“Don’t do this, Sal,” came the stern voice over Donatello’s phone speaker. “You’re not this rash. You’ll spend the rest of your days as a hunted man. Sylvia couldn’t live like that. Let the boys go home.”

Sean froze in place. Silence seemed to envelop the world. He’d stopped the Morse code a while ago; Jace either got it or he didn’t. Scratching the zip tie on the seat would’ve been more distinct, but Donatello would also have picked up on the damage to his leather, rather than thinking Sean was a dweeb with allergies.

“We’re at a stalemate, my friend.” The sadness in Donatello’s voice was genuine, which ripped into Sean’s gut.

“Leave the boys alone and take me,” he pleaded, straining against the tie again. His wrists had chafed to the point where they were slick with his blood.

Donatello ignored him. “This is on you, Felix. I’ll keep the line open in case you want to change your mind.” He placed the phone on the dashboard and held out his hand. After a slight hesitation, Mountain Man slapped another phone into his palm. A look passed between the two, then Mountain Man looked away, jaw wired tight and eyes troubled.

Sean slumped back, which pulled his aching shoulder blades. Maybe Jace hadn’t picked up on the Morse code. Maybe he wasn’t even in the van. It seemed inconceivable, given Jace’s need to be the center of attention, the nucleus of action. It was what had made his SEAL career so difficult—no credit, no recognition, and definitely no fame for the real-life superhero work.

“Mac,” Donatello said into the second phone. “Show them a boy.”

Sean squinted at the dojo, focusing on the corner section of the bathroom’s faux-wood door visible from here. Muttered swear words and a complaint about squeezed sardines were clear over the line. Seconds later, the door swung outward. Phillip Mayfair both stumbled and was thrust out. Only the hands of the mafioso were visible, the right fist gripping the back of Phillip’s gi, the left planting a gun into the boy’s temple. Based on the way the gun shook and jerked, it was the meth-head—Manny.

A frenzy of activity renewed on the streets, like a surging wave, held back at the last second by the police blockade.

“Give him the fucking painting,” Sean screamed from the back seat, his voice cracking. No answer from the cell phone on the dashboard. Tension crackled all around him, over the phone lines, out in the blue, swirling lights that burned his retinas. Every molecule in Sean’s body willed him to close his eyes and turn away, but he owed Phillip to have this atrocity seared into his mind for the rest of his days.

He stared at the Phillip’s stoic expression, his overly large watch, his stance in the first kata, Fujikata Dai Ichi. The little guy was going down as a warrior. Sean held his breath, straining against the tie, wrists dripping blood now. He welcomed the slicing pain. Tears welled freely in his eyes.

“For the love of God,” he croaked, “take me.” Again he was ignored.

Donatello sighed. “Last chance, Felix. You and I both know I don’t want to do this. His blood is on your hands.”

A deep breath came from the speakerphone. Sean kept his eyes glued to Phillip’s face. Peripherally on the right, a blur came from nowhere. The back door to the Continental opened, cool air rushing in. Jace body-slammed Sean aside, claimed the space, and pressed the Glock .22 into the thick gray hair in front of him. “Bitchin’ ride,” he said through his teeth. “Except that antique cars don’t sport power locks, and you fat fucks were too arrogant to reach back and take the simple precaution of locking the damn door.”

“Quinn?” The stern voice sounded tinny on the dashboard.

“Yes, sir,” Jace called, slicing through Sean’s zip ties like butter. He snapped the Swiss Army knife shut on his knee. “Go,” he muttered, shoving Sean with his shoulder.

“Gretch…”

“With Trick. Find Margo, near SWAT. She’ll take you both someplace safe.”

Sean stumbled from the vehicle, sucking in the fresh night air. He flicked life back into his wrists and stamped his feet. He should head down to the SWAT van. Be there for the release of the boys, hug Phillip, speak to the parents, even find a freaking lawyer for all the lawsuits he’d face tomorrow.

Instead he sprinted in the opposite direction, away from the lights and the noise and the nightmare. Racing down city streets in full karate gear and sneakers, prepared to run the whole fucking way to Gretch.

This whole week, his brother had mocked him for his dire warnings. Margo had remained indecisive, wanting more concrete proof of every microscopic thing they investigated. Sean was done with the FBI. Donatello might be in custody, but he was head of a large family who’d be out for revenge. No way was Sean hanging around a SWAT van waiting for the Bureau to secure the scene. It was time to grow a pair and deal with a situation he’d single-handedly manufactured. He’d get Gretch, all right, but he’d take her somewhere no one would find them. Once they were safe, he’d figure out what to do next.

* * *

Gretch jerked upright at the sound of a footfall. Trick stood in the threshold of the room designated for women firefighters, basically the size of a prison cell. Should she tell him her suspicion that the mob was behind the kidnapping? Was it fair to scare him senseless with only a gut supposition? But why else would Jace have her hide here? And why not tell her outright?

“You up for some company?” Trick asked.

She nodded wearily and huddled on the cot. Even though she’d showered and dressed in firefighter Cheryl Limon’s spare uniform, her stomach roiled ominously, and she couldn’t stop her teeth from chattering. If her hands would stop shaking like she had palsy, she’d retrieve her gum from the purse at the foot of the cot. The taste in her mouth was awful.

Trick glanced over his shoulder, where Danny shadowed him like an overgrown puppy. “Blanket and bag.”

The probie dashed off, and Trick carried in a metal chair, flipped it back to front, and straddled it with a grunt.

His hair was still damp from his shower, his face cleanly shaven. He smelled divine, resembled a movie star, and could host a 100% Testosterone YouTube channel. Yet all she could think about was his younger brother holding her hand in the taxi.

“Any news about Sean?” she whispered through dry lips.

He shook his head and leaned his forearms on the back of the chair. “I texted Jace for news when you arrived,” he said to the floor, then rubbed his eyelids with his thumb and forefinger. “Guess he’s too busy to respond.” He looked up with a tired grin. “Sean has a knack for taking care of himself, though. Always has.”

Danny raced in and dropped an old-fashioned black doctor’s bag at Trick’s feet, then unfolded a thick blanket over Gretch’s shoulders. “I also brought you a water.” He pulled a bottle from the back pocket of his uniform, almost dropping it in his haste to hand it to her.

Gretch murmured her thanks and placed the ice-cold bottle by her purse. No way could she stomach that. Trick nodded a gentle dismissal, and when they were alone again, he righted the chair and reached for the bag. “Mind if I check your vitals?”

“No need. I’ll live.”

Trick cocked his head. His kind eyes called her bluff. “Somehow I doubt you’re usually this pale. And your breathing is pretty shallow.”

She flushed. No way would she admit it was because her boobs were smashed into this tight top. She didn’t dare take a deep breath. “Honestly, I’m fine. I’m sorry again about the…” She regarded his clean uniform, and he waved it off.

“People react to stress in different ways.”

And yet your brother’s been kidnapped, and you look like you just finished yogi meditation.

“Sean will be okay,” he said again, as if he’d read her thoughts.

She ruminated on his calm reassurance. Here was a man who knew Sean way better than she did. Maybe Trick was right. So much had happened in these few short hours, like Sean walking away from a mafia gunfight without breaking a sweat. But what if? And Dwayne?

“I’m also worried about my housemate,” she admitted. “I never had a chance to warn him we pissed off the mob and they might be able to identify us.”

“Where do you live?” Trick plucked the station’s neon-yellow, industrial-sized cell phone from his breast pocket. “I’ll have the squad closest to your neighborhood check it out.” His voice was deeper than both his brothers’, and so peaceful he’d make a great living recording bedtime stories.

Gretch rattled off her address, and a few minutes later a text dinged, confirming a squad was on its way.

“Now.” He rummaged in his doctor’s bag. “When’s the last time you ate?” He pulled out a blood pressure cuff.

“Um…” She almost said lunch, because that was when they’d run into Donatello—and started this massive shitstorm—but she hadn’t eaten. And this morning she’d woken at four twenty-two and basically fled the hotel. “I may have forgotten to eat today.” Stupid. She preached six small meals to anyone who’d listen.

Trick didn’t comment as he Velcro-ed the cuff around her arm and reached for his stethoscope. When he placed the button inside her elbow, his grip was firm and capable. He pumped the rubber ball, then concentrated on whatever he was hearing. She couldn’t reconcile this man. His youngest brother was someone’s hostage. His older brother was trying to negotiate for six lives. Trick’s unflappable manner was either a testament to his firefighter nature, or he could compartmentalize like someone with a split personality.

“Your BP is phenomenal,” he said, unplugging his ears and ripping off the Velcro.

“I used to be a personal trainer.”

He nodded his approval. Vanity aside, it was remarkable to have been in his presence this long and not have any indication he was attracted to her. Of course, his first impression was her vomiting up a twenty-four-ounce iced tea, but still.

After he took her temperature, felt her pulse, and shone a penlight in her eyes, he pronounced her well. “I’ll send in some chicken noodle soup. Try to eat all of it.”

She held up a hand, which still quivered like a junkie’s. “And maybe a wide straw—I’d hate to ruin Cheryl’s uniform too.”

His slow grin showcased flawless white teeth. “I’ll ask her to bring the soup. If you’re still in bad shape, she can always feed you.”

See? The perfect opening to offer to feed her himself or make some innuendo about warming her up enough to stop the shaking. “Are you gay?” She cringed the second the words were out of her mouth. This was what low blood sugar did to you! “I’m sorry,” she muttered, red-faced.

He chuckled. “No need to apologize. And no. Married my soul mate right outta high school.” An expression flashed across his face that her weary mind couldn’t catch. He wasn’t the poker-face champ his brothers were, though. “Try to rest until the soup arrives.”

Danny raced in. “Kids just got released. Media is saying the kidnapping was mob related.”

“And Sean?” Gretch blurted.

Danny shook his head. “No sign of him.”

“Did you say the mob?” The confusion on Trick’s face would’ve been priceless if her skin hadn’t begun crawling like scuttling caterpillars. She knew it!

“It’s the painting Sean uncovered,” she said faintly. “They found him at the dojo.” This was the worst-case scenario. Where was he now?

Trick dismissed Danny and settled in his chair. “I think I better hear all of it.”

Heart in her throat, Gretch explained the lunchtime violence and the stolen painting Sean had shown them just before she’d left for the shelter, walking out as if her world would be untouched. So stupid. “They must have traced my credit card to me, found out where I worked, and followed Sean when he left.” How else would they know he taught at the dojo? And he’d left after her. She may have passed right by them in her haste to get to the shelter.

Trick looked grave and said nothing. Both reactions were blaring alarms, given his Zen approach to life. Gretch twisted her fingers. “You said he’d be okay.” Her tone came out petulant. Like Trick had promised something and wasn’t delivering.

“So I did.” He leaned forward and stuffed his instruments back in the bag. “And so he will.” His confidence was awesome. She almost believed him.

“What do you think is happening?” she whispered.

He readjusted her blanket. “If there were any updates, Jace would call. It’ll turn out fine.”

How could he be so calm and certain of everything? “The painting was just good, you know?” she said, and to her horror, tears pricked her eyes. “Not great. Not ‘two hundred million, kidnap Sean and five boys’ great.”

Trick reached over and squeezed her hand. For a second she couldn’t bear to let go. Not because he was a man or Sean’s brother or she wanted to indulge in her sexual-control game playing. Simply because Trick was human, and compassionate on a level she’d never experienced. A lifetime of depending only on herself suddenly weighed too much. She clung to the rough palm searching for a subject. “How did you get your dumb nickname?” she whispered, the only inane thought that came to her head.

He broke into that tranquil grin. He must think she was a lunatic by now, zigzagging through topics like this. “It’s a secret,” he said. “But there’s a big, juicy, unbelievably convoluted story behind it.”

She smiled back. Smart man. Trying to refocus her anxiety to what could possibly be juicy and convoluted about the name Trick instead of Pat or Rick. Too bad all she could think about was his brother, still somewhere out there with the mob.

“What was Sean like as a boy?”

“Odd.”

She rolled her eyes. “Tell me something I don’t know.” When he didn’t volunteer anything, she asked, “Why do you and Jace look like you came out of the same pod and Sean looks like a different species?”

He sat back in the chair, shaking his head. “Recessive gene, I guess. He’s definitely ours. When he was a little kid, Cage goofed on him and convinced him he was adopted. That he’d been found at a highway rest stop and brought to one of the fire stations where my dad was district chief.”

“Did Sean believe it?”

Trick nodded. “Evidently for years.”

“You’re kidding! What a horrible joke.”

He kept nodding, his lips pressed into a straight line. “First of all, he was an impressionable kid. Secondly, he’s always been cerebral, and the story made perfect sense to him. There’s a seven-year gap between the four of us and him. It explains how Sean’s interests and skills land on the other side of the spectrum than all of ours, and—” he shrugged powerful shoulders. “—our dad couldn’t really bond with him. Didn’t know what to do with this little guy who wasn’t tough as nails. He still doesn’t.”

Gretch hugged her knees under the blanket, picturing the little boy who couldn’t fit into his own boisterous family. They had something in common after all. A torturous family life and a coping strategy to shut out the world.

Trick stretched out his legs, looking remorseful. Women must be all over this guy when he flashed that vulnerability. “I’ll always feel bad for going along with the joke,” he murmured. “It never occurred to me Cage hadn’t recanted it. Or that Sean would believe it for years.”

“How did you all find out?”

“When he was fourteen, he wrote a report on how it felt not to know who your real mother was.” Trick’s laugh was partly a snort of disbelief. “Holy shit, did Mom thrash us. Verbally,” he added quickly. “We were all grown and out of the house by then. Jace was stationed in Kabul. I was a probie about to take my exams, and the other two were at boot camp in Fort Jackson.

“She called each one of us. You should know she’s second-generation Irish. After a blistering lecture, she put Sean on the line.” Trick’s eyebrows knit, and his eyes focused on something far away. “Try apologizing to a socially awkward teen for a joke you barely remember participating in.” He rubbed his palms over his face and sighed. “Sean’s always been way too serious. Book smart but so bad at relating to people.”

A moment of silence passed, him deep in some recall and Gretch visualizing the teen Sean would have been. She hurt for him. Was he safe, or had he traded himself for the release of the five boys?

Trick snapped out of his reverie and slapped his knees. “You need rest.”

He gently disengaged her clasp and crossed the tiny bedroom in two strides, halting in the doorway when the phone dinged. For a moment all she saw was a powerful guy backlit in an alpha stance: legs hip distance apart, broad shoulders bowed over the phone in his hand. Then he slipped the phone in his breast pocket and turned in what seemed like slow motion. The sympathy on his face gripped her around the throat.

“I’m sorry, Gretch. Your housemate didn’t make it.”

Her lungs seized. She opened her mouth, but no words came out, no air went in.

“Gretch?”

Dots swam before her eyes and panic built. Just as he took a step toward her, her chest loosened. She heaved oxygen noisily.

“Put your head between your knees.” The authoritative command overrode the soothing yoga master voice. She shook her head and held onto her knees for dear life. She was fine. She was in control. Slowly her body stabilized.

“What do you mean he didn’t make it?” she whispered, even though she knew what he meant. But how? When? Had Dwayne suffered? The poor guy had never been good at suffering in any form. Teasing, bullying, a sunburn…even his tummy aches as a little kid were considered an epic crisis requiring bedside vigils by Gretch or his mom.

Trick shoved a hand through his hair. “The squad called Chicago’s Crime Scene Unit. No doubt the FBI will get involved.” His face was pale, which screamed so much more than his quiet voice. “It…looks like the act of a lone wolf.”

Honestly, she’d never skip a whole day of meals again. Clearly she was hallucinating. “It’s the mob,” she corrected.

He shook his head. “Doesn’t fit their MO. I’d—rather not give you any more details.”

“I’ve watched all three Godfather movies. I get it. Dwayne died horribly. Just spit it out.”

The lieutenant looked away, his firm chin at a stubborn angle. They could sit here all night as far, as she was concerned. Dwayne was her best friend. His death was on her hands. “Tell me.”

Trick sighed, his gaze returning to hers almost apologetically. “He was beheaded.”