Marcus didn’t want to. He wanted to call Scarlett. Now. Because his mind was racing. He’d been shot at only hours before, and then the security guard in his apartment building was shot too? He hadn’t wanted to believe her when she’d said he’d been the target at the Anders house, but this wasn’t a coincidence. It can’t be.

‘Sir?’ the operator said sharply. ‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes.’ He put the phone on speaker and laid it on the desk, forcing himself to stay calm as he looked around for something to stem Edgar’s bleeding. The older man’s gym bag was tucked under the desk, and in it Marcus found a spare shirt. Quickly he balled the shirt up and pressed it to the wound, dragging the bag under Edgar’s feet so that they were elevated.

Why? Why shoot an old man? He shoved the questions aside, focusing on Edgar. ‘Stay with me, Edgar,’ he muttered as he worked to secure the wadded-up shirt to the wound with Edgar’s own suspenders. ‘Don’t you dare die on me too.’

‘Sir?’ The operator’s voice was faint coming through the speaker. Marcus reached for his phone, accidentally jiggling Edgar’s computer mouse. The screen flashed to life and Marcus’s heart simply stopped.

‘Oh my God,’ he breathed, horrified, staring at the last entry on the sign-in log. Phillip. Edgar had signed Phillip into the building. Cal said Phillip was coming here to walk BB. Phillip was here, in this building. And so was a killer.

‘What is it?’ the operator demanded. ‘Sir? What’s wrong?’

‘How long before the paramedics get here?’ he demanded.

‘Another two minutes,’ she said.

Shit. Phillip might not have that long. Phone in hand, Marcus ran to the elevator and pressed the button. ‘Come on, you fucker. Come on.’

‘Excuse me, sir?’

‘Tell the cops to hurry. One of my employees is in my apartment and I think that’s where the shooter went too.’ The elevator doors opened and Marcus jumped in, swiped his ID card, then jabbed the button for the penthouse. He tossed the ID card on the lobby floor a second before the door closed. ‘I’m in the elevator. Tell the cops to come to the penthouse floor. I’ve left my ID card in the lobby so they can come up. I’m about to lose you.’

Sure enough, his call failed two seconds after the elevator started its climb. The ride was normally quick, but today it felt like he was rising through molasses. When the doors opened, he rushed toward his apartment.

And his racing heart stopped dead in his chest. His front door stood wide open. Where was Phillip? And BB? They’d better be okay. Please be okay.

Keeping his phone in one hand, he drew his gun with the other, taking slow, careful steps through the open door. The place had been wrecked, chairs overturned, picture frames pulled from the walls. Marcus’s boots crunched as he walked through broken glass, some from the pictures and some from a vase that had been shattered.

The quiet was terrifying. No voices. No barking dog. BB was a barker. She should be barking her fool head off right now. Be okay. Please be okay.

‘Phillip?’ he called softly. ‘BB? Come here, girl. It’s all right.’ He kept his voice soothing and smooth. ‘I’m home now. You can come out. It’s just me.’

The living room was clear, the den as well. In the kitchen he found the drawers pulled out, silverware strewn all over the floor. And more broken glass.

He crept into the spare bedroom, checking the closet and under the bed, remembering where he had found Tabby Anders.

The room was empty, so he quickly moved to his own bedroom, his heart sinking as he opened the door. ‘Oh God,’ he whispered. Phillip lay on the floor, covered in blood, BB motionless against the wall a few feet away.

He dropped to his knees next to Phillip, his back to the far wall. No one was going to shoot him in the back a second time today. He laid his gun on the carpet where he could reach it quickly, then searched for Phillip’s pulse. Don’t be dead, kid. Please.

There was no pulse. Rage filled him, pure and lethal, knocking the panic back to where he could think. Breathe, he commanded himself. His heart was knocking in his chest so hard that his own pulse was all he could hear, all he could feel. Control your pulse. Now.

He dropped his hands to his sides and focused on slowing his own heartbeat until he could think clearly once more, then pressed his fingers against Phillip’s throat again. And nearly collapsed in relief. Thank you. There was a pulse. It was thready and weak, but it was there.

He grabbed the phone from the nightstand and dialed 911 again, glad he’d kept a landline. He wasn’t going to chance losing Phillip because of a dropped call. Putting the phone on speaker, he went for his knife to cut Phillip’s shirt away, then remembered he’d given the knife to Scarlett that morning. He pulled his spare from his boot, taking a second to glance at BB as he did so. The dog’s chest was moving, but her coat was covered in blood. Her muzzle hung open, her tongue lolling to one side. She was unconscious, but alive.

‘This is nine-one-one,’ the operator answered. ‘What is your emergency?’

Marcus returned his attention to Phillip, who hadn’t stirred, his breathing so shallow that his chest didn’t appear to be moving at all. He sliced the bloody shirt away, and for the third time that day found himself staring at a massive gut wound. Blood was slowly seeping from the bullet hole, so slowly that Marcus had to fight back his panic once more. He’d seen wounds like this too many times to want to remember, even before Tala’s that morning. He’d watched too many soldiers die as medics rushed to save them.

‘Gunshot wound to the abdomen. Victim is Phillip Cauldwell, age twenty-seven. Pulse is weak. He is non-responsive. I called a few minutes ago about the victim in the lobby of my building, so first responders should be on the way. Send another team to the penthouse, unit 20B. Both victims have abdominal wounds.’

‘Help is on the way. Please stay on the line.’

‘I will,’ he said, then leaned into Phillip’s face. ‘You are not going to die,’ he growled. ‘Don’t you dare consider it. Stay here. I’ll be right back.’

Tucking his gun into its pocket holster, Marcus stood up on legs that shook, rushing to the master bath closet for clean towels and his first aid kit. It was paltry compared to the tackle box Scarlett kept in her house, but it would have to do.

Pressing one of the towels to Phillip’s bleeding gut as gently as he could, he pulled his cell from his pocket and dialed Scarlett’s number. Please pick up. I need you.

Cincinnati, Ohio

Tuesday 4 August, 8.40 P.M.

Deacon followed Zimmerman out, and Agent Troy rose as well, saying he needed to make some calls. Scarlett found herself sitting alone with Kate Coppola, who looked like she had something to say. So did Scarlett, but she waited, letting Kate go first.

‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ Kate said. ‘All good.’

‘Likewise.’ Scarlett looked at the other woman speculatively. ‘Can I ask why and how you ended up here?’ She was wondering what Faith would think of Deacon’s old partner showing up out of the blue.

Kate’s smile was rueful. ‘I’m not chasing Deacon. And don’t deny that that’s what you’re thinking, because it’s written all over your face.’

Scarlett rolled her eyes. Marcus. ‘Damn that man,’ she muttered.

‘Deacon?’

‘No. A different man.’ She regarded the redhead evenly for a moment. ‘If you’re not chasing Deacon, this seems like a big coincidence.’

Kate didn’t seem to take offense. ‘It’s not, really. I was up for a promotion, so I knew I could end up anywhere, and my boss knew I missed working with Deacon.’

Scarlett’s brows rose again. ‘So Faith has no worries from you, but I should?’