The ibuprofen he’d stolen from Lou Ellen’s medicine cabinet wasn’t working on the pain that troubled Griff the worst. The ache in his thigh, he could handle, but the ripping, tearing pain in his chest was unbearable.

The pitch-black darkness that surrounded him at his new campsite in the woods perfectly mimicked his mood as he rubbed his chest with one hand and stirred the can of beans heating on the old refrigerator rack he found over the fire with the other.

The pint of Jack he bought with his last five bucks, which was in his duffle, might help. He knew that, but he was fighting it. If he could make it another week without taking a drink of it, get past New Years, he thought he could win the battle.

Right now, the demons were winning, because washing down the tasteless beans with that golden serum might allow him to sleep tonight. A chill racked him, and he growled as the spoon dropped from his numb fingers.

He deserved this pain. This was his punishment for putting his job before his family’s safety. For being stupid enough to trust the government to take care of them all. Living in the shadows was nothing compared to what Glynna and Kimmy went through before they died. The fear they must’ve felt. He wondered if he was their last thought. Did they die hating him for putting them in that position?

Griff’s chest became so tight, he could barely breathe. His eyes fell on the duffle bag, and another pain sliced through him. Forget the fucking beans, he thought, as he turned to crawl into the tent and lay on his sleeping bag. He curled up into a ball and rocked, hoping it would subside in a few minutes.

When he closed his eyes, visions of the Christmas tree in Lou Ellen’s living room appeared and the pain got worse. She and the kids were probably home from that party now, getting ready for bed. In the morning, they would drink hot chocolate and open presents. Without him. They were better off without him, he reminded himself.

But he was not better off without them. He loved them—let himself love them—something he said he would never do again.

God, why couldn’t things be different?

Why couldn’t he live without worrying about whether he was being followed? Why did he always feel like a laser scope was focused between his shoulder blades? Why couldn’t he live in broad daylight like a human?

Because you chose to be a hero over being a father and husband, a mercenary killer with no mercy—for a paycheck. You killed hundreds of men for the government and now you are dying a slow, torturous death to pay for your sins. You knew what you signed up for and the potential consequences. You chose this.

But in his case, those consequences were magnified a hundred times and would haunt him for the rest of his life. Other men had served their country and not ended up this way. They retired, instead of going further and joining the CIA.

That is where he’d made his mistake.

Even though he’d been spec ops and intelligence, he’d had a gravy job at the end of his tenure in the Army. He saw his family more often because he planned and supervised missions, which meant he was stateside more than he was away. That lulled him into thinking when he was approached by the CIA, they wanted him for a similar job.

He couldn’t have been more wrong, but after he signed on, there was no going back. Griff was not a quitter, even though he knew he needed to quit. A moan escaped as he tightened his arms around himself and rocked harder. Maybe he’d be lucky enough to fall asleep and freeze to death, because he was even too stubborn to quit this life himself.

A stick snapped outside the tent and he stopped to listen. Was it a stick in the fire popping, he wondered, as adrenaline sent his heart into overdrive. He reached his hand over and flipped open the wooden box in the corner of the tent. When his fingers touched all four sides and he found the box empty, he remembered that Layla had taken his pistol, and he hadn’t picked it up on his way out of the warehouse.

Dying wouldn’t be such a bad thing right now anyway, he thought, with a sigh as he sat up. He heard footsteps as someone crept closer to the tent and decided to go out and meet the reaper. He crawled to the flap of the tent and threw it back, a little excitement filling him at the prospect of finally being out of the hell he’d been living in. Surely, with all he’d sacrificed, God would have mercy on him.

“Just kill me now, because I’m ready,” he said loudly, as he crawled outside and stood.

“Killing would be too easy for you, asshole,” the man shadowed behind the fire said. “I’m going to kick your ass first for what you did to a woman I consider a mother. Then I’m taking you to apologize to her, and if you don’t, I’ll kill you then and have plenty of help to hide your body.”

Griff knew who that voice belonged to, Dave Logan, and he was a little disappointed. This fight was not going to end his pain, it was only going to make it worse. Much, much worse.

How in the hell had they found him?