“No way all these places went out of business since I was last here,” I said, a little shocked as I realized that was nearly six months ago. “The new owner must have cancelled all the leases as soon as he bought the buildings.”

Eilahn’s steady gaze tracked around us. “Perhaps the one who purchased this complex did not wish to wait for the end of the various lease periods before beginning work on the exciting new development in health care?”

After a few seconds of thought, I shook my head. “Still doesn’t make sense. These places look like they’ve been closed several months. If there was a rush, all of this would be torn down by now.”

“A mystery,” she murmured, smile playing on her mouth. “We shall endeavor to solve it, yes?”

I laughed. “Sure. I’ll put it on the to-do list.”

The warehouse where Tracy Gordon had attempted the gate—and where he’d died—still looked much the same as it had several months ago: a faded industrial grey facade with grime-covered glass double doors and a dark foyer beyond. It had belonged to a corporation owned by Roman Hatch, my now-incarcerated ex-boyfriend who’d decided to help Tracy Gordon kill a bunch of people and lure me to my doom.

I scowled. Damn it, all of my exes were pieces of shit. Rhyzkahl headed the list, of course, even if he didn’t count as a “boyfriend.” Didn’t matter. He was a steaming piece of shit. On the other hand, I couldn’t discount that the common factor with all of the exes was me. With each one I’d ignored warning signs, too lonely and needy and desperate to listen to the little voice within me that questioned my actions.

Yet I’d changed a hell of a lot in the past six months, as had my perspective. Mzatal and I shared a trust and connection beyond anything I’d ever thought possible, and I had every belief that I’d finally broken the self-destructive pattern.

I pushed away all thoughts of boyfriends and exes and pieces of shit as I noted the white SUV in the warehouse’s parking lot. I continued past the building, frustrated that I couldn’t personally run the tag without jumping through hoops and calling in favors. Compromising, I stopped long enough to grab a pen and scrawl the tag number on a gas receipt. I could always give it to Ryan and Zack to check it for me later if need be.

When I reached the end of the block, I turned and came back. Still no sign of people anywhere. A golf cart was parked in an alley two buildings down from the warehouse, but I didn’t see anything else that struck me as out of the ordinary. I finally parked across the street, got out and swept an assessing gaze around while Eilahn did the same. Still no sign of people or obvious threats, so together we hurried across the street to the parking lot.

I placed my hand on the hood of the SUV. “Warm,” I murmured to Eilahn. “Hasn’t been parked here long.” Whoever it belonged to either had permission to access the complex, or had gained entry by illicit means, much as we did. Either way, it bothered me that it was parked by this particular building.

Uneasy, I headed into the shadowy narrow street that ran along the side of the building. I knew we were going to have to break into the warehouse, but I had no desire to be obvious about it and go through the front.

We were nearly to the rear of the building when Eilahn placed a hand on my arm. “Voices.” Her eyes narrowed, and now I heard them from around the corner of the warehouse.

A yelp of what sounded like shock.

Another voice, shrill with stress. “Hands up!”

A third, calmer voice. “No trouble here, sir.”

“That can’t be good,” I murmured and broke into a jog. Within two strides Eilahn overtook me, peered around the corner quickly before motioning for me to continue. I did so, then followed as she made her way toward an open door on the back end of the warehouse.

“No sudden moves! Let me see some ID!”

And a quieter, “It’s no problem. I’m cooperating.”

Wary, I put my hand on my gun to reassure myself it was there. We peered around the doorway and suddenly found ourselves with a prime vantage as two men stood near the center of the large, empty warehouse, facing a third who leveled a large handgun at them.

None of the men seemed to notice us in their peripheral vision, and I quickly processed details as Eilahn and I crouched to avoid becoming targets ourselves. Tall and gangly and with freakishly long arms, the gunman wore a baggy Apex Security uniform along with an expression that hovered between panic and bravado. His finger rested on the trigger in a mockery of any sort of proper training or trigger discipline, and his aim jerked back and forth between the other two: a young man with Hispanic features and a slender build, and a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in a dark suit.

The wide-eyed younger man clutched what looked like a tablet computer to his chest with one hand and held the other up, fingers splayed. In sharp contrast, the suited man modeled utter calm as he performed a slow and careful two-finger extraction of something from his inside jacket pocket, most likely the demanded ID. As he did so I caught the hint of a bulge beneath his left arm.

A shoulder holster? Not that it made a difference. Even if the guard had seen a weapon it was idiotic and reckless for him to confront possible intruders without backup. Still, the situation needed to be defused before this twitchy rent-a-cop shot someone. I opened my mouth to tell Eilahn to call nine-one-one, even as a series of beeps abruptly sounded from the young man’s tablet. He jerked and gave a muffled cry, then fumbled and dropped the device.

The tense tableau shattered into chaos. The security guard startled, swung his gun toward the younger one. “Don’t move!” the guard cried with an excited, cocky edge to his voice. I’d heard that tone before, usually from rookie cops who were too hyped up by the power of the badge and gun, and in desperate need of a solid kick in the ass.

“Paul! Get down!” the dark-suited man ordered. In a fluid move, he dropped his ID and shifted his weight, made a twisting dive to put himself in front of the young man and take him down. A flash burst from the muzzle, and the sound of a gunshot slammed through the warehouse as the two men tumbled in a heap.

For an instant I thought the takedown had succeeded and the guard had missed, then I heard a horrible wet cough and saw blood spatter.

“Eilahn, get the gun!” I snapped out as I ran forward. She bypassed me in a flash of demon speed then used a cool spin-twist move to easily wrench the gun from the idiot security guard and drop him to the floor.

I slid to a stop and fell to my knees by the two men. The suited man jerked and struggled for breath as he lay face down atop the one he’d called Paul. A small dark splodge glistened on the back of his navy suit jacket, but the blood splatter on Paul and the floor told me the bullet had blown through.

“Bryce! No!” Paul’s eyes were wide with shock as he scrabbled beneath the man, trying to hold him and wiggle from beneath him at the same time. I siezed the injured man’s shoulder, tugged and rolled him onto his back, then bit back a curse as I saw his blood-soaked shirt and the dark red pool on the concrete. Blood bubbled from his mouth as he fought for breath. Paul scrabbled up and to his knees, horror filling his face at the sight.

“Eilahn, a little help here!” I called over my shoulder only to find the syraza already beside me. She dropped into a crouch and set the gun down—a .45 I absently noted—then ripped the bloody shirt open and covered the terrible exit wound in his right center chest with both hands. I shifted away to give her room and pulled out my phone to call nine-one-one. There wasn’t much else I could do for the guy at this point. A .45, I thought in disgust. For a security guard. Compensating much?