Page 4 of Zero Hour

“What the hell was that, Pat?”

Blade’s voice was controlled, but beneath it, there was something else. Shock.

They were outside now, standing on a bustling D.C. street, the weak sunlight doing little to cut through the winter chill. Horns blared, tires screeched, pedestrians moved past, oblivious to the unfolding drama. The city carried on like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t just tried to choke a man to death.

Pat jerked his arms free from the hands still holding him. His pulse still thundered in his ears.

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

Blade didn’t buy it. Neither did Viper, who stood nearby, arms crossed, staring at him like he’d never seen him before.

“That didn’t look like nothing,” Blade pressed. “You were going to kill him.”

Pat exhaled hard, raking a hand through his hair. If he wasn’t so fucking furious, he’d be embarrassed. His men had never seen him lose control like that. Not as a naval commander, and not in all the years running Blackthorn Security. Not once.

In the SEALs, violence was a tool. A means to an end. You struck fast, struck hard—and got the job done.

But this? This had been personal.

He forced himself to breathe. “He provoked me.” His voice came out rough. “I saw red.”

Blade glanced at Viper, who gave a slow shrug as if to say,No clue.

“That’s putting it mildly,” Blade muttered. “What did he say?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Pat’s tone brooked no argument. “We’ll pick up surveillance tomorrow. Let’s head back to the office.”

Then he walked off, leaving them standing there, still trying to process what the hell they’d just witnessed.

Back at Blackthorn Security HQ,Pat locked himself in his office.

He needed a minute.

No. He needed a fucking lifetime to process what he’d just heard.

Al-Jabiri’s words echoed in his head.

Your lover. The Brazilian model. I thought you knew. I left a note.

He exhaled with a harsh hiss. It couldn’t be true. Astrid’s death had been an accident. A car crash. Black ice on a winter road.

Hadn’t it?

He closed his eyes, and just like that, he was back there.

Eight years ago…

It wasthe week before Christmas, and Astrid had asked him over for supper. Her daughter, Izzy, was back from college but had gone out with friends.

It was the second Christmas without his late wife, Val, who’d lost her battle with breast cancer three years earlier, and the first without his son, Joe, who was deployed overseas. The holidays were hollow now, meaningless without family.

Astrid had sensed it, as she always did.

“Are you sure?” Pat had asked when she’d invited him to come over. “Richard will be there.”

“He doesn’t know about us,” she’d said, her throaty voice still laced with a trace of Brazil. She’d taken his hand. “Besides, it’ll make it more bearable.”

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