Mac O’Brady stepped into the HERO Force locker room and stripped naked, his clothing steeped in the smell of battle. The scent hadn't come from a war zone this time, but it could have — the heavy metallic odor mixed with the aftermath of combustion a dead ringer for the smell of a shit storm of gunfire.

It was the Daniels Aerospace testing lab that smelled like this, six hours in that space more than enough to fill his nostrils and his brain. He showered quickly, finding no comfort in the hot water and steam, longing only for a drink and the peace it could bring — the separation from reality he'd gone long enough without.

But he wasn’t going to have one. Not today, anyway.

He was never sure if he was going to drink or not, no matter the owner of the whole HERO Force organization was counting on him to be sober and trustworthy. Mac O’Brady was a drunk, and he knew as only a drunk could that the promise to stay sober only lasted as long as the words echoed in any given space.

Still, he hadn't done it yet. Didn't intend to do it. He thought of his wife and kids, the only reason he was here and the only reason he would do his damnedest to remain. He needed to find them, needed them back in his life after so much time with them gone.

They weren’t the only reason he wasn’t drinking. He had a message from Cowboy over at the original HERO Force in Atlanta, claiming he was just checking in, but that was bullshit. Cowboy was keeping tabs on him, making sure he was sober and fit to run this damn place, and with every phone call and well-meaning email, Mac knew it.

Hawk probably put him up to it.

Trevor “Hawk” Hawkins was part of that HERO Force team and a former member of Mac’s SEAL team in Afghanistan. It was Hawk who had looked Mac up in Paris and convinced him to come back and lead the New York office. Why the hell Hawk picked his drunk-ass former CO to do the job was still a mystery to Mac, but it meant Mac would have HERO Force’s resources available to him to find his family and he’d be able to help the men he’d served with who hadn’t adjusted to life after the military. Who were damaged in some way—broken like he was.

Sure, some of the men were able to handle the stresses of war and physical disability, but far too many of them were damaged beyond simple repair. They needed someone to believe in them again. Needed a way to be useful. Mac knew it because he needed those things himself, if only to make him worthy of the family he was determined to locate and get back in his life.

He held out his hand, staring at the gold band that shone in the overhead light. It had been there for twenty-six years. Ellie had been gone for five, and he wondered if she still wore hers. Hell, maybe she’d married someone else by now.

He pulled his pants on over his prosthetic. It was seven and a half years since he came back from Afghanistan missing a leg and unable to do the job he had dedicated his life to. He’d been in the military since he was twenty years old and every vision he had for his future included the SEALs.

Then everything was different. Five months at Walter Reed had taught him how to walk again, but nothing could teach him how to live his life without the thing he’d valued most, his career. His identity in pieces and his marriage cracking beneath the strain of his return, he started drinking and never stopped. Ellie stuck by him another year and a half before giving up, leaving him and taking their now teenaged daughters with her, her absence a blow that shook him to his core.

He was mad. Furious. Hurting.

He railed against the emptiness inside himself, the emptiness in his home and life. When he was finished, he was so far gone he didn’t know how to get himself back. That’s when Hawk showed up, dangling HERO Force in Mac’s blurred line of sight like a carrot that had the potential to restore everything he’d lost that had ever mattered.

So he was here, and he was sober. And he spent every available moment searching for Ellie and the kids. He’d gotten a short list of phone numbers using the HERO Force computers months ago, but the numbers so far had proven useless. He would need to go to Plan B, whatever the hell that might be. A private investigator, maybe—though the last one he called refused to help him, telling him it looked like Ellie didn’t want to be found.

Hell, maybe she didn’t. But it wouldn’t stop him from looking. He'd been searching so goddamn long already. Fatigue pulled at him, a weariness that had nothing to do with sleep or wakefulness.

He dressed in a clean khaki T-shirt, fitted to his chest like a second skin, and eyed himself warily in the mirror. An old man stared back, more than fifty trips around the sun under his belt, his muscular chest in sharp contrast to the deep lines at the corners of his eyes. He didn't like what he saw. Hadn't liked it in some time.

Sloan walked into the locker room and leaned against the wall. “What’s the deal with Wiseman and Buckeye’s sister?”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “There’s obviously a story there.”

“Not my story to tell.” Sloan was a nosey bastard and always had been. He probably had his eye on Summer and wanted to know if Wiseman did, too. “We leave tomorrow at 0700 hours. We’re topping at Wiseman’s cabin to pick up Zeke, then heading to Boston. I want you to take the chopper up to Worcester so it’s nearby when we infiltrate AGL Aerospace. I think we might need it.”

“I can do that. Who’s coming along?”

“Fly with Trace. I’ll have Moto, T-ball, Razorback, and Wiseman with me in the vans.”

“That’s quite an entourage.”

It was an awful lot of manpower, but he had a bad feeling in his gut and he’d long ago learned to pay attention to it. “I’m expecting quite a scene. Make sure the bird’s fully stocked with ammo, gear, and first-aid supplies.”

Sloan crossed his arms. “You want to tell me exactly what’s going down?”

He walked past the other man on his way out, calling over his shoulder, “If I knew that, I’d be happy to. Just be ready.”