Fine.
Logan found his wallet and held it open for them to see. I’m a detective. Licensed. Just doing my job.”
“Someone hired you to follow me.”
He offered a withering stare. “Duh.”
Sonova—
Shee reached for the kid again and Mason blocked her with his elbow.
“Just follow?” he asked Logan.
Logan rolled his eyes. “Yes, just follow. What do you think, I’m an assassin?”
Shee snorted a laugh. “You’re not even a detective.”
“Who hired you?” asked Mason.
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Did you arrange Minneapolis?” asked Shee.
Logan’s expression twisted. “Minneapolis?” He looked at Mason, appearing genuinely confused. “Did she get hit in the head or something?”
Shee leaned into Mason. “Give me five minutes with him.”
“Easy.” Mason pushed her back from the car, inserting himself between her and the detective, resting his massive forearms against the side of Logan’s window. “I get it, Logan. You’re just doing your job.”
Logan sat up and adjusted his shirt. “Exactly. Thank you, man. I—”
Before he could say another word, Mason grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head toward him. He pressed the young man’s throat against the edge of the lowered window.
Logan struggled, gagging, and then slapped on his steering wheel as if trying to tap out. That hand found the horn and laid on it.
Mason snatched the boy’s wrist and jerked his horn-pressing hand out of the car. The parking garage went quiet again, but for the sound of Logan gagging.
“Feel that pressure on your windpipe?” asked Mason.
Logan nodded as best he could.
Mason continued. “Windpipes are pretty fragile. Tell us who hired you.” He eased pressure.
“You can’t just kill me in the parking lot,” croaked Logan.
“I can’t?” Mason looked at Shee. “Did you see any signs about that?”
“Don’t leave your luggage unattended, stay to the right—no, you know what, nothing about killing detective wannabes.”
“Spit it out,” growled Mason.
Logan coughed, straining to keep his throat from the edge of the glass. “I don’t know.”
Mason pressed down.
“I swear! I don’t know!”
“How did they contact you?”
“She called.”
“She? Could you tell anything about her? Old, young?” asked Shee over Mason’s shoulder.
“Accent.”
The kid’s eyes flashed white like those of a frightened horse, and Shee could tell the bulk of the boy’s discomfort had shifted from his Adam’s apple to the wad of hair twisted in the SEAL’s grip.
“What kind of accent?”
“Like, islandy.”
“Islandy?”
“Like, Jamaican or something.”
Shee felt the blood drain from her cheeks. She slapped Mason on the back.
“We have to go.”
He turned. “That’s all you need?”
Shee found her bag behind Logan’s car, grabbed it and headed for Mason’s truck. She stood at the locked door as Mason released Logan and followed.
Logan pulled out of his space and left.
She motioned to the door with the hand not speed-dialing Angelina. “Open. Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?”
“Back to the hotel as fast as you can drive.”
Mason’s Ford beeped and Shee hopped inside.
He joined her. “What’s going on?”
“We have—”
Shee stopped.
Crap.
She looked at Mason as he reversed from the parking space.
He’s going to kill me.
“What is it?” he prompted.
“There’s something else I didn’t tell you,” she said.
Shee’s head bounced on the headrest as he hit the brakes to glare at her.
“Are you kidding me?”
She shook her head.
“Did you just remember we had twins?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“No...”
Shee heard Angelina answer her side of the line as she met Mason’s stare.
“...but the rumors of Mick’s death have been greatly exaggerated.”
&&&
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Something’s different.
Mick opened his eyes.
This dreamworld is new. This isn’t a memory.
Through slit eyes he scanned what he recognized as his room, but everything felt off.
Wrong, but somehow, more real.
He tried to sit up.
So weak.
When did I get so weak?
He tried to swing a leg out of bed but couldn’t move them.
Am I paralyzed?
A memory flashed through his mind. A crack, pain exploding in his head—
I was shot.
He strained to remember more details.
Viggo. His friend Viggo was there. He’d gone to see him—
“Ooh, mi suh late.”
That voice.
He’d heard it in his nightmares.
Rustling in the other room. The sound of his front door closing.
Mick looked around his bed for a weapon. Anything. On the table beside him sat a box of tissues and a ceramic mug. Silver metal tubing surrounded him like a fancy little fence.
This isn’t my bed.
He willed his left arm to move toward the mug. His hand rose and floated in that direction.
I am seeing this. This is real.
Fingers shaking, he tried to loop his index finger through the handle of the mug. He felt it slide through. He felt the smooth ceramic.
Success.
He took a few breaths and jerked the mug toward him. The liquid inside splashed to the floor. The mug clanged against the side of the bed.
He winced.
Dragging the mug toward him with as much speed as possible, he hid it beneath his sheets. Its cool surface rolled against his leg.
I feel it.
That had to be a good sign.
Something entered the room. He caught a blurry flash before closing his eyes to play possum. His brain processed the image.
Panic swelled in his chest.
The Shadow and the Sun.
His tormenter had arrived, bigger, split into light and dark.
Maybe I’m still dreaming?
Decades of SEAL training rushed forward to squelch his fear.
He didn’t have time to be afraid.
Even if I’m dreaming, I’m going to kill this thing this time.
Mick cracked open one eye and saw something move toward a large cabinet.
Not a shadow.
A woman.
Dark skin. Hair piled in
