Gage’s shoulders bumped against his brothers’ as the bearcat rumbled down the street in New Orleans’s Central City. The air was stiff and eerily quiet in the armored vehicle—sometimes he and the other guys in his unit prepped with music; more frequently, they sat in silence.

It was a routine call—task force was already at the house on Galvez Street, setting up the perimeter and clearing out the block. By the time Gage and his brothers showed up, they’d have only one job: clean out the house and get their guy—a thirty-eight-year-old male who was wanted for homicide.

Unfortunately, nothing about Gage’s job was routine.

The unknown lurked around every corner, and there was always the chance that everything they’d planned for would go straight to hell. “Routine” was a word that went only so far in his life, but if he wanted to make sure he wasn’t the one to make everything FUBAR tonight, then he needed to get his head on straight.

Stop thinking about Lizzie Danvers.

What the hell had come over him today? Seriously, the way that he’d pressed against her at Inked? That sort of aggressive behavior wasn’t him. When it came to women, Gage always held the opinion that there were more fish in the sea.

Why slap cocks with another dude, trying to prove ownership, when the next woman would do just as well?

But then Lizzie had brought up going to Owen with her ridiculous proposition, and he’d seen red.

That sure as hell wasn’t happening.

For one, Owen was hung up on a chick he’d had a one night stand with the month before. No amount of persuasion was going to get him off the bandwagon that was Savannah Rose.

Second, even if Owen wasn’t suffering from a case of unrequited love, he wouldn’t go for a girl like Lizzie Danvers—Gage wouldn’t have let him.

“You okay, man?”

Gage jerked at the sound of Luke O’Connor’s voice. A former army sergeant, the man was the closest thing Gage had to a best friend outside of Owen. Which was, aside from the fact that he saw Nathan Danvers frequently in the field, how Lizzie’s name had rung a bell.

Luke’s wife, Anna, was besties with Danvers’ wife, who was, in turn, besties with Lizzie. That whole group was practically incestuous, and Gage made an effort to avoid joining the festivities when the women were included into the mix.

Nothing against them, but the last time he’d gone out with a few of them, the outing had turned into one whole smorgasbord of marriages, kids, and mortgages.

Gage preferred conversation that didn’t include any of the above—save the mortgages bit. His was a bitch-and-a-half, and he’d be paying off his damn house until the day he retired, no doubt about it.

“I’m good,” he finally said.

He wasn’t good. He’d just signed up to date a friend of a friend’s sister because he’d let his cock do the talking.

“You sure?” Luke elbowed him. “Exorcise whatever thoughts you have, Harvey. We’ve got a job to do.”

One job.

They had one job.

And, fortunately, it was a job Gage did very well.

Hell, it was a job he’d wanted since he’d accompanied his father to work when he’d been seven, and he’d seen S.O.D. dressed in their riot gear, looking like modern-day avengers for those who couldn’t protect themselves.

The bearcat slowed, then ground to a halt, and there was a collective inhale in the van. Gage’s fingers clenched down on the handle of his body shield.

Training had beat a mentality of unison among them, as though they were a decked-out, armored school of fish.

Routine conditioning of doing the same thing day in and day out for years had conditioned their brains to think as one.

Gage wasn’t the oldest guy in the unit, but he’d been in S.O.D. the longest, and it fell to him to corral them all and set up their next move. At Gage’s signal, the guy closest to the door, Timms, unlatched the double doors and they filed out.

Out of his periphery, he spotted task force positioned in place, their navy blue BDU’s blending into the night. A cruiser marked with “K-9” sat one house over, and Gage would bet his left nut that Nathan Danvers sat inside with his Belgian Malinois, waiting for the moment to strike.

Like S.O.D., K-9 wasn’t relegated to a single district; the city of New Orleans was their oyster.

Time to get this shit done.

In pairs, sandwiched shoulder to shoulder, they moved up to the rotted house. Vines crawled up the wood panels, and the roof sagged like it might cave in at any moment. A lone light hung by the front door like a beacon.

On his left, Luke muttered, “Hooah,” like the good soldier he once was.

Gage had never served in the military, but after a year of working side by side with the guy, he echoed the call, “Hooah.”

Their combat boots thudded up the rickety porch steps.

Deep breath, man. Deep breath.

He shifted his shield, unfurling his fist as he knocked heavily on the door. “Police with a warrant!” he bellowed, and then his boot connected with the door. The wood creaked, swinging wide open to reveal a dark room as the hinges gave way.

Luke’s arm shot out.

Pop!

Light burst in the dark room, the flashbang brightening the hellhole up like Fourth of July.

Gage scouted the space from behind the eye-shield of his helmet. Ratty furniture sat scattered around, and a rug carpeted the floor. “Let’s go, boys.”

They moved in, tracking the space for their target. They checked each room thoroughly, and the high of the moment seeped like a drug into Gage’s veins. This was what he lived for, the high he craved: the push and pull of putting the bad guys in jail and doing everything in his power to protect his city, just the way the men in his family had done for generations.

Except for Owen.

Owen had opted out, quitting the police academy the day after their father was hit by a drunk driver up on the I-10 while handling a breakdown. Ben Harvey hadn’t stood a chance. By the time the ambulance arrived seven minutes and forty-six seconds later, his pulse had already dwindled to a crawl.

So Owen had chosen ink, artwork, a life as an entrepreneur.

And Gage had chosen this—

Their target swung open the kitchen door, a clear attempt to escape into the house’s backyard . . . where more of their guys waited. S.O.D. and task force had the house on lockdown.

“Stop!” His voice cracked through the room like a whip. “Get down on the ground, now.”

The man didn’t stop—no surprise there.

He fled out the door and Gage didn’t hesitate.

He’d chosen this life, a life that wasn’t clear-cut.

Black. White.

Good. Evil.

There were always shadows of gray.

This was him, continuing the family legacy, doing more than just sitting on a stool and inking people’s skin.

He’d never once stopped to wonder what if he didn’t come home. What if this was the end for him.

Those hesitations spelled out certain death.

But for the first time in his life, as he swept into the night with his brothers by choice, he wondered what if.

And it all had to do with Lizzie Danvers.