The trap was set for four o’clock Thursday afternoon, less than two days away.

Claire watched from the sidelines as Gene and Brent worked feverishly to hammer out a plan to capture Forrester. Everything was complicated by the fact that they were after one of their own. They had to jettison their usual deployment and tactical procedures and come up with new ones, something Brent excelled at.

Forrester had instructed Sharratt to leave the money in the office of the Friedberg Book Manufacturing Company. A call to the company revealed the plant was shut down for the week. Gene wanted to tour the building on Wednesday, but Brent argued Forrester might be watching. They contacted the plant manager at home, who met with them to explain the layout of the building and give the locations of the equipment, shelving units, skids of paper and books in process—anything that might provide cover or a hiding place for the agents needed inside. Once the logistics were sorted out, they held a meeting to brief the dozen agents assigned to the operation.

Claire was to remain with Gene in the surveillance van parked at a neighboring factory. Brent would take cover by the Heidelberg six-color printing press and be the agent closest to the drop-off point.

A new ballistics report indicated that Sanderson had been killed by a weapon previously used in an armed kidnapping by a felon named Hank Totten. The gun had been locked up in evidence storage but was now missing. Forrester had been involved in the initial arrest, making him a likely suspect in the theft. However, the storage facility’s records showed that the agent hadn’t been on the premises for several months. Brent was convinced that Forrester had visited more recently, so he asked the supervisor to double-check and get back to him.

The only break in preparation came on Wednesday when the team and Claire attended Mickey’s funeral. Agents from offices all over the country came to show their respect for Mickey’s sacrifice. Claire noticed that even the most stoic among the attendees shed tears during the deeply moving eulogy, which Mickey’s best friend gave. The image that stayed with her long after the service ended was of Mickey’s fiancée and his mother clinging to each other.

Then it was back to the Bureau to review the plan again.

By late Wednesday night, the last few details of the operation had been finalized. There was nothing left to do but wait.

Claire kept telling herself that every contingency had been anticipated and dealt with, but her nerves were vibrating like a power line in a storm. After a week on the run, Forrester could be so strung out that he’d rather kill than go to prison. And as the agent nearest the blackmail money, Brent would be in the most danger.

“You’re going to wear out the carpet,” Brent said, glancing up from his laptop.

She stopped in midpace, flopped into a chair. “I wish it was over. Doesn’t the waiting get to you?”

“Sometimes.” He stretched his arms above his head, settled deeper into the cushions of the couch. “Pete and I used to trade sports trivia to keep from climbing the walls.”

“Sports trivia, huh? I wish I knew some.”

“I thought psychologists were trained in sophisticated relaxation techniques?”

His voice was slightly mocking, and she finally asked him what she’d wanted to know since they’d met. “What is your problem with psychologists?”

His eyes drilled into hers, but she held his stare and didn’t look away.

“You really want to know?” he asked.

“Yes, I do.”

“You remember asking why I waited so long to join the Bureau?”

She nodded.

He braced his hands on his muscled thighs. “The fact is I applied right after college. Aced every interview. Beat out hundreds of applicants to make it to the final round. Last hurdle was the psych testing….”

Her mouth went dry, but she managed to ask, “It didn’t go well?”

“Dr. Telso made it clear that he wouldn’t recommend hiring me at the Bureau. Ever.”

“Did he explain why?” she murmured.

“He said my temperament was incompatible with being an agent. The word reckless came up in the conversation.”

That didn’t fit with the Brent she knew. He weighed the risks before he took action—even in relationships. But maybe he’d been different back then. “If Dr. Telso was against your being hired, how did it happen?”

“A few years after we met, I was at a convenience store when two thugs armed with shotguns strutted up to the counter and started terrorizing the teenage clerk. If they’d only wanted the money in the till, I wouldn’t have intervened. But one of them grabbed the girl by the hair and started dragging her toward the storage room.”

Claire felt her stomach drop to her feet. “What happened?”

“I grabbed a can of peaches, nailed the bastard in the head, then tackled the other guy before he could get a shot off.”

“That was very brave of you.” And dangerous. What if he had missed with that can of fruit?

He shrugged. “Yeah, the local media called me a hero. When I mentioned my dream was to work for the FBI, pressure mounted until Telso caved, and I was allowed into the training program.”

“I’m guessing you worked harder than the other recruits to prove you belonged there.”

He grinned. “Yeah, I did.”

“Are you still trying to prove something? Is that why you nearly went up in flames to rescue Forrester’s briefcase?”

His grin disappeared. “You worry too much.”

“I’m worried about tomorrow,” she admitted.

He leaned forward, his gaze serious. “Tomorrow should run as smoothly as these things ever do.”

“I don’t like that qualifier,” she said, stiffening.

“Complications happen, but the plan’s solid. It’ll turn out okay.”

She knew he was trying to reassure her, but her imagination kept coming up with scenarios in which he was injured or—God forbid—killed. “Why not arrest Forrester as soon as he shows up?”

“And charge him with what? Trespassing?” Brent crossed his arms over his chest. “We don’t have a single witness who can place him at the scene of the crimes he’s committed this past week. We need to catch him red-handed with Sharratt’s money.”

“You think that will be enough to connect him to Sanderson’s murder?”

“I think we can make the case that Sanderson could have identified Forrester as Sharratt’s blackmailer by what he said to his victim so Forrester killed him to protect a lucrative stream of income. That’s a motive the jury can understand and feel good about convicting on.”

“How far are you willing to go to make that happen?”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Really far. I want to see Forrester in prison.”

She couldn’t stop herself from saying, “Please be careful.”

He nodded, then gave her a sideways glance. “What will you do when we finally lock him up?”

That was easy. “Get on with my life.”

“In Minneapolis?”

She tried to read his body language and tone of voice. Did it matter to him if she stayed or went? Would she let his opinion sway her one way or the other? She gave herself a mental shake. She’d already made her decision.

“Yes,” she said, then, if only to clarify in her own mind, “in Minneapolis.”

His expression gave nothing away, so she asked, “What are the chances that Forrester won’t show?”

“He’ll show,” Brent said firmly. “He wouldn’t have contacted Sharratt if he had any inkling we’ve discovered his blackmail scheme. And he hasn’t used his credit cards since he escaped from Ridsdale so he’s probably running out of cash.”

Cash. The reason he’d murdered Pete Sanderson. The reason he’d threatened Sharratt. Forrester had to be stopped. And no amount of worrying on her part could keep Brent safe.

She had no choice but to trust in tomorrow’s plan.

GRIPPING THE SIDES of the printing press’s control panel, Brent stretched to restore circulation to his cramped legs. Sharratt had made the drop forty-five minutes ago. Outside, several mobile units were watching for Forrester. When he arrived, Gene would relay the news to the agents waiting inside the plant. In the meantime, Brent concentrated on keeping his muscles limber and his nerves steady.

His thoughts wandered to the previous night’s conversation with Claire. He’d never talked to anyone, not even Pete, about his run-in with Telso. The rejection had ripped into him, made him feel weak and stupid and worthless—just like the vicious bullying he’d endured as a kid. He had tried to reason his feelings away, but they had hardened like cement. So he buried them, never anticipating he’d have to deal with a psychologist again.

Then Claire had come into his life.

She was nothing like Telso, but he’d turned his seething animosity for the man on her. She had stood up to him. She had tried to get to know him. She had made repeated attempts to help him.

After everything she’d done, how could he let her walk away?

Screw Minneapolis. She might claim to want a career change, but he knew her decision was motivated by insecurity. And that issue could be dealt with separately from their future. Could he convince her to stay? Maybe. Did he want her to stay? Definitely. But was it fair to ask her to turn down a job offer when he wasn’t sure he wanted—or was even capable of—a long-term relationship?

Claire was the first woman to really interest him since his fiancée had left. He didn’t want to miss out on something terrific with her, but he also didn’t want to have his heart shredded again.

His earpiece suddenly resonated with Gene’s low voice. “Suspect spotted on Elm, driving a light blue Camry sedan, and is headed for the target location. ETA five minutes.”

Finally.

Brent murmured into his mouthpiece, confirming that his colleagues inside the plant were in position and ready for action.

The seconds ticked by.

“Everybody, listen up,” Gene said. “Emotions are running high tonight, but if anybody’s contemplating a lone-wolf takedown, he risks endangering himself and his fellow agents. This is a team operation, and nothing else will be tolerated.”

Gene had directed his remarks to the entire group, but Brent suspected it was a personal warning. If the others hadn’t been listening in, he would have told his boss not to worry. He had rehearsed this operation countless times in his mind and believed its success depended on all of them executing their assigned tasks. He had no intention of deviating from the plan to settle a personal score with Forrester.

He felt the tension in the room mount as Gene continued his running commentary.

“Suspect is approaching our location.”

Half a minute later, “Suspect is pulling into the parking lot.”

Then, finally, “Suspect has left his vehicle.”

Brent withdrew his semiautomatic pistol from his holster and rested it against his jeans-clad thigh. Adrenaline raced through his veins. He forced his breathing to slow, his mind to focus. Soon he’d be face-to-face with the man who had murdered his mentor and best friend, Pete, as well as Harris and Langdon—both agents with promising futures—and who had almost killed Claire and himself.

Forrester’s threat to Claire was going to end tonight. He gripped his weapon tightly and waited.

The door on the south end of the building opened, and a funnel of light pierced the darkness. Forrester took his time directing the beam of his flashlight in a wide arc around him. The light moved methodically to each section of the plant. When the beam hit the printing press, Brent’s pulse leapt even though he knew he was well concealed and would cast no betraying shadow.

After a few minutes, Forrester seemed satisfied nothing was out of place and redirected the light to his destination: the office. Footsteps—quick and determined—echoed in the cavernous building.

Brent counted the steps until he heard the office door opening. The plan called for him to wait for Forrester to pick up the money and make it halfway back to the exit. At that point, Brent was to spring the trap. Forrester would be caught out in the open, unable to retreat into the office for cover or escape to the exterior.

Brent illuminated the face of his watch and monitored one minute ticking by and then another. What was Forrester doing? he fumed silently. Counting every damn bill?

Finally, the footsteps started again, more quickly this time. Now that Forrester had the money, he was obviously in a hurry to get the hell away.

At the count of twenty-five, Brent spoke into his mouthpiece, “Now.”

Ian Alston, who was responsible for rigging the breaker panel, responded by hitting the lights.

Forrester was illuminated in midstride, flashlight in his left hand and Sharratt’s canvas bag slung over his shoulder. His right hand immediately went for the gun holstered on his hip.

Stepping in front of the trapped man, Brent aimed his SIG Sauer. “Stop right there, Forrester.”

The guy let out a stream of expletives.

Five more agents, all with weapons drawn, fanned out around him.

Like a fish in a net, Brent thought with satisfaction. Forrester’s capture was worth every second of planning and waiting.

“You getting this, Gene?” he asked. Alston had set up a camera with the feed going to the surveillance van so Gene and Claire could witness the events playing out inside the plant.

“Oh, yeah.”

Brent directed his next words to Forrester. “You know the drill, but I’ll say it for the record. This is the FBI, and you are ordered to raise your hands above your head.”

Forrester didn’t move.

“I said raise your hands, you sonovabitch,” Brent said, advancing toward him. “Unless you want to add resisting arrest to the charges of extortion, murder, attempted murder and—”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Forrester interrupted. “All I did was break out of that damn psych hospital, which I should never have been sent to in the first place.”

“I’m talking about what you’ve been doing since you left Ridsdale.”

“I’ve been lying low.”

“Arson and bomb-setting are hardly lying low.”

“What am I supposed to have set on fire?”

“Your house.”

“What?”

Brent hadn’t expected a confession, but this I-don’t-understand act infuriated him. Did Forrester really think he could con his fellow agents?

“I was there. When the office caught fire, I nearly went up in flames, and Dr. Lamont suffered serious burns to her hand.” The memory of those burns—and the blisters they’d turned into a few days ago—made him even angrier.

“Whatever happened had nothing to do with me. I haven’t been able to get home for a week.”

“Then who knocked out McKenna and put the bullet in Harris’s brain?” he challenged. “Who blew up your rental unit?”

Forrester faltered for a moment, then shot back defiantly, “I have no idea.”

“Save it for the jury,” Brent said. “Now set your gun down on the floor and kick it toward me. Agent Starr is going to remove any other weapons you’re carrying.”

Brent saw Forrester glance at the man assigned to search and disarm him, a man he’d worked closely with. Obviously, Starr was thinking the same thing because he said, “I remember when you came to see me and my wife when my baby girl was born. You said I should spend more time at home, raise my daughter right. Now you’ve left Harris’s kids to grow up without their father.”

“You can’t believe that,” Forrester protested.

“Believe you’d turn against one of your own?” Brent interjected, wishing he could continue the interrogation in a locked room with no witnesses. But there was too much at stake to risk the consequences of breaking the rules. “Why not? Harris wasn’t even your first victim—Pete Sanderson was.”

“I didn’t murder him.”

“I’m not buying this innocent act.”

“You’ve got it all wrong….” His words trailed off as the exterior door opened.

Brent shot a quick glance in that direction to find Alec McKenna striding into the plant, his gun aimed squarely at Forrester. The agent’s arrival was unexpected, as he had been assigned to one of the mobile units tracking Forrester’s progress.

“I heard you were having some trouble, and I thought I might be able to help out,” McKenna offered by way of explanation. Then, to Forrester he said, “There’s no way out, Andy. It’s over.”

Forrester’s gaze darted from McKenna to Brent to the other armed men surrounding him. Brent had seen the same expression of fear and panic in the eyes of other criminals he’d arrested. Fight or flight usually followed.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Forrester.”

Forrester shook his head. “There’s so much you don’t know.”

A sense of unease skittered along Brent’s nerve endings. “We’ll talk about it later.”

If Forrester heard him, he didn’t give any indication. Instead, the man ran straight at him.

Shots rang out. Somebody shouted a warning.

Too late.

A bullet slammed into Brent’s chest.

As he fell to the ground, there was only one thought in his mind: Getting shot wasn’t part of the plan.