Nash felt his rain-soaked shirt cling to the gun wedged inside his waistband. He was still scared, but something had turned inside him, and he was ready now.

Bartley would’ve handled it the right way from the beginning. They’d been partners until Bartley got the nod and moved over to SWAT as a sergeant, and then got the bump to detective. Nash had always felt short-changed, been sure he was every bit as good as Bartley, but now he recognized that wasn’t true: Bartley had always been willing to take that one step further, to do whatever it took to get the job done. And even now, he was the one calling the shots.

The cell phone still felt warm in his pocket. Nash knew that Bartley was right: he had to kill Deb and Dr. Jenner—they were witnesses.

Bartley had been putting together his assault team since Nash’s first call, but he still needed at least another half hour. A half hour gave Brodie too much time to get antsy about Deb and Jenner still being alive, so Nash had to get rid of them right away.

And now, Bartley was thinking much bigger, making a much bigger play. Bartley’s plan would solve all their problems: all the evidence, all the threat, any witness who could tie them to the drugs would be gone.

And they’d be rich.

Because Bartley and Nash were going to take all the money in the farmhouse, every last fucking penny.

Just the money—there’d be drugs, too, but SWAT would need something to show for the raid, and an assault team in full gear, posing with H&K MP5s and Baker Batshields in front of seized assault rifles and stacked bricks of white powder makes for great TV. And Bartley and Nash would kill all the bad guys, make sure none of Brodie’s crew made it out alive. Nash would kill that arrogant scumbag Brodie himself. Then they’d find and hide the money, and they’d be free and clear, sitting on…well, who knew just how many millions the operation had stashed at the farm?

Everything had to go smoothly, starting with Nash’s own part in the script. All he had to do was get past that first step.

It was a big one.

He didn’t want them to suffer when he killed them; he’d known Deb since kindergarten. He tried to think of a way to kill them separately, without the other having any clue: he couldn’t think of one. Maybe if he took Jenner outside first, took him down by the water…

As Nash walked back toward the shed, he began to cry. He tried to stop it, but he couldn’t, it was all just too much. How had it ever come to this?

He squatted on the dock; he told himself, After this, it’s all finished—just one more hour and I’m out, done with this forever. Rich.

The rain was cold on his face and skin, on his scalp.

His arm shook as he reached back to check that his shirttail still covered the gun; when he pressed the Glock against his clammy skin, it felt solid and real again, a promise, a guarantee he could get through this. And he told himself it was them or him, and he breathed more comfortably.

Because it wasn’t going to be him.