Page 1 of Hero Worship

August

The doctor's hands shookas he reached for the X-ray, and my mind flashed to the last time I'd seen hands tremble like that. It was right before I'd put a bullet between a human trafficker's eyes. Twenty years of behavioral analysis kicked in without my permission. Micro-expressions, body language, the slight hitch in his breathing… All were tells I'd spent my careercataloging in interview rooms while hunting the worst humanity had to offer. Now I was using those same skills to read my own death sentence. Just not the kind that ended in a body bag.

He slid the X-ray onto the lightboard and flipped the switch. A dull fluorescent glow illuminated the film, painting the ghostly images of bone and metal in black and white for all to see. Even from across the room, I could see my right knee wasn't healing the way it was supposed to.

A patchwork of surgical screws and stabilizing plates crisscrossed my kneecap and upper tibia, fusing the shattered pieces back together like some kind of macabre jigsaw puzzle. Thick bands of scar tissue streaked across the joint space, remnants of the trauma surgeries required to salvage what was left of my knee after the bullet tore through. Even to my untrained eye, it was clear the damage was extensive. Probably permanent.

The doctor's words blurred together—post-traumatic osteoarthritis, implant failure. The message was crystal clear: I was done.

I'd spent my whole career walking into rooms where monsters had been, reading their signatures in blood and bone, hunting them across state lines until justice was served. But justice had always meant handcuffs and courtrooms. What good was a badge when I couldn't even walk without a cane?

"What about more surgeries?" I pressed. "Experimental treatments? There's gotta be something else you can do! Money's not an issue."

Deep down, I already knew it was futile. The pitying look in his eyes said it all. Another tell I'd learned to read too well—the same look I'd given countless families when I had to tell them their loved ones weren't coming home.

The doctor shook his head. "More surgeries might help manage the pain and improve your mobility to an extent, but thedamage is just too severe. I know it's not what you want to hear, but you need to face reality. Your body can't handle that kind of stress anymore, no matter how much metal we put in there."

I clenched my fists until my nails bit into my palms. Frustration bubbled up inside me like a goddamn geyser ready to blow. How many monsters had I tracked down? How many families had I given closure to? And now it was all over, thanks to one stupid bullet.

I bit my tongue until I tasted copper, choking back the stream of obscenities that threatened to spill out. Losing my shit wouldn't change a damn thing, no matter how good it might feel in the moment. I was still fucked six ways from Sunday.

I stood up stiffly, trying not to wince as my knee protested the sudden movement. The doc made a move like he wanted to help me, but I waved him off. I didn't need his pity. I'd drag my crippled ass out of there under my own power, thank you very much.

I grabbed my cane and hauled myself to my feet, feeling twice my age. I caught my reflection staring back at me in the window—dark circles under harder dark eyes, three days of stubble, and the kind of muscle that came from fieldwork, not a gym. At least that hadn't changed yet. The badge in my pocket felt heavier than ever, and for a second, I was glad I couldn't see it.

I limped out of the clinic and made it to my car, collapsing into the driver's seat with more force than necessary. Over two decades of putting my life on the line, taking bullets and beatings. Hell, even a machete to the arm once—and this was how it ended. At forty-two, all I had to look forward to was a retirement cake and a desk job pushing papers until the Bureau finally put me out to pasture.

Through the windshield, heat waves distorted the world like a fun-house mirror. How many times had I watched monsterswalk free on technicalities? How many victims' families had I faced with nothing but "the law" as an excuse for our failure?

The sound of knuckles rapping against the driver's side window jerked me back to reality, sharp as gunfire in the stifling quiet. I watched the approach in my side mirror, cataloging details out of habit. Controlled movements, perfect posture, deliberate eye contact. He was a predator wrapped in Italian wool. Three months ago, I'd had protocol and procedure to hide behind when we'd crossed paths. Now all I had was the growing certainty that he moved like every subject I'd ever profiled, and the more uncomfortable realization that I understood exactly why he did what he did.

Algerone Caisse-Etremont. Fucking great. Just what I needed right now.

He stood there in his designer suit, not a dark hair out of place, looking for all the world like he was posing for a goddamn GQ spread instead of slumming it in a clinic parking lot. His expression was as calm and unruffled as ever, but there was a sharpness in his green eyes that set my teeth on edge. Like he'd been waiting for this moment, watching and biding his time until I was at my lowest point.

I hesitated for a beat. Every instinct screamed at me to tell him to fuck off and peel out of there, putting as much distance between us as possible. Especially since the last time I'd seen him, I'd been holding a gun to his head in his private prison, demanding he release the Laskin family.

My first real taste of choosing justice over law was the moment I'd decided a family of vigilante killers deserved freedom more than the "legitimate businessman" who'd kidnapped his own sons like they were corporate assets to be reclaimed. The whole mess with Shepherd Laskin had shown me just how far Algerone would go to control everything and everyone around him. Sure,giving the Laskins that contract had worked out. The Laskins might've been killers, but at least they only hunted monsters.

Still, I'd learned everything I needed to know about Algerone when he'd treated his own flesh and blood like property. Those boys—Xander, Xavier, and Xion—they weren't just his legacy to secure. They were people. Something a psychopath like Algerone would never understand. Not that holding a gun to his head had fazed him. I was pretty sure the bastard couldn't bleed even if I had pulled the trigger.

But beneath the knee-jerk wariness, a small, traitorous part of me was curious. The asshole had to have a reason for seeking me out like this, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't intrigued.

Against my better judgment, I hit the button to roll down the window. "The hell do you want, Caisse-Étremont? In case you didn't notice, I'm not exactly in the mood for company right now."

The corner of his mouth twitched in a ghost of a smile. "I take it the prognosis was not favorable?"

I clenched my jaw, biting back the urge to tell him exactly where he could stick his polite inquiry. "You could say that. Apparently, my days of chasing down scumbags are over. Guess I'll have to find a new hobby. I hear knitting is real popular with the geriatric crowd these days."

Algerone made a considering noise, studying me with those unnerving green eyes. Everything about him screamed danger from the way he held himself, the calculated warmth in his voice, the predatory focus of his attention. "A shame, truly. You were one of the Bureau's finest. It will be their loss."

I barked out a harsh laugh. "Spare me the condolences. You don't give a shit about the FBI unless someone pays you to, and you sure as hell don't give a fuck about me."

Algerone's expression remained maddeningly calm in the face of my hostility. He loomed over the car door like a shadow, allcrisp lines and cold authority. Behind him, heat waves rippled off the asphalt, making the world beyond him waver like a mirage. Everything about his stance screamed dominance play, the kind of power move I'd seen from a thousand suspects who thought they held all the cards. The difference was, with Algerone, it wasn't just an act.

"On the contrary, Agent Valentine. I have a great deal of respect for your skills and experience. Which is precisely why I'm here."

Something flickered in those cold green eyes, the same eyes his sons had inherited. But where Algerone's held nothing but calculation, I remembered the heat in Xander's gaze during that briefing room meeting. The way he'd sat there and called me 'daddy' with a smirk that had no business being that distracting. Hard to believe this stone-cold bastard had produced those three boys, let alone tried to steal them back from the Laskins.

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