He’d seen my mother’s service record. His House had run a background check. That meant his question about my father being in the military had been complete bullshit. He probably knew the whole history of my family. He’d manipulated me, and I’d played right into it. Stupid.

“I prefer not to kill children,” Mad Rogan continued. “But I have no problems with making them orphans.”

True. Every word. He meant it.

Bern blinked.

Mad Rogan drank from his grey kitten mug. “Besides, considering your daughter’s skill with a firearm, she’s likely to shoot me before you do.”

My mother turned to me. “What happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said. I was trying very hard to pretend that it hadn’t happened.

“Nevada . . .” she began.

“No,” I said quietly.

A dark stain was spreading through Mad Rogan’s Henley over his ribs. “You’re bleeding.”

He looked down at himself and frowned.

“Let me see.” I got up.

“It’s nothing.”

“Rogan,” I said. “Lift up your shirt.”

He pulled his Henley up, exposing his side. A folded paper towel covered his lower ribs, held in place by duct tape.

“What is this?” I demanded.

“It’s a bandage,” Bern said.

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is,” Grandma Frida said. “Sometimes you cut your finger and you wrap the paper towel around it real tight, slap some duct tape on it, and good to go.”

“Your father used to do this,” Mom told me. “I swear, it’s like every man is born with it, or they must take some secret class on how to do it.”

I waved my hand at them. “It’s a paper towel. With duct tape! Where did you get the duct tape?”

Mad Rogan shrugged. “In the cabinet under the sink in your bathroom. I thought it stopped bleeding.”

“Well, it didn’t. When did you even get this?”

“I got hit by some debris during the blast,” he said.

“Did you clean it?”

“I showered,” he said.

“Right.” I glanced at my mother. “Okay, the two of you will have to postpone trying to figure out who is the harder hardcase until I fix this.” I got up and pulled a med kit out of the kitchen cabinet.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and flicked it on. A text from an unknown number. I sighed. Of course.

I put the phone on the table and tapped the text message. A picture of me and Mad Rogan circling the tower. In the picture, my face was pale, my mouth pressed into a hard line. I looked like I was trying not to cry, which was so strange, because at the time I wasn’t anywhere close to crying. Mad Rogan’s face was turned away from the camera, his head tilted as he looked up at the second-story windows.

A second text popped under the first. It said, “Whos the guy?”

Rogan focused on the phone. “Pierce.”

I texted back, “Where are you?”

“Outside ur house.”

My heart hammered. Mad Rogan leaped up and took off for the door. My mother moved. I hadn’t seen her go that fast since she left the Army. Grandma Frida dashed to the motor pool, Bern ran to the Hut of Evil, while I chased Mad Rogan. I caught up with him by the door, slipped into my office, and tapped the keyboard. A grey thermal camera image filled the screen, split into four parts, each section of the screen showing the view from a different side of the house: the parking lot and street in front of the motor pool at the back of the warehouse, the trees to the right, the street to the left, and the front door, with Mad Rogan’s Range Rover parked next to my car.

I held my breath. Nothing.

Mad Rogan leaned over me. His chest brushed against my right shoulder.

On the screen the night spread outside the house, a charcoal painting came to life. Nothing moved. No cars passed the house. If my mother put a bullet through Adam Pierce’s heart, we could kiss the agency good-bye. If he came to burn us to death . . . he shouldn’t be able to burn us to death. Hellspawn was a higher-order spell. It would’ve tapped him out the way Mad Rogan was now tapped out. At least I hoped it had.

The intercom on the phone flashed white. I pushed it.

“Three people in the building across the street,” Bern said quietly. The image on the monitor zeroed in on three white human silhouettes on the roof of the warehouse to the north. One of them lay in the familiar sniper pose.

“Those are mine,” Mad Rogan said quietly.

We waited. Trees rustled gently in the night breeze, barely visible on the screen.

My phone buzzed. Another text.

“Ma’am, this is the police. The call is coming from INSIDE YOUR HOUSE.”

Asshole!

“Did I freak you out?”

Gaaaah!

I pushed the intercom. “Just got another text. I think he’s screwing with us.”

“Sit tight,” Mom said.

I typed “Asshole” on my phone.

“Heh. Tell your new friend I said hi.”

On the screen the Range Rover exploded. Thunder punched the door and wall with a huge, invisible fist. The warehouse shook.

The intercom lit up. “Do you have the kids?” Mother asked.

“Yes,” Bern said. “They’re with me.”

Flames billowed out of the Range Rover’s metal carcass, bright white. Going out there was out of the question. We’d all make lovely targets silhouetted against that fire.

We sat, and waited, and watched the Range Rover burn until the fire department barreled down our street in a blaze of glory, lights, and sirens.

“Take your shirt off.” Now there’s something I never thought I’d say to the Scourge of Mexico.

Mad Rogan pulled his shirt off, and I tried my best not to stare. Muscles rolled under his tan skin. He wasn’t darker than me, but I tanned to a reddish gold, while his skin had a deeper, brown undertone to it. He was perfectly proportioned. His broad shoulders flowed into a muscular, defined chest that slimmed down to the flat planes of his hard stomach. Handsome or athletic didn’t do him justice. Dancers or gymnasts were athletic. He had the kind of body that should’ve belonged to a man from a different time, someone who swung a sword with merciless ferocity to protect his land and ran across the field at a wall of enemy warriors. There was a brutal kind of efficiency about the way muscle corded his frame.

I hadn’t even realized how large he was. Because all those suits streamlined him and his proportions were so well balanced, he looked almost normal-sized. But now, as he sat in my kitchen chair, dwarfing it, there was no way to ignore it. The sheer physical power of him was overwhelming. If he grabbed hold of me, he could crush me. But I didn’t care. I could look at him all night. I wouldn’t go to sleep. I wouldn’t need to rest. I could just sit there and stare at him. And if I looked long enough, I’d throw caution to the wind, reach out, and slide my hand over that powerful muscle. I would feel the strength in his shoulders. I would kiss . . .