonde from earlier leaned against Braden’s car. She took a long drag from a fresh cigarette and quirked painted lips. “Last chance.”

“Get in, Chase.” Braden felt his brother’s amusement as he slammed into the car and started up the engine.

“I could take the car around the block a few times…” Chase offered.

Braden threw the car into drive and hit the accelerator. “Not a fucking word.”

“Okay, okay.” Chase shut his mouth and relaxed into the soft leather of the passenger seat.

Fifteen minutes and two zip codes later, Braden unlocked his jaw enough to speak.

“What happened?”

“A ’75 Cutlass Supreme.” A crooked grin pulled at the corner of Chase’s mouth. “I think it was brown.”

“Watch it, smart-ass. What happened before that? I haven’t seen or heard from you in four days. You’re lucky I haven’t called Dad.” Braden’s knuckles turned white around the steering wheel.

“I was tracking. You’ll have to forgive me if I forgot my curfew, Mom.” Chase pressed his mouth into a firm line, expressions of exhaustion, pain and annoyance warring for dominance.

“Did you at least locate the asshole?” Braden merged onto the highway, wincing in tandem with his brother when the car ran through a series of potholes obscured by the rain.

“Would I have called you if I hadn’t?” Chase rasped through clenched teeth. When nothing but Braden’s stony silence filled the car he elaborated. “Yes, okay. He’s staying at a motel a few blocks over from where you picked me up. I called Jason—he’s tailing him for now. And before you ask, we still don’t know what he’s doing here.”

“Where does the Cutlass fit in?”

“Markko left the motel a little after eleven last night; I tailed him. I can tell you he’s been here a few days, he was moving pretty quickly, seemed to know where he was going. I was focused on staying out of his range. I didn’t see the Cutlass tearing out of the alley until it was too late.” Chase shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I’m lucky it only clipped me.”

“That car’s built like a tank. I don’t know how you missed it in the first place.” Braden muttered under his breath. Chase unclenched his fist long enough to flip him off.

“Did anyone see you?” Braden signaled and merged off the highway.

“Nah.”

“You sure? We don’t need that kind of complication.”

“You picked me up, you tell me. Do you really think anyone in that neighborhood gives a rat’s ass if they hit something with their car? Trust me, even if someone saw me, no one gives a shit.”

Probably a fair assessment.

In a neighborhood like that, people were used to looking the other way.

“Fine. Want to explain why it took you more than twelve hours to call me?” After a lengthy pause, Braden cast his brother a sideways glance. “The next words out of your mouth had better be I was unconscious.”

“You’re hoping I had a concussion?” Chase braced himself against the door as the car sped through the intersection. “Ow! Shit, do you mind?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Braden scowled at the hunched form in his passenger seat. “Don’t change the subject. If you weren’t lying unconscious somewhere, then explain what was going through that thick skull of yours when you decided to wander around with broken ribs and a six-inch gash!”

“We both know they aren’t broken! And I did my job! I needed to wait until Jason got here to take over the tail. The minute he showed, I called.”

It was always the damn job with Chase. There had to be a special level of hell reserved for annoying younger siblings. “Your health comes first, dammit.” Anticipating the response, Braden cut him off, “Yes, even over the job.”

“Would you stop hitting the fucking potholes already!”

Braden pulled to a stop at a light and turned to his brother, anger vibrating through every muscle. But the words poised on the tip of his tongue slid back, thick and choking, to lodge in his throat. Chase sat hunched over on himself in the passenger seat, what little color he’d gained in the warmth of the car draining from his face. Braden sighed. The only thing worse than arguing with Chase, was arguing with him when he was tired or hurt. And right now he’s both.

“Is it so much to ask that you take care of yourself? Do you have any idea what it would do to Mom and Dad if you had died out here?” It was a low blow, but this was an old argument he was determined to win, no matter what it took.

“I know what I’m doing.” The protest came out tired and halfhearted.

“I know. And I’m not asking you to go back to school if that’s not what you want.” Braden wished with every fiber of his being that Chase would go back to school. His life could be so much more. “I’m just asking you to take better care of yourself.”

No reaction. No indication his brother was even listening. Chase just turned his face to the window and stared listlessly out the glass.

Fine.

“I don’t want to have to go home someday and tell Lucy you aren’t coming back.”

Chase didn’t turn to face him but Braden saw him squeeze his eyes shut in the reflection on the window, and then jerk his head once.

Good enough.

Impatient honking behind him snapped Braden back into traffic in time to pull through what was left of a yellow light and straight into another rain-filled pothole.

“You’re aiming for them, aren’t you?” Chase asked through clenched teeth.

“You bleeding on my leather?”

Chase leaned back into the seat and closed his eyes. “Nope.”

“Then I’m not aiming for the potholes.”

A smiled ghosted across Chase’s face.

“You said Jason’s tailing Markko?” Braden asked, redirecting the conversation.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, then. Jason can handle that for now. We’ll get a couple of others to come and help out if we need to. You can take a few days to rest.”

“It’s not that bad. The gash tore when I shifted. I’ll be fine in the morning.”

“A few days rest at my place won’t hurt you.”

But they might kill me.