The only way Luke Arroyo could tolerate New York City was to arrive long before the masses of commuters, when the rising sun cast long shadows and the wide sidewalks were dotted with stray joggers instead of tightly packed with pedestrians, undeterred by the fiercely cold weather and persistent snowfall they’d been experiencing.

He was prone to waking up at two or three in the morning, unable to sleep, so he drove the two and a half hours in and got to HERO Force by six. This week the trip had taken longer, the temps too cold for salt to clear the roads, lengthening his normal commute.

It didn’t matter anyway. He wasn’t going to be doing it much longer. He wasn’t sure the exact moment he’d made that decision. He only knew his days at HERO Force were numbered, the pendulum that had swung him into this life already pulling him away.

He couldn’t stay here, couldn’t do what Mac had asked him to do. He wasn’t a Navy SEAL anymore and he sure as hell wasn’t anybody’s hero.

Once a SEAL, always a SEAL.

The line repeated itself in his head unbidden. They could call him whatever they wanted and it didn’t make a damn bit of difference. He just needed to break the news to Mac, and the sooner he did that, the better off he’d be.

He fired off several rounds. He had the range to himself for an hour before anyone else came in, time he was able to shoot and sort out his thoughts before he had to hold a conversation. His social skills were rusty from a year and a half in the woods, and he was anxious to get back there and away from all these people.

His property was a twenty-three-acre peninsula tucked into hundreds of square miles of heavily forested government land. The Blackwater Creek ran along the civilized side of his acreage, a narrow dirt road the only access to his cabin.

It was close enough to towns and people that only his desire to be alone had truly kept him isolated, his private oasis in the foothills of the Catskill Mountains like a quiet little room with a very heavy door, his reasons for being there the padlocks that kept it shut.

But Mac O’Brady had come knocking.

Goddamned Mac, his old CO from Afghanistan. And somehow he managed to convince Luke to join this team of messed-up SEALs, with promises of second chances and a sprinkling of redemption thrown in.

That wasn’t what he’d said, but it had taken Luke all of two seconds to look around the New York office of HERO Force and realize what was going on. Mac had collected a motley crew of guys who’d been damaged in some way, like his own personal island of misfit goddamned toys.

Razorback with his burned face, barely recognizable as human. T-ball with the marks of torture forever carved into his skin. Sloan only had one arm, mechanized metal in place of muscle and bone, and the list went on. But the worst of their wounds were invisible, and it pained Luke to be included with this bunch.

He’d lost his leg, sure, but it took his membership in the misnamed HERO Force to make him clearly see the damage within, and he wasn’t exactly grateful to Mac for pointing it out. Miranda Leveen, the therapist on staff, recently began hounding him to come see her. What kind of heroes needed a fucking therapist?

He wasn’t an idiot. He had his issues, sure as anybody else. And yes, they could easily be traced back to his SEAL days and Afghanistan. But so what? Who gave a flying fuck? Nothing that woman or anyone else could say was going to change a goddamn thing. She couldn’t undo what he’d done over there. Couldn’t erase it or reframe it or put it in a more flattering light.

There was no going back.

No forgiveness for him, no redemption.

But none of that was the reason he was leaving. Hell no, it was simpler than that. He’d frozen up on a mission. Known what he needed to do and been completely unable to do it. He was useless here and he knew it.

At least you can still fire a weapon.

There were guys here who couldn’t even do that, and he wondered why the hell they were on the payroll, Mac’s wounded heroes functioning like some kind of social services organization. It made Luke’s stomach turn. He switched his gun to his left hand, working on his nondominant hand-eye coordination, the white paper target glowing in the distance as if on stage.

He was aware he had company long before he turned around, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. It was time, then. He emptied his magazine and removed his ear protection, relief flowing through him despite this pending confrontation. “Hey, Mac.”

The other man’s deep voice bellowed across the range. “How the hell do you do that?”

“You can’t tell when you’re being watched?”

“Sure I can, sometimes. But I don’t have eyes in the back of my head to see who it is.”

Luke reeled in the target, two separate groupings coming into view — one dead center, the other down and to the right.

“Different guns?” asked Mac.

“Different hands.”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

I’ll just bet you do.

They hadn’t spoken about what happened. Luke crossed his arms over his chest and widened his stance, eyeing his old commanding officer. “The bomb.”

Mac nodded, crossing his arms in front of his chest, shadows forming between the muscles on his dark brown skin. “You had some trouble there.”

“I couldn’t set a charge. Detonate it.”

Mac gestured to the paper target. “You’ve got no problem with firearms.”

“Let’s not pretend.” An invisible hand squeezed his heart. “I’m an explosives expert who can’t blow anything up. I’m done.”

“You still have value to the team.”

Images of flames, circular balls of fire appeared in his mind. He clenched his jaw. “Fuck the team.”

Mac narrowed his eyes. “What are you saying, Wiseman?”

“I ain’t never been wise. Time to stop pretending I am. I’m leaving HERO Force.”

“You’re one of the best.”

“Not anymore.”

“I have faith in you, man. I’ll keep you on until you’re ready. Help you get there.”

“I don’t want it.” He turned away, reloading his gun, thinking of every man like him who’d opted for a bullet instead of this path he was on. Wondering if they’d been right.

“You should talk to Miranda.”

Luke laughed without humor. “I don’t need a shrink.”

“Fuck, we all need a shrink. You aren’t special. I was there, remember? That call was as much mine as it was yours.”

“Of course I remember.” Trouble was, he couldn’t forget. Not in the light of day and sure as hell not during the night. He closed his eyes for a beat too long before opening them again. “And the call was mine alone.”

“I don’t give a shit about the past, and I don’t care if you can blow something up.” Mac shook his head. “But a judgment call where you need to decide if there’s such a thing as an acceptable loss? Definitely. You need to be able to do that.”

Luke squatted and picked up his spent shells. “You’re not hearing me, old man. I don’t want the job. I’m done here, Mac. I never should have come in the first place.”

“You’re giving up.”

“It’s not giving up. It’s admitting my faults. Refusing a handout. I’m not a welfare case and I don’t need you holding my hand and teaching me how to be a soldier again. I don’t want to be a soldier.”

“We all need help.”

“Bullshit.”

The men faced off. The lights flashed once, a loud beep interrupting the moment.

“Yes?” said Mac.

A voice came through the intercom. “Summer Daniels is here to see you.”

The name catapulted through his mind at light speed. Summer Daniels, Edward’s sister.

Buckeye.

Sweat broke out on his palms, a sickening dizziness fighting him for control of his own body.

“I’ll be right out,” said Mac, meeting Luke’s stare with wide, knowing eyes.

“What’s she doing here?” Luke demanded.

“I have no idea. Is that who I think it is?”

“Buckeye’s sister. You haven’t been in contact with her?”

“No. You still want to leave, or are you coming with me to find out what she wants?”

A smarter man would have backed away from his own personal Kryptonite. Luke gestured toward the door. “You know I’m fucking coming. Lead the way.”