If only

was over. Should be a nice day. He frowned at the unusually high number of cars parked on the narrow street.

One was a taxicab with two men in the front seat. Drew narrowed his eyes. Passengers didn’t sit in the front seat…and yellow cabs were often police cars.

Two men emerged from a nondescript car. Fuck, even a schoolchild would make them as cops, if only from the looser hang of their suit coats to conceal a weapon. They walked into the building. More men followed.

Drew sucked in a breath as he went cold. He heard low-voiced orders drifting up the stairwell. They were posting men on the exits. Fuck.

Drew ran back up the stairs.

ELLIS LOOKED UP at the sound of the dead bolt turning. Had his twin returned?

Drew burst into the apartment, his face white. “I think I’ve been made. We’ve got to get out of here.” He ran into the bedroom where the window overlooked the backyard.

Ellis joined him.

The back area held a small concrete patio with four heavy wooden Adirondack chairs and a narrow strip of lawn. A six-foot privacy fence divided it from the towering apartment building on the other side.

As they watched, two men emerged from the back of the building and stationed themselves where they could guard the rear door.

“Fuck.” Drew ran back to the kitchen and opened a thick metal safe built into the island. He pulled out cash and two revolvers, and handed one weapon to Ellis.

Ellis checked the cylinder. Already loaded.

“Once the cops are down, you jump first,” Drew ordered, closing the safe. “I’ll take your back. After you get to the top of the fence, guard me while I cross the yard. Split up once we’re in the apartment complex, and we’ll meet at the cabin.”

“Got it.” Ellis gave his brother a grin, knowing his scars would twist his mouth into something hideous. “Been a while since we went hunting together.”

“Yeah. We’ll start with the two-legged ones.” Drew kicked the screen out of the window.

Ellis aimed, shot one dead center. The cop’s arms went up, his pistol went flying, and he fell back. No blood? Fuck, the bastards wore body armor.

Ellis’s next shot took off the top of the second cop’s head. His third blew a hole in the first man’s leg. He wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon. And the screaming wasn’t bad either.

Fuck, but he loved that sound. Oh yeah, indeedy yeah.

Stuffing his revolver into the back of his jeans, Ellis dropped out of the window, hit hard, staggered a few steps, and scrambled toward the fence.

AT THE SOUND of gunfire—three shots—from the back of the old brownstone, Vance pulled his weapon and ran toward the side of the building, quickly outdistancing his slower partner.

Welcome to New York City. NYPD was already inside the brownstone, heading for Drew Somerfeld’s condo on the second floor. They were taking point. Their city. Their territory.

He rounded the back corner into the yard. Jesus.

A man dashed across the yard jumping over the body of a uniformed cop to get to the six-foot wooden fence. Another police officer lay nearby groaning.

The running man leaped, caught the top of the fence, and tried to pull himself up, feet scrambling on the wood slats. A pistol stuck in the back of his jeans fell, hitting the ground.

“Halt. FBI,” Vance shouted as he aimed and— Something hit his back like the kick of a mule, followed by a blast of pain. Fuck. He retained his weapon as he fell forward. His head smashed against the concrete patio as he rolled off the edge, ending half on his side.

His lungs couldn’t pull in a breath through the agony that was his torso. Above him was an open upstairs window. A man’s face. Somerfeld. And the bore of a pistol pointed toward him.

Jesus. He tried to bring his pistol around. Couldn’t move.

A barrage of shots split the air. A bullet struck the concrete patio in an explosion of fragments. Missed, thank you, God.

No one remained in the window. Vance managed to pull in a breath. Under the bulletproof vest, he was going to have a hell of a bruise for a while.

He turned his head and saw Galen lower his GLOCK. Eyes dark with fury, he looked toward Vance.

Vance gave him a painful nod—thanks, bro—and saw the tightness ease from his face.

With a low groan—it felt as if one shoulder blade had been pushed a foot forward—Vance rolled over.

The man who’d been climbing the fence was gone.

Goddamn it.

“Hey.” Two officers appeared in the window, both holding their weapons. A ruddy-faced one yelled to Galen, “Somerfeld’s dead. Where—”

From the other side of the fence came a man’s scream, shrill with rage and anguish. “Noooo. You bastards. No!”

As orders and shouting filled the air, Vance lurched to his feet. Tried to breathe through the pain. Felt warm blood trickle down his scalp to his neck. Remembered hitting his head.

He staggered toward the downed officers.

One stared up at the sky with blind eyes. The other—he knelt beside him to put pressure on the leg wound. There was too fucking much blood. “Get an ambulance here. Now.”

* * *

Goddamn fucking knee. As the hospital elevator dinged out the different floors, guilt was like lead in Galen’s blood and bones, weighing him down. If he’d only been a few seconds faster, Vance wouldn’t have been shot.

Thank God for body armor, but fuck. His partner could have died, could’ve ended up with his head blown off like one of those two cops.

The elevator doors slid open.

Sally tried to push past him, but Galen snagged her with an arm around her waist. “Walk, pet. Or they’ll toss us out.” He knew just how she felt—he wanted to run as well.

“I need to see him.” She shoved at his restraining arm.

“You will. He’s going to be fine.” Vance is alive. Galen had to keep repeating the reassurance as they hurried down the hospital hall.

Against his side, Sally glowed like sunlight, a comfort against the coldness inside him. “I’m so…so angry,” she growled. “I want them all to pay.”

“Somerfeld is dead,” he reminded her. Galen’s bullet had taken him in the skull, and the two officers who’d broken into the flat had put two rounds in his back.

“There are others. One got away,” Sally muttered. As they dodged an orderly pushing past with a food cart, Galen saw her face. Mouth pressed into a determined line, eyes glittering with resolve. A vengeful female—one who knew computers. Not good.

Galen frowned down at her. “I did have a promise from you about no more hacking, correct?”

She glared before reluctantly nodding. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good.” He relaxed. She might evade questions, but she had a personal honesty that was damned refreshing. She wouldn’t break her promise.

In the hospital room by the window, Vance was in a bed. The back had been raised so he was half sitting. Pale, but awake. Alive.

With a relieved breath, Galen released Sally.

She darted over and halted, obviously afraid to touch him.

Vance smiled. “C’mere, sweetheart. You look like you feel worse than I do.” He painfully held an arm out to her and smiled as Sally snuggled closer. He asked Galen, “How’s the cop?”

“Still in surgery, but he has a chance.” Galen stopped to clear his throat. The X-rays reported Vance hadn’t