I didn’t understand then.

“I killed my father.” His eyes glittered at her. “I wake up every night, and you know what I hear? That gurgle he made when I drove the knife into his throat. I hear that sound, and it makes me sick.”

Monica had left the interrogation room, and she stood back, watching them. Sam ignored her. “You need to see a shrink. Start therapy right away.”

“Screw therapy.” Quinlan wrenched away from her. “Some things, some people, can’t be fixed.”

“And some can.” She took a deep breath. “You’re not alone, Quinlan. Your brother cares about you. He’ll be with you every step of the way.”

He threw a glance back over his shoulder at Monica. “What do you care? You got the bad guys. Go slap yourself on the back and leave me alone.”

Not that easy. “Don’t you want to know why?” she asked. “Why they picked you? Why they did all of this to you?”

“I know why.” His lips twisted. “I’m an unlucky a**hole. Always have been.”

Quinlan walked down the hallway, his wounds slowing his steps, but he kept his head up. Then he was gone.

“Is that what you wonder?” Monica asked softly as she moved up close to Sam. “Do you wonder why the Watchman took you that day?”

Sam met her gaze. “I wonder a lot of things, but not that.” Right place, perfect victim. He’d been ready for her, but she definitely hadn’t been prepared for him. She glanced at her watch. Max would still be in interrogation. Well, maybe. “Excuse me, I need to—”

“Do you still have nightmares?”

Was that her friend asking? Or was it the senior agent who reported directly to Hyde? Sam swallowed. “This isn’t about me.”

“You can’t get over hell so fast. You can’t, and Quinlan can’t.”

True. “I have to go.” Sam hurried down the hallway and almost missed the soft—

“I can’t.” The words slipped from Monica’s lips.

“Did your brother tell you how he came to be in possession of the knife?” Dante asked.

Max stared back at him. “I didn’t ask. The guy hasn’t exactly been in a talking mood. He lost his father, and he’s grieving.” And Quinlan shouldn’t be at the station. The press would be out there, waiting like vultures to catch the money shot—a photo of Quinlan’s damaged hand to splash in the papers and magazines.

Dante stared down at his notes. “The surviving victims indicated they were tied at all times.”

Max rolled his shoulders. “Then I guess they were, but Quinlan must have worked loose.” That was the only thing that made sense. “He found the knife they’d been using on him, and he got ready for some payback.”

But Quinlan hadn’t got his payback. Frank. Talk about screwed up timing.

“The only fingerprints on the knife were Quinlan’s,” Kim Daniels said. “We also found traces of his blood on the knife. Frank’s blood, of course, and Quinlan’s.”

“Because they used it to carve him up, and they were smart enough to wear gloves while they did it.” Come on, they knew this. The agents weren’t idiots.

“Our ME noticed something… odd about the slashes on your brother’s chest.” Dante slid a picture across the table. A photo of Quinlan’s torso that must have been taken at the hospital before the wounds had been bandaged. “Do you see this…?” He pointed to the lower left-hand side of Quinlan’s stomach. “The wounds are deepest here, then as the line angles up diagonally, the wounds become shallow.”

“So?” Damn, there were at least five long slashes on Quinlan. His brother hadn’t complained of the pain. Not once.

“The wounds weren’t deep enough to hit any major organs—”

“So either the bastard got lucky or he knew what he was doing,” Max snapped and shoved the picture away. He didn’t want to look at his brother’s torn body.

Dante steepled his fingers together and leveled a hard stare at him. “Based on the entry depth of the wounds and the angle, our ME thinks it’s possible the wounds were self-inflicted.”

Red coated his vision as Max leapt to his feet. “That’s bullshit!”

The door squeaked open behind him. Max spun around and found Samantha standing in the doorway. Her gaze darted from him to Luke.

“Did you know about this?” Max demanded and stabbed a finger at the gory photograph. “Did you know they were going to say Quinlan cut himself? Hell, I guess he kidnapped himself, too, huh?”

Silence from Dante and Kim.

“What are you talking about?” Samantha asked and she stepped toward him. “I haven’t heard—”

“Brantley took a look at the photos for us,” Kim finally said. “He thinks the wounds could have been self-inflicted.”

Could have. Shit. “And they could have been made by a sick freak who was torturing him,” Max blasted.

Samantha crept closer and stared down at the photo.

“The point of entry is deep on the lower left-hand side.” Dante pushed the photo toward her.

“I see it.” Her breath eased out. “We need to ask Quinlan exactly where the attacker was standing when he sliced him.” She glanced up. “And that’s not going to be easy because Quinlan isn’t in the mood to cooperate with the FBI anymore.”

“And I don’t blame him,” Max tossed back. “I thought we were here to tie up loose ends.” Self-inflicted, my ass.

“This is a loose end,” Dante said.

“Bull. This is you trying to pin some sick crap on my brother.” Max pointed at the agent. “Go talk to the other victims. Find out what the hell they know.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be so easy,” said a deep voice from the doorway.

Max glanced over his shoulder and found a tall, dark-skinned man waiting there. “We just received word,” the guy said, his voice hard and booming, “that the first kidnap victim, Scott Jacobson, won’t be making it in for his interview today.” This guy had to be the infamous Hyde that he’d read about in the papers.

“He’s not coming in?” Dante repeated. “Why the hell not?”

“Because somebody just killed him,” Hyde said. “Jacobson’s car exploded on his way to our office.”

CHAPTER Fourteen

Max rushed out of the FBI building, his phone pressed hard against his ear. He had to find Quinlan. Dammit, if anything happened to him…

“Wait! Max, stop!”

He whirled around and found Samantha running after him, her red hair blazing in the sun. Just then, his brother’s voicemail picked up. Shit. “Quinlan, call me. Stay with your guards and call me,” Max urged before ending the call. His Jeep sat just a few feet away. He’d parked a couple of blocks from the federal building, and he wanted to rush to his Jeep and chase after his brother.

Get to Quinlan. Because his brother wasn’t safe. Not yet. Not with Jacobson dead.

“They thought it was him,” Max gritted out. “Your friends, those agents—they thought it was him.” They’d thought his brother was a killer.

Samantha narrowed the distance between them until just a few feet remained. “You know every option has to be explored.”

“Screw that! He’s barely walking! He’s the victim!”

“I know.” Soft. If anyone knew what it was like to be the victim, it should be her.

Max sucked in a sharp breath. “Baby, I’ve got to go. I have to go and see about my brother. I—”

“I can’t let you go anywhere, Max.”

Those words were the last that he’d expected her to say. “What?”

“Members of the bomb squad are already on the scene of the Jacobson attack. Scott’s car was rigged to explode.” Her gaze darted to Max’s vehicle. “Now I want you to step away from your car and come with me.”

She wasn’t serious. Wait; yeah, she was. Max glanced back at his Jeep. “You think it was the kidnapper? That he rigged Jacobson’s car?”

“At this point, we can’t afford to think anything else.” She lifted her hand. “Come with me, Max.”

He stepped toward her. “But I wasn’t a victim.” No one should be coming after him. He should be safe.

The faint jingle of a cell phone seemed to echo in the sudden tense silence. He glanced down automatically. No, wait, that wasn’t him—

“Max!” Samantha screamed.

His head whipped back up, and he saw the terror on her face. She lunged forward and grabbed his hand. Then something slammed into his back, something big and strong and hot, and he flew forward.

Seconds later, when he crashed onto the pavement, he brought her down with him.

Max lay on the ground, unmoving, with that FBI bitch sprawled beneath him. The bitch had stopped Max from getting into the Jeep. Just a few more seconds…

It was really too easy to make bombs these days. A few keystrokes, and you could find a how-to guide online. Of course, she’d remembered the basics for the bomb. Not like a woman could forget that. Just a little matter of getting her parts together.

Simple.

But cleaning up someone else’s mess sure was f**king hard.

The motor revved as the BMW shot down the street, zipping right past the billowing clouds of black smoke and nearly plowing into an old lady who didn’t have the sense to stay on the sidewalk.

Dammit, now Max would be cautious, and that bitch agent would be guarding him.

But there’d been no choice. Couldn’t risk leaving evidence behind. The bomb had been set that morning. If the FBI had gone and found it on the car…

They might have linked it back to me. She couldn’t take that chance. So whether Max had been in the car or not, the Jeep had to go.

She took a fast turn to the left, and the trail of smoke vanished. Max was in the way, and he’d have to be taken out. After everything that had happened, it wasn’t going to end like this—not with Max holding the purse strings and everyone else screwed.

No way.

Killing Max and taking that Jacobson guy out on the same morning would have been so perfect. The FBI would’ve just thought one of the kidnappers had come after them. They would have directed their attention back to the cases.

“And not to me,” Beth whispered, adjusting her rearview mirror. Sirens wailed, and a fire truck flew past her. Since she was clear of the immediate scene, Beth pulled over to the side of the road and did her good citizen routine. She tried to make sure the fire truck and the two police cars swerving past her had enough room.

She waited a bit, giving them ample time to pass, then she pulled back onto the road. She was driving slowly now, carefully.

And planning. Always planning. She hadn’t been that old bastard’s f**k toy for nothing. No, she’d earned her money and her happiness—and she was getting both. Nothing would stop her. No one.

If she had to kill to get what she deserved, so be it. Not like it was the first time. She’d made sure her dick of a husband got what he deserved. He’d planned to leave her. Her.

Instead the cops had been picking pieces of his body off the interstate. Just like they’d be doing with Jacobson.

She just had to be careful… don’t get caught. Her only rule.

And she hadn’t been caught before. She’d used her connections, gotten the bomb, figured out how to place it on the car, and learned to make it go boom. Her brief stay in prison for that lame solicitation charge had introduced her to a very useful crowd of friends.

Her grin stretched as she drove through the green light. Maybe she’d get lucky. Maybe Max was dead. Maybe a chunk of metal had slammed into his head, into the bitch’s head, and taken them both out. Maybe.

She’d never been particularly lucky before. If she had been, then her mother wouldn’t have been a lying crack addict who’d overdosed at twenty-three, and her old man wouldn’t have been a freak who liked to touch little girls.

But she’d fixed that a**hole. He’d been in the car with her husband when she’d called to tell them both just how much she loved them.

“Samantha? Samantha?” Fear pounded through Max’s blood as he grabbed Samantha and rolled her over. Blood trickled into his eyes, and he swiped his hand over his face as he tried to clear his vision.

She wasn’t moving. Her eyes were closed. Scratches covered the right side of her face, and when he smoothed his hand down her cheek, she didn’t wake up.

No.

Smoke billowed around them. Voices rose, screaming. No, not voices—sirens.

Max glanced over his shoulder. His Jeep had been blown to hell and back. A damn tire was still rolling down the street. If Samantha hadn’t stopped him, it wouldn’t just be pieces of his vehicle on the road.

His hands shook as he cupped her head. “I need help!” he yelled into the smoke. He’d slammed into her when the blast erupted. Hit her hard and taken her down onto the concrete.

Her lashes began to flutter.

“Samantha?”

Her shoulders shifted a bit on the ground.

“What. The. Hell.” That furious voice belonged to the guy from before. Hyde. The head of the SSD.

“I need an EMT!” Max shouted as he held Sam.

“You’re hurt?” Hyde burst through the smoke. Ramirez, the agent who’d taken out the perp in the park, was right at the man’s heels.

“Not me.” The scratch on his head was nothing. “Samantha.” The fear and the rage boiling inside seemed to be shaking him apart. Shouldn’t have happened. This nightmare should have been over.