Zane’s brow wrinkled. “Pretend what’s real?”

Ty slid his hand down Zane’s arm and linked their fingers again. “That I can hold your hand without worrying about being recognized,” he said with a smile. He tugged at Zane’s hand, wanting to get out of the shops and back onto the pier to see the water and the view.

Zane’s smile reappeared and he nodded. “Anytime you want.”

Ty gave him a melancholy smile, squeezing his hand. It was a shame they didn’t get to go out and hold hands like this at home. A crying shame. But they couldn’t risk being recognized and outed at work. As soon as they both retired, though, Ty intended to hold Zane’s hand everywhere they went.

“WHAT are you going to tell them?” Randall Jonas asked as Burns dialed the number for his man in Chicago.

“As little as possible,” Burns answered. He was silent as he waited for an answer, and when he spoke he was using some sort of code that Jonas didn’t begin trying to decipher. “Your father says hello,” Burns told his agent. It must have been some sort of activator.

Jonas watched him as he exchanged a few more seemingly mundane pleasantries; then he broke the code and just outright said the information he’d intended to pass on. “Consider your mark armed and extremely dangerous. He’s a federal informant who’s gone off the grid, and we need him here, in my office.”

Jonas frowned, confused by Burns’ methods. But then, Burns had never had regular methods to begin with.

“I don’t care how you do it, just get him here. In one piece. Don’t ‘yes, sir’ me, you little shit, just don’t get dead.” He hung up and looked at Jonas with a worried frown.

“Can your men really bring in Cross without any backup?” Jonas asked.

Burns pursed his lips. “Yes. I’d put these two against any of your spooks, any day of the week.”

Jonas raised an eyebrow, and he couldn’t help but smile at his old friend’s confidence. “Them’s fightin’ words.”

“Bring it, old man.”

Chapter 4

“WE SHOULD be getting close,” Zane said as the cab cut through the architectural jungle of downtown.

“How do you want to play it? Go in soft or heavy? Good cop, bad cop? Shoot first and ask questions later?” Ty asked with a hint of sarcastic amusement.

Zane shrugged. “Are you expecting trouble?” Out of long habit, he slid his hand into his new jacket to check his weapon.

“From this guy? Almost certainly,” Ty said. “Dick talked about him like he was Batman.”

“How so?”

“Long list of connections to the CIA, organized crime, a laundry list of arms dealers and mercs, foreign and domestic.”

“Why does Burns want him? And why us?”

Ty was silent for a moment. “I’ve learned not to ask those questions,” he said as he looked at Zane with a smile to mitigate the harshness of the words.

Zane nodded. He looked at Ty with warmth he probably shouldn’t have been feeling while officially on the job. Ty seemed closer than he had been just a moment ago, close enough for Zane to smell him, the unusual musk of sandalwood that was so unlike Ty and the more familiar combination of Tide, gun oil, leather, and sweat that turned him on like crazy. But Zane felt a pang of yearning for a whiff of Old Spice.

“I’m also expecting him to not actually be at this address. If he was this easy to find, he wouldn’t be Batman,” Ty said, drawing Zane out of his reverie.

“If he’s there, it would be novel for it to go so smoothly,” Zane said as the cab came to a stop in front of an old building converted into condos.

Ty checked his gun and got out as Zane paid the driver, who didn’t even blink at the weapons and nodded when Zane told him to wait. Ty clucked his tongue, trying his best not to smile as Zane joined him on the curb. Ty had been told not long ago that he shouldn’t enjoy the almost-getting-killed part of his job as much as he did. Zane didn’t know who had said it, but ever since, Ty had been making a concerted effort to hide his unholy glee during melees. It was still pretty clear to Zane, though.

He surveyed the light traffic passing by on the side street. It was evening, and there weren’t many people out and about. Hopefully that would work in their favor.

“Ready?” he asked Ty.

Ty glanced up and down the street, then nodded and stepped up to the double glass doors of the building. They would have to be buzzed in, which never helped the element of surprise. Ty stared at the panel for a moment, obviously contemplating how to go about it. He glanced back at Zane and shrugged one shoulder, then pushed the number they’d been given.

After a short pause, the small speaker clicked. “Hello?”

“Hey, Jimmy!” Ty practically shouted, startling Zane. Ty’s words slurred as he leaned toward the speaker. “Dude. You should not have left early tonight.”

There was a short pause. “I think you have the wrong apartment.”

“Come on, man, don’t be like that! I swear I didn’t know you were into her! I left my good pants on your couch. If I go in to work hungover in my boxers again, they’ll can me for sure. Four strikes and you’re out, brother!” Ty bit his lip to keep from laughing as he turned his head away from the speaker box.

Zane grinned and shook his head, covering his mouth and reminding himself that they were trained federal agents. Professionals. In theory.

“You’ve got the wrong apartment. There’s no Jimmy here.”

“Oh,” Ty drew out. “Shit, man, I’m sorry! Didn’t mean to go buzzing you so early in the morning.” The last glance at his watch had told Zane it was nearing six in the evening. “But hey, do you know Jimmy, man? Could you grab my pants for me?”

There was a longer pause, long enough that Zane thought the man on the other end of the speaker had abandoned the conversation. But then the box clicked again.

“There’s no Jimmy here. Buzz somebody else.” The words ended with some ring of finality.

Ty clucked his tongue again and shrugged at Zane. “Worth a try,” he told his partner with a smirk. He reached out and hit another button. A moment later a woman answered. “Delivery.”

“I didn’t order anything,” she said brusquely, and that was that. Four more tries later—one no answer, two immediate denials, and a bizarre conversation with a stoner about the phases of the moon during which Ty had way too much to offer, in Zane’s opinion—Ty huffed in frustration.

“How many more are you going to try?” Zane asked. They didn’t really have the time to call the Chicago field office and ask for a warrant. Not to mention that would go over really well with Burns, who obviously wanted them to keep this as low as it could go. Was this the kind of thing that Ty was always doing for Burns?

Ty glanced at him stubbornly and pushed a button at random. Zane rolled his eyes. As soon as there was an answer, he stepped closer to the speaker and said, “Federal agents, ma’am.”

“Nice try, asshole,” the woman said smugly; then the speaker box clicked off.

Ty growled dangerously. “I hate this town,” he muttered as he took his gun out from under his coat.

Zane straightened in mild alarm. “What are you doing?”

Ty yanked a glove off one hand and wrapped it around the butt of his gun, then turned smoothly and rammed the handle into the glass door. The mottled glass cracked and shattered, but there was mesh wire embedded inside that kept it from falling in. Ty used the muzzle of his gun to clear out the window, ripping through the wire, raining pieces all over the sidewalk and Ty’s feet. He reached through the iron bars and pushed the handle, opening the door and holding it for Zane with a gallant wave of his hand.

“Why, thank you, sir,” Zane drawled as he walked through the mess, already thinking of ways to make sure Ty would be the one writing up the report for this trip.

“Assholes,” Ty muttered as he looked up at the floor display above the elevators. He stopped in front of the fire alarm and looked at it for just a moment too long for Zane’s comfort. Zane cleared his throat pointedly.

Ty looked at him almost guiltily and then followed him toward the stairwell. Zane didn’t know if there were any sort of alarm on the door, but they needed to move a little more quickly regardless.

The condo they had targeted was on the second floor, not nearly a long enough hike up the steps to pacify Ty’s annoyance. Zane pushed past him and started checking doors until they found the number they’d been provided. He glanced at his partner, knocked on the door, and listened to what sounded like a rush of feet that immediately retreated. Zane frowned and reached out to rap on the door again, but someone approached from the other side and stopped. Zane figured the man was looking out the peephole, so he held up his badge. Behind him, Ty did the same. “Federal agents.”

A bolt slid and the door opened just a bit, blocked by the chain, and a slim, wholly average-looking man peered out.

“Cameron Jacobs? I’m Special Agent Zane Garrett, and this is Special Agent Ty Grady. We’re looking for Julian Cross.”

CAMERON stared through the four-inch gap as he studied the two tall, capable-looking men holding out badges that looked pretty official. They could be federal agents. Or not. With Julian’s past business, there was no telling who might come looking for him. It was the “or not” that was scaring Cameron right now, and his hand gripped the doorjamb so tightly that it hurt. “I don’t know who that is.”

“Perhaps you know him better as Julian Bailey?” the man called Special Agent Grady said drily. “Or Sir? Maybe even Boss?”

Cameron frowned as he shook his head. Surely federal agents would be nicer than this. He looked them up and down. And better dressed. “I’m sorry, but you have the wrong….” He frowned harder as he remembered the last time he had said those words, maybe fifteen minutes ago. “Was that you on the speaker?” he asked in outrage.

The man who had introduced them smiled slowly. To Cameron, it was like a dangerous animal showing its teeth. He frowned, looking over the man’s windblown, curly hair, piercing eyes, and a crooked nose that had probably been broken at least twice. The smile was probably meant to put him at ease.

Special Agent Grady flipped over the badge he’d been holding and pulled aside his leather jacket to slide it into an inner pocket. The move revealed a fairly large weapon in a holster under his arm. Whether he did it on purpose didn’t really matter; his point was made.

“Would you mind opening the door so we can have a word, Mr. Jacobs?” Special Agent Garrett asked in a businesslike tone. “Or you can just point us toward Cross and we’ll be out of your hair.”

“I do mind,” Cameron objected, his back straightening as he pulled his hand back to slam the door shut.

Grady’s hand shot out in a flash, stopping the door from closing. He stepped closer and lowered his head, as if he might be about to share a secret. Everything about him screamed military to Cameron, from his gruff tone to his quick reflexes to his impressive athletic build.

“Do you have any idea how much trouble it is to fix a chain that’s been ripped off a doorjamb?” Special Agent Grady asked calmly. “Or how much it hurts my shoulder to put it through a solid oak door? This is oak, right? It’s very nice.”

Cameron pushed hard against the door, and it made no difference at all. He glanced at Special Agent Garrett, who was taller, darker, and not offering any sympathy. This was not looking good. Not at all. So Cameron nodded jerkily and reached to unhook the chain, aware that Julian would read him the riot act for this.

Of course, Julian would yell at him for opening the door in the first place. But only a little bit.

Chain undone, Cameron took several steps back and gathered himself to reach for his phone and Julian’s speed dial emergency number as he watched his four calf-high white Westies charge the strangers entering the apartment.

Special Agent Grady moved in slowly, his body turned almost sideways as his eyes scanned the room. His hand was on his weapon.

Cameron had seen Julian enter rooms in a similar fashion, and it set off even more warning bells. The man looked down at the four dogs and balked, side-stepping and gesturing for his partner to come in.

It was Cameron’s chance. Cameron reached into his pocket for his cell phone and fumbled with it, trying to be inconspicuous about it. He hoped that he managed to hit the key combination for the prewritten text he needed to send.

Special Agent Garrett shut the door gently, and the strangers moved steadily into Cameron’s condo. The more he watched the agents, the more they reminded him of Julian. They were on guard but confident. “I don’t know who you’re looking for. There’s no one else here.”

“We know,” Grady told him. He smiled and nodded to the pocket Cameron still had his hand stuffed into. “He’ll be here soon, though. Take a load off, kid. It won’t be so bad.” He stretched out broad muscles and rolled his neck, the movement shifting his coat, revealing a specialty T-shirt. Grady turned to look down at the yipping dogs in distaste, and then he looked up at his partner.

Special Agent Garrett tipped his head to one side before focusing on Cameron. From twelve feet away, his eyes appeared to be flat black, and Cameron felt like he was pinned in place.

“How do you know Mr. Cross, Mr. Jacobs?” he asked. His voice was calmer than Special Agent Grady’s, more polite, if still a bit cool.

Cameron pressed his lips together in a bid for silence. At least this was one of the possible scenarios Julian had outlined for him when they had set up the alert system. Despite Cameron’s protests, his dangerous lover had insisted he’d rather come here to protect him and eliminate the problem than stay away in dubious safety.