“You’re family; you’re off this case.” Supervisory Special Agent Garcia swiveled from where he sat in the SWAT van, surrounded by other agents all active in the hostage crisis. Everyone had a role in saving Sean and the kids. Everyone except Jace.

“All I’m asking is to remain on the scene, sir.” Sweat soaked his suit, as if the rage and helplessness had nowhere to go except through every pore. He met his commander’s glower with the intensity of a twice-decorated former SEAL. He wasn’t fucking slinking home and popping a beer while this went down. The glory of the painting find had been snatched from his grasp, which was why Garcia’s boss, SAC Webb, wasn’t on this scene. Handing over the credit to the top brass had been a professional blow, but not like this—not knowing how to save Sean’s life and lay waste to whoever was responsible.

The moment crystalized to just the two of them: the clash of wills between a red-tape policy-and-procedure wonk and a retired SEAL who knew how to get things done. Around them, the glow of the monitors and the squawk of walkie-talkies lent a surreal quality, like the kidnapping was just a Hollywood bit. Pass the popcorn.

The SSA jabbed his finger at a chair in the corner. “Don’t make me regret this. No interference, no heroics. You know the drill.”

Jace swallowed a caustic reply and sat at the edge of the hard vinyl. Immediately his right knee pistoned, another body part protesting the inaction. He clamped a palm on his quad muscle and squeezed. Out the tinted windows, Randy’s Dojo was deceptively empty and lit in welcome. The lone person by the door was the hostage negotiator, a bald guy who could’ve been a Bears linebacker. At the moment, he tapped the bullhorn against his thigh. No one within had responded to his requests to set up communication. Crowds of lookie-loos strained against the secured perimeter of waist-high metal gates. A sea of media spotlights blended with the cruiser blues. No doubt all five sets of parents were gathered somewhere nearby. A chopper circled overhead, blinding everyone with its beam and scattering litter in the downdraft.

Jace’s phone rang. Caller ID: Private. “Quinn,” he barked.

“You have my painting,” a man calmly said. “And I have your brother. May I suggest a trade?”

Heat flash-banged through him. It had been over an hour of trying to communicate with whoever was behind this, determine what they wanted. Mission accomplished. It was their worst-nightmare scenario: Donatello, notorious for his lack of human compassion, had Sean. Jace stared blankly at the negotiator pacing in front of the dojo like a caged tiger. No one had answered; no one had even appeared. Where were Donatello and Sean?

“Proof of life,” he said, thankful his voice didn’t tremble. Garcia whipped around from his command post four feet away.

“Jace?” Sean’s voice sounded strained. “Is Gretch all right?”

The last word was barely audible, the phone snatched away. Garcia was shaking his head and holding out his hand. You know the drill. Like hell Jace was going to hand over his own phone and have Garcia negotiate. He held up a finger, defying his boss. He could do this. “Let all the boys walk out safely right now, and we’ll talk.”

Donatello hung up. Horror punctured Jace’s lungs. His body misread his racing heart and pumped out more sweat. He lowered the phone in the thick silence and met his SSA’s eyes.

“There’s a reason you’re not in hostage negotiations, Jace,” Garcia said quietly. “It’s an art, and it takes unfathomable patience and fortitude under pressure. I get that, as a SEAL, you think that’s an innate talent, but not in this case. Especially when it’s your brother you’re negotiating for. You are the special program to show Webb we can hire vets working on degrees. Don’t blow it.”

Jace nodded once. Garcia held out his hand a second time, and Jace handed over his phone. “It was Donatello.”

Garcia nodded. A few seconds later, the phone rang. Garcia pressed the speakerphone icon and answered with his full credentials.

“Felix,” Donatello drawled. “It’s been a long time. How’s Mary?”

“The twins keep her busy.” Garcia’s tone was light and friendly, although the strain showed in his tight jaw. “And Sylvia?”

Jace rubbed his mouth. Seriously? An SSA and mob boss were chitchatting over the laundry line? He couldn’t register the words as Donatello answered. He didn’t care about Sylvia and Mary. He had to get to Sean! And Gretch. Wherever she was, she was a sitting duck.

“So. How can we put an end to this and get back to our wives?” Garcia said calmly as he stared at the dojo.

“A painting was taken from me.”

“Is this the same painting that was taken from the Isabella Gardner museum?”

Donatello laughed. “I didn’t steal it, although I know who did. I bought it last year, and it cost me plenty. I’d like it returned.”

Jace closed his eyes and listened to any noise over the line that would give away their location. An ambulance siren several blocks south of the SWAT van screamed down Cicero, but it didn’t come through the phone line. He heard a faint sniff. Then another. He frowned.

Back when he was a teen—probably fourteen or fifteen—he’d had to babysit his four brothers. He’d been studying Morse code for Scouts, and to keep his rough-and-tumble brothers from burning the house down, he’d made a game of seeing which one could learn it the fastest and find the most creative way to use it.

The winner? Sean. Age four. He’d sniffed the entire alphabet. He was already reading and writing by then, a child prodigy, but shit, had the other three been pissed. And Sean’s method was authentic enough that the next day in the kitchen, when he sniffed Jace a message—cookie please—their mom had promptly stuck a thermometer in Sean’s mouth.

Jace grabbed a pen. A longer sniff, so real it sent chills down Jace’s spine. Silence. So that was short–short–long. U.

“You know we can’t give you the painting back, Sal.” Sniff sniiff. “How do we get the boys home to their mothers?” Sniiff sniff.

P.

“We’re at an impasse, then, my friend. I can have a boy’s body brought out.”

“That’s not necessary. But how about we bring in a couple of pizzas for them while you and I keep talking?”

Jace focused every ounce of energy on sniffs that anyone else would take for allergies.

UPST. Upstairs? Jace grabbed binoculars and scanned the one-story dojo. Was there an attic space? A way out up there? Heart drumming a hollow beat, he showed the pad with the letters to his boss and gestured for Garcia to draw the conversation out. His SSA gazed at him in concern.

“I think the press needs a little feeding, Felix,” Donatello said.

The SSA turned his attention back to the dojo. “I’m not sending pizzas to those vultures.”

“More like the press should film someone. Set an example. I’ll have the little boys count off, and you pick a number from one to five.”

Garcia chuckled, although perspiration beaded his forehead and the pen in his hand trembled. Jace gestured again. Keep him talking! Garcia didn’t blink his attention away from the red mats.

Jace studied his pad. UPSTLCNTL. What the fuck?

“Pick me,” Sean piped up in the background. This time Sal chuckled.

“You wouldn’t make the ten o’clock news, son. Murdered children make headlines.”

“I’m a fourth-degree black belt. Only sixty-five people in the world have achieved that.”

Jace jerked from studying the nonsensical words. Sixty-five? What kind of an asinine lie… Sixty-five.

He wrote the number on the pad and black, because Sean emphasized the color again. Sean never talked about being a black belt. It was his hidden superpower—like he enjoyed people underestimating him. OCD nerd, no special talent here, folks.

“I don’t care if you have every color belt under the rainbow,” Donatello said.

Come on, Sean. What are you trying to tell me? Jace scratched his ear violently, parsing out the letters and numbers again. He was running out of time. A boy’s death would be on his hands…

UPSTLCNTL65black. Think like Sean. The light bulb went off. His jaw sagged. Garcia squinted at the jumbled letters and shook his head. Jace scribbled:

Up the street. Lincoln Continental ’65, black.

He dropped the pen and shouldered his way out of the van. One thing about Sean: his need to be precise drove people out of their minds. But this time it was a freaking asset. If Sean and Donatello were up the street, then they were a block north. Not two blocks or three, and not in any other direction. That was how Sean’s disorder worked.

But it meant Donatello was close enough to see the whole circus. Jace would head south, immerse into the crowd of gawkers behind the police lines, then cross two intersections over and come at the ’65 black Lincoln Continental from behind.

Catching them off guard required stealth. He was a SEAL. This he could do.