“That’s a pretty dress.” Parker helped Angel sit and lifted her feet onto his lap. “I like pink.”

His little love beamed at him and rubbed her belly. “Good to know.”

Snooki yipped at his feet. She was being ignored, and the little fuzzball was annoyed. He bent over Angie’s legs, picked the little dog up, and handed her off.

“Watch,” Angie said. She took the black and white menace and set her atop their baby bump. “She balances.”

Parker eyed the stupid dog, and the stupid dog eyed him back with a yawn.

“Oh, god. I forgot to tell you.” He sniggered while rubbing her feet. “Got an email from Finn. He wants us to know that one month out from our due date, he won’t be around much.”

She frowned. “Why?”

“The pussy is afraid you’ll go into labor and stick him with delivering another Justice kid.”

“Yeah?” Angie gave him some excellent eyeshade. “Well, while I’m not thrilled with the idea of Beantown with his hands near my hoo-ha, the idea that he’d save the day and earn your forever gratitude smells delicious.”

He found her statement and dry delivery adorably cute and funny.

“What?” she muttered. “Parker, I know you. What?”

He massaged the arch of one foot and chuckle-smirked. “He needs a shingle.”

“A what?”

“You know,” he explained. “A shingle. Um, like a doctor’s shingle. Know what I mean?”

She laughed. “No, but you sound enthused so please”—she winked—“continue.”

How to explain the prank he saw in his mind? Hmm.

“Picture this. Wood sign. Something rustic and made to look old. Something that would blend in at the bar.”

“Oh!” Angie giggled. “I get it now.”

“Yeah, yeah. Dr. Ginger Beantown. Bendover’s Official Unofficial Gynecologist.”

Angie socked his arm. “Hey!” he squawked.

“Obstetrician not gynecologist. Big difference.”

“Oh, right. My bad. But you see it. Right?”

“Poor Finn,” was all he got from her.

“Poor Finn, my ass.”

Snooki winked at him. No! Really. That happened.

“Say, honey. What did you want to talk to Alex about?”

One distinct advantage of knowing his wife since the day she was born was Parker’s knowledge of her facial expression. He wasn’t clairvoyant and certainly wasn’t insinuating he had an earthly clue where women were concerned, but he knew an Angelina dodge when one flickered across her expression.

She reflexively inspected her manicure like a doctor studying an X-ray. “Oh, um, nothing. It was nothing. Just some Christmas stuff I was thinking about.”

Just some Christmas stuff. Pfft. Hardly. Even with the decorations and holiday music, Alex was likely to forget about the looming holiday. Practical shit wasn’t his forte, making him the last person to consult. It was probably a good thing that he canceled their meeting.

He let it go and lifted her other foot. “This little piggy …” He chuckled while pulling a toe.

She giggled and jerked her leg in reaction. “Don’t tickle, please! You’ll make me pee.”

Angie’s constant fear of peeing herself was something he wanted to include in their kid’s baby book. The bigger she got, the more she fretted about things like bladder control, passing gas, and what her feet looked like. It was both funny and a reminder that guys had it too easy when it came to having a baby.

Like a well-trained husband focused on soothing his pregnant wife, he casually complimented her pedicure. Her grateful smile said it all.

“Roman’s looking good,” she told him with a half smile.

She was fishing. The women didn’t overlook Bishop’s appearance in Bendover a day ahead of Kelly. They’d all commented one way or another. He made the stupid mistake of shifting awkwardly, a dead giveaway that he didn’t want to discuss it.

But his Angel was a smart cookie. He knew her, and she knew him like a roadmap she’d been studying and memorizing for thirty years. Hammering at him outright wasn’t going to get results. He was a lawyer capable of standing tough in a verbal barrage, so she went with another tactic, and goddammit if she didn’t strike a nerve right away.

“He’s awfully hunky all of a sudden. Kelly says he works out around the clock.”

Jesus tap-dancing on his last jealous nerve Christ. He scowled at her while she did that pouty smirky smile thing she excelled at.

Parker surrendered without a fight. “I will tell you whatever you’re fishing for if you promise to stop intentionally trying to make me snap like a jealous loser. It’s emasculating, it works, and I don’t like it.”

She sat straight and tried to lean toward him, but her belly got in the way. He met her more than halfway and heard his soul sigh when she took his face in her hands and kissed him tenderly.

“Jealousy is a nice shade for you, but where Roman is concerned, have no fear. I can’t belong to anyone but you, Parker. It’s written in the stars. I’ve never, and I could never look at anyone the way I do you.”

“Not even Ryan Reynolds? I heard you tell Sophie you thought he was super hot.” Did his voice sound whiny and petulant? Wow.

“Oh heavens, well, he’d be fun to talk to. Clever repartee being what it is and all. But you’re the only man I think about. Dream about.”

Angie swung her legs off his lap. Snooki moved to immediately sit on him, and he glared at the fuzzball.

“She needs to go out. But no treats, Parker! She’s getting pudgy, and Dr. Hunter said we have to watch it.”

“But she won’t go out unless I lure her with a cookie.”

Her gaze beneath one perfectly arched Angelina Sullivan eyebrow regarded him with sympathy.

“What are you saying? She’s too heavy to carry? You don’t like to bend over? The dog scares you?”

Pfft! He grunted. “She’s a manipulative ball of annoying fuzz. If I try to pick her up, she makes me chase her. It’s easier and saves me time just to lure the little shit with a treat.”

Angie reacted like a character in a rom-com, gasping with outrage and covering the damn dog’s ears.

“Don’t call her a shit. You’ll hurt her feelings.”

Snooki smirked. He did a double take to be sure he saw correctly.

“Your phone is ringing.”

He glanced across the room at his phone on the table by the front door. The ringtone was the “Imperial March” from Star Wars.

“You didn’t get what you wanted about Roman,” he mumbled.

He ran to the phone and hit the answer button. It was Alex calling, but the guy could chill his balls while he finished talking to Angie.

“I didn’t want anything.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

She shrugged and flipped her hair. “I don’t know. I guess because I’m Alex’s sister, notice things others don’t, and I’m not stupid. Roman flew in solo. He went straight to the compound. A place where you also disappeared to in the middle of the day.”

He swallowed. She stared him down. “Asking was my way of having your back. Team Sullivan.” She smiled. “Take your call, and I’ll handle the mean, old doggie.”

Snooki yipped as though she understood and ran for the kitchen door with his adorably waddling wife on the dog’s heels.

“What’s up?” he barked into the phone.

“It’s started,” Alex said in a dead sounding tone.

“Are you ready?”

“Ready enough. Zimmerman will be the first to go down.”

Parker was not surprised to hear this. The guy was a low-level pain in the ass. “Have you spoken to Domineau yet?

“I was waiting her out, but we’ve run out of time.”

“Dude,” Parker growled. “How are you keeping all this straight?”

“Caffeine and fear.”

“Are we still jamming tonight?”

“Yeah. We all need the distraction. Duke is on it.”

Distraction could be a good thing. “Shit is coming to a head.”

“Is my sister all right? I never heard from her after canceling our get-together.”

Parker’s antennae went up. “Is there a reason she wouldn’t be?”

“No.”

“Well, okay then. She’s my responsibility, Alex. Relax. I’ve got this.”

“Kiki,” Matty asked through a mouth stuffed with spaghetti. “Why do you win at pool?”

Kelly shrugged and looked at Roman. “I’m not sure. Luck, maybe? My brain sees stuff like trajectories. And it’s kind of like hunting. Where you aim the shot makes a difference.”

“Can you teach me?”

“I guess,” she answered teasingly. “But when you’re taller. So you can see the whole table.”

She was careful to say taller and not older. Matty wasn’t thrilled about his age.

“Can you show me how to shoot a gun, Dad?”

Roman looked at Matty, put his fork down, and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Depends on why you want to learn.”

“What’s that mean?”

Curious how Roman would handle this subject, she idly picked at a hunk of cheesy bread and observed the guy-to-guy interaction.

“Well, Matthew, it means that guns are serious business. They aren’t toys, and they aren’t video game weapons.”

“You won’t let me play games,” Matty reminded him.

“You have enough to keep you busy without putting a controller in your hands.”

“Bella’s daddy says the same thing only he usually ends with go outside and play.”

She snicker-coughed and reached for her glass of water.

Roman never flinched. “Well, Uncle B is right. The world is a big place with plenty to do. You’ll learn a lot more playing outside than sitting in front of the television or a computer.”

Matty scoffed. “The Major is king of ’puters. He said.”

“And who am I to disagree?” Roman boomed with laughter at Matty’s cool burn of Alex. “If the big guy says it, then it must be true.”

They quickly glanced at each other. Silent communication was a parental skill they were perfecting. Both of them were privately hoping and praying that Alex’s intuition and internal GPS were kicking ass and taking names.

Rafe knocked on Domineau’s door but got no answer. He thought about using his key, but fear of catching Becca coming out of the shower or anything like that stopped the idea.

Domineau’s truck was in the driveway next to Becca’s shitty van, meaning they were both at home.

Rubbing his bald head, he pulled off his sunglasses and wiped them on his T-shirt as he pondered what to do.

Music floated on the air from the yard, but the recent installation of a six-foot wood fence blocked his view.

Well, he thought. There was only one way around that.

He scooted around the front of Domineau’s vehicle, found the partially hidden pull on the gate door, and yanked.

Somewhere in the neighborhood, a dog barked.

Scanning the oddly shaped yard, he noted the mismatched secondhand patio furniture gathered haphazardly around a flimsy metal fire pit and couldn’t help but chuckle. It reminded him of Afghanistan and Iraq. Team Justice was known for creative group spaces and finding Domineau recreating the tableau brought back a lot of memories.

A husky voice was singing from the garage. Curious, he crept closer and peeked around the corner of the half-open door. The next sound was his jaw hitting the ground.

Up on a workbench next to a bitchin’ vintage car stood Domineau sporting jeans that made his heart race because the view from behind was mesmerizing.

A sound system at concert level was playing a classic Beatles song, and his very hot girlfriend was doing her best John Lennon to “All I’ve Gotta Do.” As a matter of fact, she had the rock legend’s iconic wide-legged stance and distinctive up and down bop down pat. He was impressed. And know who else would be hella impressed? His mom because she was an avid Beatles aficionado.

It was a short song, but long enough for him to almost swallow his tongue when she performed a butt twerking stripper move down into a crouch before swaying her hips on the way back up.

And then it was over, and he didn’t know whether to applaud or back away slowly for fear she’d kill him for catching her in a private moment.

The next song guaranteed he’d opt for what was behind door number three—the voyeur seat.

Every goddamn time she made him watch Bridesmaids—supposedly because she love, love, loved Melissa McCarthy’s portrayal of an unfiltered CIA analyst—she got completely into a scene at the end with Wilson Phillips singing “Hold On.” He didn’t need Roman’s interrogator experience to know the song was significant, and right this second, his lady was singing her heart out into a wrench microphone. When she held up a single finger to signify one more day, a cannon blast went off in his heart.

Holy god. He remembered an R&R weekend in Honolulu when she marched into a tattoo parlor and demanded to be inked. He’d given her shit, but she wasn’t hearing it. An hour later, she showed him what looked like a line or a dash on her wrist. It was small and practically invisible, so he’d thought she wimped out and said so. After punching him in the arm, she snarled that it was the number one and wagged her finger in his face.

This must be her song, and every minute of every day that he’d known her, she was hanging on one day at a time.

Domineau Rivera was the strongest fragile human he’d ever known.

He couldn’t back away after this. It wouldn’t be honest, and if they were truly going to make this thing between them work, he was all about honesty with her.

In the brief silent lull between songs, he pushed on the wood door, hoping it made a sound. It did, and the unexpected intrusion sent Domineau into attack mode. She jumped off the workbench and whirled around. When she saw him and froze, he froze too.

Keith Urban started to sing. The loud sound made her break eye contact when she frantically dashed to her music device and turned it off.

Rafe could feel her uncertainty. It was enough that he announced his presence. He didn’t need to rub her nose in what he witnessed.

He pushed his sunglasses up to his head, stepped into the garage, and shut the door the whole way. The vintage muscle car in the center of the structure was a stunner. He saw this kind of thing on those auto auction shows that always caught his attention on satellite TV.

She spun around in slow motion, and she was biting her lip. He led her off the ledge by turning the focus from what he witnessed to what was in front of him.

“Is this your dad’s car? Matty told me,” he added with a chuckle when she looked surprised.

“Yeah, it is.” She smiled a little and rolled a shoulder. Her lashes swept down across her flushed cheekbones. “He was always tinkering with it.”

He approached her cautiously like you would a frightened animal. “It’s a Chevelle, right?”

In a voice rich with pride, she quietly exclaimed, “1970 Chevrolet Chevelle SS 454. This little lady is the queen of V-8 muscle.” 

No joke, he was impressed by the dark blue car with a righteous black stripe that dared other cars to look so cool.

“It’s fantastic,” he gushed enthusiastically. “Do you drive it?”

“Uh, sure. Sometimes.”

He saw her eyes dart to a bulletin board above a shifty looking chair.

They both moved at the same time, converging at the board after coming from different directions. He saw what she was trying to hide right away.

“Domineau! Fuck!”

“Now, Dallas, come on. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Really?” he snarled. “Well, it looks to me like you took a fucking selfie while my daughter sat on your lap and drove this thing.”

“She wasn’t really driving.”

“Yes, she was. I can see the damn speedometer!”

Her expression startled. “Really?” She leaned in for a closer look. “Oops.”

His ire got worse when he found another picture of Molly. Only this time, she was posed on the hood of the car like she was in a Whitesnake video.

“Is this what you two do when I’m not around?” He was barking like a madman.

“Actually,” she said through a laugh, “sometimes we play Barbies, and sometimes we clean guns.”

He exploded. “What?”

Domineau transformed into a giggling clown. She made fun of his outrage before whipping the sunglasses off his head and tossing them away so she could wrap her arms around his neck and caress his bald head.

“Easy, big guy. Molly is safe with me. I-I love her,” she hurriedly admitted before kissing him with a lot of tongue.

Domineau loved Molly.

He kissed her back and took over.

Domineau loved Molly.

The kissing got damn serious. She boldly rubbed him through his pants.

“Let’s get in the back seat.” She took his hand and pulled him to the car.

He pushed her against the cool metal and ground his pelvis into hers while they kissed some more.

Her hands got busy with his belt. He tore her T-shirt off and did away with the god-awful stretchy sports bra so he could latch on to a nipple. She whimpered and was panting heavily. Her fingers did a shit job of getting into his pants. Rafe smiled, knowing her desire for him was causing the problem.

“Open the door,” he growled between biting her nipples and unzipping her jeans.

She fumbled with the door handle but got it open on the second try. “Lose the sneakers,” he told her. She kicked them off, and then he yanked on her jeans and shoved them down her legs.

Now, in his defense, he used to make serious wads of cash getting half-naked in front of mostly drunk women, so he’d be justified in imagining he had some smooth moves. Though getting Domineau’s sweet ass into the back seat of her daddy’s car looked more like the Two Stooges than a Magic Mike routine, but he did it and then jumped on top of her and slammed the car door.

There was a lot of heavy breathing and panting. Hands were everywhere. She achieved an acrobatic move that ended with his pants and briefs down around his knees. He kissed her everywhere. She reciprocated as much as she could.

Her panties frustrated him, so he simply pulled them aside in his haste to be inside her. And then he started moving.

It was a grunt and groan tour de force. He used the top of the back seat for leverage and thrust with all the power he had in his hips.

“Oh, god, Rafe,” she moaned. He was damn glad she knew his name.

“Legs up, baby. I need more room.”

Her lusty grunt when she pulled her knees up and he unleashed the fury was the beginning of a fast and furious end.

Rafe kissed her with all the fierceness he had to give. She responded with equal passion. Her arms around his neck held on tight, and her hips chased his on every stroke.

She yelled hoarsely, “Fuck,” and came with a series of loud grunts. His cock responded by flooding her mind-blowing pussy with his essence. He jerked, and his hips bucked through a blinding finish that robbed him of oxygen and sent him hurtling into ecstasy.

Completely wiped out, he slumped on top of her. She held tight and panted. Several minutes passed. The sexual heat inside the car started to cool. His cock throbbed a few more times.

And then she giggled. Domineau Rivera giggled. Really and truly giggled. When Rafe found the strength to lift his head, she was chewing her bottom lip and laughing.

“What?” he asked.

“We just had sex in the back seat of my dad’s car.”

Should he apologize? Was their coupling a sacrilege?

Her laughter suggested not.

Then he got it. Domineau and her dad never got the father-daughter dating experience. Screwing her boyfriend in the guy’s car must feel like a surprise connection.

He felt honored to have done the deed.

The self-conscious embarrassment continued when he left her body and realized her panties didn’t survive their frantic fucking. They bumped heads and wrestled a bit until they separated. She was naked except for some shredded underwear, and he had a T-shirt on, though his pants were around his knees. When he leaned back and raised his hips to pull the pants up, his happy cock, sticky with their passion, lay on his stomach. Domineau blushed and looked away while he struggled to find his dignity.

When he pushed the car door open and stuck his head out to look around and make sure they hadn’t been discovered, everything about the scene felt like an interlude in a parked car on some remote lover’s lane.

He found the whole thing delightfully perfect.

Halfway pulled together, he stood and helped her from the car. Scrambling around, they looked for her shoes, T-shirt, bra, and jeans. He had to laugh when she wiggled out of the ripped panties, gave him a look, and then tossed them in the trash.

“I shouldn’t be the one going commando,” she mock grumbled.

He pitched the horribly boring and serviceable sports bra into the trash alongside the panties.

“Now it’s true commando.”

“Fuck you.” She chuckled.

She was trying to fix her hair when she looked at him quizzically. “Why did you stop by?”

Oh, right. Shit. He almost forgot.

“There was an incident at the Villa. Zimmerman showed his hand, and Alex took him down. Drae, Roman, and I are taking him into the desert after nightfall.”

Her brows shot up. “Is Alex okay?”

“He is, but his dog took a hefty kick.”

“Is this it?” she asked.

“I think so,” he gravely replied.

“There’s something I should tell you.”

“Why am I not surprised?

“Let’s go in the house. I need a trip to the bathroom while you make coffee.”

Why the hell did her hair look like a fright wig?

Spitting toothpaste into the sink, Domineau scowled at her reflection in the mirror. The after-sex blush remained on her cheeks, and she was sporting a dangerous hickey on her neck that was going to be impossible to disguise. She touched the distinctive mark with slightly trembling fingers, and dammit if she didn’t feel that wicked quiver deep inside—the one that said she wanted more of Rafe’s fierce lovemaking.

Wait, what? Her eyes flew up, and she met her gaze in the mirror.

What the hell, Domineau?

The question came from her normally disinterested conscience and made her wince. She had no defense against the speed and regularity with which she applied the words love and lovemaking to her situation with Rafe.

Situation. She scoffed at the word. This wasn’t a situation. It was a five-alarm barn burner. Torching her decades-long fidelity to never letting emotions get in the way was inevitable on the one hand, but on the other, she was operating outside her comfort zone. And why? Because of a bald giant and his sweet little girl—two people who quite impossibly loved Domineau far more than she deserved.

Taking a solid, deep breath, she gave up trying to do something with her hair, wiped her hands one last time, and went to find Rafe. The smell of coffee hanging in the air made him easy to locate. She just followed her nose.

At the end of the hallway, she passed Pywakett in her basket atop a high bureau where she crammed the five drawers with junk and shit and stuff and things. The real purpose for the secondhand furniture was to give the stupid cat a perch from which she could observe.

If any man other than Rafael D’Alessandro ever looked at her the way he did, she’d smack the shit out of him, but when he gave her a sweeping down and up inspection that lingered, her heart skipped a beat.

The knowing grin was tempered by the presence of her roommate. She checked out the sniffling woman. “Jesus, Becca. You look like shit.”

Becca barked like a seal, blew her nose into a wad of tissues, and gave Domineau a look that suggested she didn’t care how she looked.

“Hidden benefit of divorce. Nobody gives a shit when you feel and look like shit.”

A quick glance at Rafe’s expression revealed his sadness over Rebecca Tate’s comment. No one deserved to be treated the way her husband had treated her. Cheating might have been easier to handle than being jettisoned because her military obligations were an inconvenient to a guy with the loyalty of a dead cockroach.

“I give a shit,” Domineau grumbled. She shoved Rafe’s heavy body out of the way to get into the silverware drawer. He shifted just enough. When he ran his hand up and down her arm, the gesture was comforting. No one understood better than him how hard it was for her to care about people.

“Well, thanks.” Becca honked. She sounded like a commercial for cold medication. “Cut out early from work. Stephanie sent me home with some Tylenol and a bottle of some nasty tasting cough syrup. Blech.”

Attacking a container of yogurt Rafe placed on the counter for her, Domineau asked the obvious. “Where’s the kid?”

“Babysitting duty,” Becca wheezed before letting off a loud sneeze. “I think half of Bendover will be at Pete’s tonight.”

“Yep,” Rafe drawled. “Tonight, the shit starts getting wild.”

Becca shrugged. There could be a parade of naked dancing men, free drinks, and baskets of cash passed around at Pete’s, and the woman would still find a way to avoid a gathering. Domineau didn’t bother to give her shit about it because she’d done the same damn thing for years and years.

The sick woman gathered an armload of crap and stuffed huge handfuls of tissues plucked from a box into the pocket of her robe. “I’ll be face down in bed if anyone needs me.”

“Do you need help?” Rafe quickly asked. “Lemme carry something for you.”

“Nah, nah, I’m good. Thanks.” She coughed up half a lung, made an apologetic face, and scurried away.

“Feel like you need an antibacterial shower because of the germs she released?” Domineau snickered after Becca cleared the room.

Rafe chuckled. “I’ve got a kid in public school. Germs are everywhere. Maintaining everyday health is the best barrier.”

“You sound like a spokesman for a health magazine.”

“It’s my job,” he drawled. “I didn’t get this kickass physique by drinking soda, eating processed shit, or chowing down on fast food. Although the western bacon chee from Carl’s Junior kind of rocks my world.”

She scraped the bottom of the yogurt container and grumbled. “Two more spoonsful would make this serving perfect.”

Reaching behind Rafe’s back as he leaned against the counter, she plucked a banana off the fruit stand and jumped out of her skin when he stroked her ass and teased, “Nom, nom, nom.”

She elbowed him away and laughed. “You’re a sick fuck.”

“Why? Because I love your ass or because you know what I want to do to it?”

“I hate you.” She smirked.

“By the way,” he added with pointed glee. “Nice love bite.”

She grabbed his crotch and grinned. “Why is it that you get to bite, but I don’t?”

His amused grin and soft chuckle felt so right.

“All right, you cheeky wench, sit down and tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Pour.” She gestured with her head at the coffeemaker while making a production out of peeling the banana. Rafe watched her with clear amusement—especially when she wrinkled her nose for effect and bit into the banana in slow motion.

“Do that from your knees, and we’re never leaving this kitchen.”

Domineau winked. “We have an audience problem. My house, your house, always somebody around.”

They got situated at the kitchen table with coffee and day-old croissants from the neighborhood market. She didn’t beat around the bush and went straight for it.

“You know already that I’ve got something,” she began.

“Was kind of obvious after the other night.” There was no hint of accusation for keeping it to herself or sulky bullshit over some perceived slight.

“Not sorry. You know my process. It’s not my way to talk shit to death.”

“You didn’t hear a complaint from me, babe. We’ve been down this road plenty of times.”

“Okay, so here’s where we are.” She wet her lips and sat straighter. “The way-back machine on rewind. Anbar. The operation when your team got outed.”

His eyes widened a fraction. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah.” She sighed. Domineau figured she didn’t have to say another word. He was already revisiting the seek and destroy operation that went terribly wrong and compromised his team.

“The rescue. Was that you?” He sounded flabbergasted, and she knew why. Getting Rafe and his team to safety had been a bloody ordeal. It wasn’t just the mullah with the dead nephew or the irrefutable fact that she went too far in trying to cover her tracks and had an entire compound blown to smithereens in the process. It was the aftermath, the investigation, and the alarming speed with which Rafe’s service to the country came to an abrupt end. Sanford Backus was a little turd, but Bracken? That guy was a giant mass of explosive diarrhea. He couldn’t mess with Domineau and didn’t try. Not really. But he maneuvered behind the scenes to circumvent the DOJ stuff, and because he was a mean motherfucker, he simply pulled the plug on Rafe’s career.

“Yes.” She gestured with her hands, palms up. “Here it is. All of it. Sawyer sent me a message when your team went silent. I don’t answer for or explain anything that dude does, so don’t ask for clarification. He pointed me in the right direction, and I took it from there.”

“Uh, did you … I mean to ask … was this a rogue situation?”

“Oh, fuck yeah. The whole way.”

“Wow.”

“There’s more. Do you remember why you guys were sent to Anbar?”

He squinted at her and frowned. “Kill bad guys?”

“That’s what I thought.” She nodded and released a heavy sigh. “You didn’t even know. I hate those fuckers.”

“Which ones? Military, government, or civilian?”

She kept going because he needed to see the bigger picture. It took her some time to find it, but Domineau was sure she had a piece to the puzzle.

“You were the unwitting backup to a four-man team dropped into a safe house not far from the operational headquarters of a powerful mullah.”

“Same shit, different day,” Rafe muttered.

“So it would seem,” she continued. “But something dirty was going on. The mullah knew stuff. Stuff the military and some government fuckers didn’t want getting out. When his usefulness was overshadowed by his knowledge, he had to be put down.”

“Wait,” Rafe growled. “What are you saying?”

“Hold on to your ass because this ride is about to get bumpy.”

“Goddammit.”

“The four-man team? I’m not one hundred percent sure, and no way am I going to sniff around and rouse suspicion, but I bet you a blow job that Brody Jensen was the shooter. It was one thing to target a civilian for political purposes but another thing altogether if the team sent to do the deed was captured or killed. Your team was supposed to take the heat. When the other side rounded you up, the situation went into maximum overdrive. Those fuckers planned to sacrifice one team to maintain the secrecy of the other.”

“Hold on. What? Shit, Domineau. I’m losing the plot.”

“Jensen was an asset. They pulled him back in. Why? Because he was the only one who could pull off what they’d planned. Snuffing the mullah was critical.”

“Okay. I think I see what you’re getting at. My guys were target practice.”

“Yes, something like that. So I did what I do and got your team out of a deadly situation. Got in a shitload of trouble for it too. But here’s the thing, I pissed some powerful people off, and because they didn’t like that, they gave up information that didn’t matter at the time.”

“So Brody’s team carried through?”

“It seems that way.”

He sat back heavily. His face reflected concern and anger. “Where is this leading?”

“God, Rafe, if only I knew for sure. But all signs point to one person. Someone powerful enough to pull strings and direct action. I butted heads over this with a certain senator.”

“Is this senator now an ambassador?”

She nodded. Rafe growled menacingly and slammed his hand on the table. “What the fuck is this guy’s deal? Why does it always come back to him?”

“I don’t know, but I’m positive he’s coming after us. All of us. Anyone who stepped on his Machiavellian plans.” She lowered her voice. “Sawyer told me when I first came to Bendover that the wily ambassador was making presidential noises. Had a secret-super PAC going and started exploring options for running.”

“And we all know what exploring options means. If he wants to be president, he has to eliminate anyone who might implicate him in one of his dirty schemes.”

“Sure,” she replied. Rafe’s brows arched.

“Sure? You don’t sound all that sure.”

“Covering dirt doesn’t require the level of fuckery that Justice is fending off. This isn’t just some ambitious motherfucker. This piece of the puzzle is only important for the players. It might explain why Brody was targeted and why Parker is at the center of the storm. He handled your investigation.”

“But it still doesn’t explain this guy’s hard-on for Alex. He wasn’t a part of what happened. Hell, he was already out of shit after he almost died. This all went down after the bombing.”

“I talked to Sawyer. He’s looking into some things.”

“How much of this does Alex know?”

“I haven’t talked to him yet. Was waiting on Sawyer, but Roman told me Parker was a treasure trove of information, so Alex has to be close.”

“Isn’t it enough to suspect the ambassador? Why does he need more? Seems pretty cut and dry to me.”

“There’s a missing piece. Remember, we’ve all been probed and not always for a reason. All that dumbass surveillance bullshit was nothing but a lot of smoke and mirrors to cover up whatever they were really after. My gut tells me Cam and Drae are peripheries. Liang pointed at the manifest for Pakistan. That, to me anyway, implicates Parker. Brody was directly drawn out. The drone is a huge clue, Rafe. Jensen has a palpable aversion to guns, but what did he do? Grab a fucking sniper’s rifle and blow the piece of junk out of the sky. It was old and easily traced, which means, as equipment, it was meant to be expendable. They were checking to see if he still had it.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“There are so many loose ends that it’s easy to be distracted, but some douchebag cleaning up his past so he can be a presidential candidate isn’t smart enough to realize how obvious some of this is if you just take the time to put everything on the same page.”

“You need to talk to Alex.”

“I will,” she assured him. “Tonight. But until Sawyer finishes, we still only have a skeleton. The only way to stop this is a kill shot, center mass. This guy has tentacles, and they all need cutting off.”