Page 11 of Zero Hour

One moment they’d been talking like civilized human beings, the next the fiery-eyed stranger had his massive hands around Amir’s throat and was throttling him. He would have killed him too, if those homeless men hadn’t come barging in.

She shook her head. The whole thing was surreal.

Jasmine didn’t for a moment believe they were homeless. Not fit young men like that. She’d also glimpsed their weapons before they’d hidden them under their dirty rags. No, they were undercover operatives.

Besides, she was sure she’d heard one of them call the stranger “boss”. If he was their commanding officer, then they were soldiers. Or Marines. Or spies.

Regardless of who they were, they had Amir under surveillance and were trying to figure out what he was involved in.

This planning has worked up quite an appetite.

She wiped her hands on her apron. Well, they weren’t the only ones.

CHAPTER 5

The sun had long since set by the time Pat got home. His last update from Anna had confirmed Gemini was holed up in their apartment, playing video games. The Falcon and his cousin—Codename: Buzzard—were inside their property along with the woman, Jasmine McCarthy.

Pat pulled a beer from the fridge, slapped together a sandwich, and sank into his favorite recliner. Two manila folders sat on the coffee table in front of him. Sure, he could’ve reviewed the files on his laptop, but he thought better when he had a hard copy in his hands.

Anna knew that. She made sure printed reports were waiting on his desk before he left every evening.

He reached for the top folder. It hadn’t been opened in eight years—not since Astrid died. A dull ache settled in his chest. His life had been marred by loss.

First Val.

Then Astrid.

Then his son, Joe, killed in action in Afghanistan.

The trifecta.

Why was it that everyone he loved ended up dead?

He took another swig of his beer.

The military had taught him one thing—you keep moving forward. You don’t dwell on the past. You don’t let it consume you.

Looking back could break you. He knew that better than most.

With a sigh, Pat opened the folder. Astrid’s face smiled up at him, and his gut twisted. Fuck, he’d loved her. This was the photograph he’d used at her funeral. She was sitting in a rose garden, smiling at the person behind the camera.

Him.

That day was highlighted in his memory. They’d taken Izzy to a summer fair at one of those grand estates outside the city. The gardens had been stunning—manicured hedges, sprawling fountains, Roman statues. Astrid had been in awe, but he’d only had eyes for her.

Exotic, stylish, sexy—she made him feel like the luckiest guy on earth. With her, he felt alive—a rare thing for a man who spent most of his life chasing adrenaline.

Pat flipped the photograph over and forced himself to refocus. The incident report was filed by a beat cop named Dennis Raymond. A motorist had spotted the wreck on his way home. By the time Raymond had gotten there, the victim was dead.

Cause: blunt force trauma to the head, coupled with internal injuries sustained on impact. The pathologist had said it would have taken her less than twenty minutes to die.

Twenty minutes.

Alone.

In the freezing cold.

Dying.

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