Brent rubbed the back of his neck in frustration. Two days had passed since the trip to Ridsdale, and neither suspect under surveillance had made contact with Forrester. When Brent’s cell phone rang, he answered it immediately, hoping for a break in the investigation.

“We found the dealer who sold the Trans Am to Forrester,” Gene said. “His name is Fergus Lyons, and he remembers our suspect paid eighty thousand cash for the car. And get this. Forrester asked him to keep his eyes open for a sixty-five Cobra Roadster in mint condition.”

“Where the hell is he getting the cash?” Brent asked.

“No leads on that yet.”

“Any luck finding the Trans Am?”

“Langdon is contacting local garages in case it’s being repaired.”

“If nothing turns up there, tell him to widen the search to storage units.”

“Anything else?”

“I found a sales slip for the laptop Forrester bought in the spring, but I didn’t see it at his house.” He glanced out the window at the lake shimmering in sunlight.

“It wasn’t among his belongings when he was admitted to Ridsdale.”

“Great. So now we’re looking for his car and his laptop.”

“I’ll be in touch,” Gene said.

Brent closed his phone, his gaze still on the view outside. A boat bearing two men with fishing poles chugged past the dock.

That should be Pete and me.

The thought hit hard—a sucker punch to the gut. Sanderson was dead while his killer roamed free. The wrongness of the situation seared like acid. He needed to know what was being done to catch Sanderson’s killer. And Ian Alston, an investigator with the team, owed him a favor.

A PHONE CALL, a quick trip to Cincinnati and Brent had a flash drive containing all the pertinent info on the investigation. As he waited for his laptop to boot up, Pete’s image came to mind. The blue eyes that had danced when he hooked a big one. The wide mouth that had belted out country tunes off-key. The strong arms that had carried him to safety after he’d been stabbed…Oh, God.

He sucked in a breath, waited for the pain to dull. Then he plugged in the flash drive, opened the first file and began reading.

He already knew the basics. Sanderson’s body had been discovered at 11:30 p.m. at the Enbridge warehouse located at 15 Duke Street. Cause of death: the second of two bullets he’d taken in the chest.

A review of Sanderson’s PDA indicated a meeting at 9:00 p.m. with one of his snitches, Marty Adey, who claimed he hadn’t set foot in the warehouse. He’d received one thousand dollars to act as a go-between for a third party. His alibi for the time period was solid; he had been picked up for DUI at eight and spent the night in jail. Adey had spent half of the money he’d been paid, but the remaining bills had been confiscated as evidence and dusted for fingerprints. None matched the Bureau’s database of felons.

The next file was a photo of Sanderson’s naked body lying on a metal table, awaiting autopsy. He refused to let himself look away, refused to spare himself the hurt of seeing his friend that way. Because he knew Sanderson had endured an agony a thousand times worse when those bullets had drilled into his chest.

A horrified gasp had him pivoting around in his chair.

“That’s your friend, Pete Sanderson, isn’t it?” Claire asked from the doorway.

He closed his laptop, letting her draw her own conclusion.

She approached slowly as if she knew she was intruding but couldn’t stop herself. “Has a suspect been identified yet?”

He avoided looking her in the eye. “Nope.”

“This must be so frustrating for you.”

He heard compassion in her voice and had the sudden urge to go to her, bury his face in her hair, breathe in her scent. She would be surprised, even astounded, but he was pretty sure she wouldn’t deny him the comfort he craved.

He steeled himself against the impulse. Numb is the only way to hold it together.

“Investigations take time.” A stock phrase used at the Bureau, but the words tasted like ashes in his mouth.

She came farther into the room, her hands shoved in her jean pockets. “You’d like to help with it, wouldn’t you?”

“That’s against the rules,” he mocked.

“Because you and Pete were friends.” She leaned a hip against the counter. “I understand the reasoning, but it doesn’t seem fair, somehow.”

“It isn’t fair.”

“But you’ll abide by the rules, right?”

That was his cue to stop talking. If she guessed he had unauthorized access to the case files, she’d feel obligated to warn him of the consequences—disciplinary action courtesy of the review board.

His cell phone rang, a welcome interruption. He glanced at the caller ID display. “It’s Gene.”

She moved away. “We’ll continue this conversation later.”

Oh no, we won’t.

He flipped open his phone. “What have you got, Gene?”

“A guy at U Lock It saw a white Trans Am being driven into one of his units a few weeks ago. Our agent showed him a photo of Forrester and confirmed that he’s renting the unit. I should have a search warrant signed off soon.”

Brent straightened as a fresh rush of adrenaline pumped through his system. “I want to be on-site when it’s opened.”

“You can take the warrant to the storage facility. Mickey Langdon is watching the unit.”

Brent disconnected and pocketed his phone.

Sanderson’s files would have to wait. Because no matter how badly he wanted to solve his friend’s murder, his first priority was to locate Forrester and stop him from killing again.

THE U LOCK IT storage facility sprawled over a sizable stretch of industrial park just west of the city. Claire leaned forward in her seat, checking for the main entrance.

“Turn there,” she said, pointing to the next driveway.

Brent spun the wheel to the right. “There’s supposed to be an agent waiting for us.”

A prefabricated office structure faced a long row of gray storage units with eight-foot-high blue garage doors. Brent flashed his headlights twice, then parked adjacent to unit 5.

A man with a crew cut and a bodybuilder physique materialized from the side of the building. He loped over to the car and pressed his credentials against the glass.

Brent lowered his window. “Good to meet you, Langdon.”

“Likewise.” The agent switched his gaze to the passenger seat. “Hey, Claire. You trade in your couch for fieldwork?”

She smiled at his teasing remark. Last November, Mickey Langdon had found it hard to get out of bed, much less tease anyone. He had come to her after his twin brother had died of lung cancer. The disease ran rampant in the Langdon clan, and Mickey was obsessed with the idea that his own death was imminent. After several sessions, she managed to convince him to go to his doctor, who ordered a complete medical workup and prescribed the patch to help him quit smoking. Mickey had called her afterward to say all tests had come back normal, and he was cigarette-free for the first time since high school. He took Zoloft for depression but was fully functional.

“Brent brought the search warrant,” she said, shoving up the sleeves of her cardigan sweater.

“He brought more than that,” Mickey replied. “He brought my favorite psychologist. Thanks to you, I’m back at work.”

“Speaking of work—” Brent began.

“I’ll talk to the manager.” Mickey jogged toward the office building.

Brent turned to her. “You have a fan.”

She smiled. “Not everybody at the Bureau tries to avoid me.”

He hooked his thumbs over the steering wheel, his blue shirt rippling like water over his chest. “Oh, I believe that.”

She detected an edge in his tone. “You think guys like Mickey want something other than counseling when they come to see me, don’t you?”

His eyes narrowed. “I think some people can’t resist dumping their problems onto others.”

“But you’re an island.”

His smile sent an arrow of awareness straight through her. “You got that right, doc.”

A door banged in the distance. A tall, lanky man crossed the pavement toward them.

Brent left the car, and Claire heard Mickey introduce him to Kevin Curtis.

Brent held out the search warrant. “We’re authorized to search unit number five.”

Curtis glanced at the document. “I’ve never seen one of these before, but it looks official.”

“Mr. Curtis just told me that he saw a guy hanging around here early this morning,” Mickey said.

“Forrester?” Brent asked.

Claire felt her stomach knot.

“I can’t be sure,” Curtis said. “He had his back to the office. When I came outside, he got in his car and took off like a bat out of hell.”

“Did you notice the make and model of the vehicle he was driving?” Mickey asked.

“Nah, I was barely awake. It wasn’t the Trans Am, that I do know.”

Brent turned toward the unit. “We’d like to get started.”

“How long is this going to take?” Curtis asked, retrieving a key from his pocket.

“Depends on what’s in there.”

“Well, if you think you might be a while, you need to move your car. I got three moving vans coming to unload this afternoon, and they can’t do it with you parked there.”

“Where to?” Brent asked, opening the driver’s door of the Mustang.

Curtis pointed. “Down at the end should be okay.”

Brent pulled around and reversed into the space Curtis had indicated.

“You might as well wait here,” he told Claire. “I can keep an eye on both you and the exterior of the building while Langdon does the first sweep of the unit.”

Brent headed out, and she caught herself admiring the quick, powerful movements of his legs. Damn, even the man’s walk was sexy.

She glanced away, settled deeper into the Mustang’s leather seat.

A moment later, a loud boom shook the car.

She bolted upright. A dark form lay prone on the asphalt twenty feet from the office.

Brent.

Flinging open the door, she raced toward him, sucking in a breath only when she saw him stir. He was on his feet by the time she got to his side, and he was—thank God—seemingly uninjured. Relief flooded through her so strongly, she nearly sank to her knees.

A gut-wrenching scream came from the storage units.

She turned her head, then gasped in horror. The blast had blown off Mickey’s right hand. Blood sprayed from the severed limb onto the asphalt.

The manager of the facility lay sprawled a few feet away. There was no blood, but his leg was bent at an awkward angle, probably broken. He appeared to be unconscious.

“Claire!” Brent yelled.

She looked toward him mutely.

“Call nine-one-one.” He tossed his cell phone to her.

She caught it and started punching in the numbers as he raced toward the men.

By the time she’d completed the call and joined him, Brent had cinched his belt around Mickey’s forearm. “Easy, man. Help’s on the way.”

Claire stripped off her sweater and used it to staunch the gaping wound. Her stomach churned as the blood soaked through, turning the garment and her hands crimson. The metallic smell of blood flooded her nose, and it took a supreme act of willpower not to gag.

“Why?” the wounded agent panted.

“Good question,” Brent said grimly, glancing toward the smoking hole in the unit.

“Search it…before the cops come.”

“I’m not leaving you.” Brent checked under the sweater, testing the belt to ensure it was choking off the blood flow.

Mickey shoved at him weakly with his remaining hand. “Claire…can stay.”

She made shushing noises as she stroked his forehead. “I’m here, Mickey. Don’t try to talk.”

His head thrashed from side to side. “Go. Hurry.”

She glanced at Brent, sick with worry. “I think you’d better go. He won’t rest until you do.”

Brent began to argue, but one look at his colleague’s pleading eyes had him rising to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”

She watched, feeling strangely bereft as he set off for the damaged unit.

Mickey moaned in pain. “Always figured…I’d die from the big C.”

“You’re not going to die,” she said fiercely. “You’re a tough hombre.”

“Hurts.” He spoke through clenched teeth.

“You’ll get something for the pain, just as soon as the ambulance arrives.”

His torso jerked off the pavement suddenly.

She cradled him in her arms. “Lie still, Mickey. Please.”

He didn’t respond, and she realized it was because he was no longer conscious. Looking at his closed eyes, slack mouth and gray skin, she experienced a helplessness that she’d never known before. He was one of the few agents who had ever appreciated her assistance, and he was counting on her. She would not fail him.

“Where’s the damn ambulance?” she yelled in frustration.

She turned her head, hoping to see Brent on his way back to them, but he was still inside the storage unit.

She stared intently at its jagged, blackened entrance, her anxiety escalating. Surely, she should be able to catch a glimpse of his pale T-shirt or hear him moving around in there.

What if another bomb had been hidden inside? What if Brent were attempting to disarm it?

Scared and covered in blood, she fought the urge to scream.