Sean stored the deflated mattress and made a final slow inspection around the office.

“You’ve totally outed us,” Gretch observed, standing between the knapsacks by the closed door. “Now it’s way cleaner than when we arrived.”

She munched a granola bar, looking freaking adorable in cargo shorts, no makeup, and a Cubs cap pulled low over her brow. Sure, she was a knockout in her skintight minis and stilettos, but this Gretch looked young, fresh…approachable.

“Why are you staring at me?” she demanded.

She’d never perceive his tomboy observation as a compliment, so he grasped for the usual insolence. “Because you’re dropping crumbs where I just vacuumed.” He pointed at her feet. “It’s like you’re a toddler.”

“We’re about to walk out the front door and potentially face a mafia hitman. I’d think you’d be less worried about cleaning.”

Sean let the comment lie and returned the dust rag and hand vac to the bathroom storage shelf. There was no threat. Jace would be out front in minutes. He’d convinced Sean last night what a stupid and reckless maneuver running off into the night had been, and Sean had lain awake for hours battling all-consuming guilt. Jace was right—as usual—and Sean had fucked things up again trying to be the hero. His brother would stick them somewhere safe until the task force finished the investigation. At the very least, Sean would have a whole day of Gretch to himself, which was probably more dangerous than facing terrorists. He allowed himself a smug grin and stripped the gauze off his wrists. Tiny razor-type lines encircled both wrists, but the cuts had scabbed overnight and barely hurt. He stuck the bandages in the mini garbage near the toilet and twisted the bag closed. “Do you think Hank will take this garbage? I hate leaving it for your director.”

“Focus, Sean. We’re in escape mode.”

Reluctantly, he left the bag where it was and flipped off the bathroom light. “Ready?”

She rolled her eyes and picked up her knapsack. They slipped into the foyer, and Gretch locked the office with the key Hank gave her, then handed it back with an envelope. “I don’t know when I’ll be back,” she said to him. “This is a note for one of the residents—would you make sure she gets it?” Hank nodded, and she kissed the tired man’s cheek. “Massive thanks, dreamboat.”

The security guard flushed and beamed. “Enjoy the day, folks.”

Sean held the front door for her, and they stepped out into the cloudless dawn. The residential street was empty and quiet. Traces of budding spring flowers and sweet, dewy grass permeated the morning air. Family SUVs and a few newspapers littered driveways as far as the eye could see. Far down the block, a man in a black Bulls sweatshirt jogged with a Great Dane.

“Think your brother can be talked into stopping by a Starbucks?” Gretch muttered, sitting on the top steps and adjusting her cap.

Seriously. Too cute. “You have a lot more influence than I do. You ask.” Sean draped his knapsack over his shoulder and walked to the curb, scanning the scene. Well-kept middle-class homes and low-rise condos stretched down the block, the lots uniform, the landscaping tidy. It all lent a surreal quality this early. Like that Jim Carrey mov—

Two men, concealed in black hoodies, stepped around the high shrubbery next door. Sean recognized the pungent body wash a second before he pegged the face, but it was already too late. Victor raised a 9mm pistol. “Get in the car.”

* * *

Jace parked the Suburban outside the shelter’s address and plucked the phone from the beverage holder. The new phone number Sean gave him last night rang unanswered. Jace flicked a glance at his watch. Seven on the nose. He unhooked his seatbelt and flung open the door, frowning up at the house.

Oversleeping was not Sean’s problem. As a kid he’d been a sleepwalker, causing Mom untold anxiety that he’d wander out into the city streets. Wasted energy in the end—all Sean ever did was clean the house, or gather anything on tables and counters and line them all up by size.

Jace grabbed the thick file off the passenger seat and opened the rear door. Three banker’s boxes stuffed with more money-laundering evidence waited. He’d stayed at the office most of the night, combing through two of the boxes, and could probably recite the pages verbatim. Of great interest were several small businesses Adyton either bought or sold from Salvatore Donatello. Collins had dotted other substantial lines between Adyton’s blood artifact smuggling and the mob cleaning the vast sums to smuggle offshore. Just wait until the task force heard about this. Jace jammed the file into its designated slot and slammed the door.

He vaulted up the front steps and pressed the buzzer next to the keypad. A male asked his business, and he answered with his credentials. The door clicked into unlock mode, and Jace strolled in. “Looking for Sean Quinn and Gretchen Allen,” he said to the compact security guard.

“They walked outta here about ten minutes ago.”

Shit. Adrenalin dumped into Jace’s bloodstream. He glanced at the security screens on the desk. “Did you see anything?”

“Guy stood at the curb looking down the street then called to Gretch. They both walked off screen.”

Before the guard was even through the explanation, Jace shook his head. Sean didn’t just walk off. He obeyed like a puppy, always had. It was why Jace had sought him out last Saturday night. And, as expected, Sean’s brilliance had delivered instantaneous results. Jace jerked his head at the monitors. “Let me see.”

The video replay showed exactly what the guard had seen—if you didn’t know Sean. His at-ease body language consisted of a slouchy looseness and an expression just shy of sullen. Both characteristics were prominently visible when Sean, knapsack slung over his shoulder, had reached the curb and glanced around. What the guard hadn’t picked up on was the subtle slide into what Cage used to call Sean’s Cornered Rat stance. The alert shifting of his posture, the way his expression shuttered. All precursors to usually impressive, whiplash-fast kicks and punches. This time, though, without looking at Gretch, Sean said something, and seconds later she rose from the top step, picked up her knapsack, and followed him past the row of hedges, off screen. “Play it back.”

No one was visible on the other side of the hedges, but seeing Sean morph into Cornered Rat a second time brought out the scorching flare of fear that Jace had battled all week. He should have never gotten his brother so deeply involved. The help at O’Hare had been enough. Now two more lives were in the hands of terrorists who had no qualms with savage executions. Jace sucked air in through his mouth, sweat streaming down his back.

Which faction of the underworld was responsible this time? Who else knew Sean and Gretch were sheltering here? On Sean’s request, Jace had notified Hannah that they were safe but hadn’t told her where. Only Margo knew.

Jace grew aware of the guard studying him curiously. Christ, how long had he stood there gaping indecisively? “Thanks,” he said, pivoting for the door.

Outside, the street was waking up for the week’s final workday. A screen door slammed; an SUV reversed out of the driveway catty-corner to the shelter; a woman in a housecoat a few doors down stooped to collect her newspaper. Jace rounded the thick hedges and stopped short. Footprints dented the dewy lawn leading from the driveway to the hedge. He crouched, combing the area for any other clues. Deep underneath the thick branches lay two black CFD Station One Twenty-six knapsacks.

He grabbed the bags and rifled through them. Sean’s burner phone lay on top of one, and Gretch’s phone was stuck inside a manila envelope in the other. No voicemail or texts on Sean’s to explain the disappearance. Jace turned Gretch’s phone on and paced while the device sought service. As expected, unread texts popped onscreen without needing her passcode. One from Dwayne Collins. Just before eight last night.

A deep chill shuddered through Jace as he read probably the last text that man had typed.

“Hell, Collins,” Jace muttered. “You were famous about fifteen minutes later.” He grabbed his own phone and called his boss.

Margo chirped out her usual cheerleader greeting, which triggered fresh rage and screwed with his usual ice-cold command of a situation. “Donatello is rolling on Adyton,” she crowed. “He’s supplied the old man with multiple warehouse spaces, has steered him into local investments that are shams for hiding money, and Donatello will turn state’s evidence. As soon as you collect Sean and Gretch, come right back to headquarters.”

“They’ve been kidnapped,” Jace snarled through his clenched jaw. “Who’d you leak the address to?”