As his sneakers pounded out a rhythmic pace on the cracked blacktop, Shane pondered the return of the nightmare.

Maybe Nick Rixey was responsible for it. Wanting to help Becca Merritt, their former commander’s daughter, find her missing brother, Shane’s best friend—or former best friend, or whatever the fuck they were now—had called together what was left of their discredited and discharged Special Forces team for the brother’s recon and rescue. And everyone from the team—himself, Edward “Easy” Cantrell, Beckett Murda, and Derek “Marz” DiMarzio—had dropped everything and come to Baltimore. Because that’s what brothers did. Especially those forged by war and not blood.

So maybe the reunion, strained as it was by the fubar of a past they all shared and the danger of the present operation they didn’t yet fully understand, was responsible for rattling things loose in his head that had long been secured in place.

Maybe.

Or maybe it was the operation itself. After all, it wasn’t any great leap to think that finding and saving Becca’s brother Charlie might’ve resurrected memories about Shane’s own missing sister. The one no one had ever found and sure as shit hadn’t saved.

Goddamnit all.

Where the street met the harbor, Shane rounded the next corner, mentally checking off another part of the map he’d studied before heading out. With the back of his hand, he wiped the sweat off his brow. Despite only being eleven in the morning, humidity choked the late-April air until it felt like he was running through molasses. Not that he really minded. Having grown up in southern Virginia, the heat was a welcome old friend. But the salt in his sweat stung the hell out of the injury on his shoulder.

Suck it up, McCallan.

Pushing himself harder, Shane picked up the pace, surveying the street as his thoughts continued to churn.

Or maybe someone else was responsible for shaking the subconscious skeleton from its closet. Maybe it was the woman he’d run into in the strip club where they’d found Charlie.

Crystal.

The first time he’d run into her—literally—she’d helped him unwittingly, thinking he belonged there. And, man, she’d been as beautiful as she was skittish. How a woman working in a strip club and wearing sheer lingerie managed to give off such a genuine, innocent vibe, he didn’t know. But she had it—and then some. And the incongruity had been rolling around in his head ever since, like a pinball tripping sensors and ringing bells.

But the second time he’d run into her? When she hadn’t prevented their getaway from the club? When it was clear he had no business there? Her terror had been apparent in the blaze of her green eyes and the tremble of her voice, but whatever mental calculus she’d run had come down in his favor. And she’d helped him—or at least hadn’t hindered him—on purpose.

Yet, she so greatly feared someone there thinking she’d been complicit in his actions that she’d insisted he hit her.

The surreal nature of the request sent him reeling all over again. Shane couldn’t remember the last time he’d been as gobsmacked.

Not even when Nick had called out of the blue after months of ignoring Shane’s emails and phone calls and said he’d found a possible lead into the cover-up that’d gotten them booted from the Army.

The woman had freaking demanded he hit her.

Who did that?

And what kind of people did she know that made her expect he’d actually do it? It told him a lot about the green-eyed girl. That she was scared. And felt vulnerable. And thought punishment was a real threat.

That she was in trouble.

What the hell had happened to her after their cut and run? The possibilities were endless. And mostly piss poor.

And the wondering had nagged at him all night, right alongside his nightmares of Molly.

So, yeah, maybe concern for this woman, who was clearly caught up in a bad situation, had triggered all these old thoughts of his sister. Because Molly had never been found. He had no idea if she’d been killed right away. Or if she’d suffered a lifetime of imprisonment and abuse at the hands of some sicko. Or if she could be alive and in trouble, even now.

Like Crystal.

Another thirty minutes, and Shane had completed his circuit of the neighborhood around Hard Ink, his team’s home base of sorts in their newest covert mission: to figure out how Charlie’s abduction might be related to the cover-up of their commander’s activities that got them a one-way ticket right out of the loving arms of Mother Army. Shane had been dubious as all hell that a connection actually existed, especially when he saw how into Becca Nick was. The man had clearly been thinking with his more southerly head. But the things Charlie told them after they’d rescued and patched him up last night made it clear that Nick was right.

Given the tension between himself and Nick, it rubbed Shane’s ass a little raw to admit that, but there was a connection. And it gave Shane and the rest of his former teammates the first honest-to-God lead into the real reason behind their discharge. No way in hell he could walk away from that. None of them could.

Because they weren’t just fighting for their own honor. They were also fighting for the honor of six good men who could no longer stand up for themselves. Doing right by those men wasn’t a choice, it was a duty.

A half block out from Hard Ink, Shane slowed to a walk. The Rixeys owned the entire L-shaped building that sat at one corner. The place was a whole lotta nondescript red brick from its former days as a warehouse. Nick’s younger brother Jeremy had rehabbed a fair chunk of the building, including the space for what was apparently a very successful tattoo business, at least according to Nick.

Shane had nothing against ink—in fact, he had quite a few pieces himself—but it still tripped him out to imagine that his hard-ass Special Forces teammate had the patience, precision, and artistic skill to put needle to skin himself. Man, they were a bunch of friggin’ chameleons, weren’t they? Changing and adapting as conditions dictated.

Just like they’d been trained to do.

And while Shane had landed on his feet with a decent job at a defense contractor, he almost thought Nick had the better approach in doing something entirely different from what they’d done in the Special Forces. Because being benched on the sidelines of a game you could only advise on but never again play sucked big, hairy donkey balls.

Like there were any other kind.

It was actually nice taking a little leave from the day job—he’d made the call to his superior right before setting out on the run. Question was just how much time this op was going to take. And was Shane going to have enough time or end up having to choose between a paycheck and justice. Because that was really no choice at all.

Rolling the aches out of his shoulder, Shane reached the driveway to their large gravel parking lot and caught movement from the corner of his eye. Jeremy Rixey was up on a ladder, while Nick and Marz stood on the ground calling directions up to him.

Every time Nick tried to talk, Jeremy started drilling into the brick. Trademark grin on his face, Marz adjusted the coiled black cable in his hands and shook his head as the brothers traded insults.

“Look, I’m just wondering if—”

Whirr, whirr, whirr.

“Dude, I know what I’m doing,” Jeremy said when he paused the tool. “Either let me do this or get your moody ass up here instead.”

Shane cut up the driveway toward them. “How many prior military does it take to drill in a screw?” he asked.

“None,” Jeremy, the only civilian among them, called down with a smile and a wink. “Obviously.” With their dark hair and pale green eyes, Jeremy and Nick looked a helluva lot alike though Jer’s hair was longer and his skin bore far more ink. Nick didn’t have any tats showing around the white T-shirt and jeans he wore—and neither did Shane, because tattoos were too readily identifiable in the field, but Jeremy had full sleeves, writing on his knuckles, and pieces on his neck, too.

“Becca saved you some pancakes,” Nick said over the whirr of the drill. “But somebody probably snagged ’em by now. Where’d you go?”

Shane studied the man who’d been his team’s second-in-command and his longtime best friend. After they’d been discharged and sent stateside last year, Nick had pulled a disappearing act and turned his back on Shane like they hadn’t fought and bled at one another’s sides for the past six years. And that bullshit had cut. Deep. “For a run and a little recon,” he finally said. “What’s up here?”

“Security cameras and motion-activated lights,” Marz said.

Shane smiled at the guy. “Boys and their toys.”

“Damn straight.” Marz was their guru for all things computer and technology. The man had a scary kinda smarts where anything technical was concerned, which made him one of their key assets. Always had. In fact, it had been Marz who’d found a way to give them some eyes on the locations they’d raided to search for Charlie the previous night.

Fuckin’ A, it was good to see the man healthy and standing on his own two feet again—even if one of them was prosthetic. Shane and Marz had talked from time to time, but before their reunion two days ago, the last time Shane had seen him was in the rehab unit of a hospital. Of all the survivors of the ambush that had revealed their commander’s dirty little secret, Marz’s injuries had been the most catastrophic. He’d lost part of a leg to a grenade, and Shane and Nick had worked together, despite Nick’s own gunshot wounds to his back, to staunch the bleeding and keep him alive. Where the rest of them could be moody bastards, Marz was and always had been one happy, optimistic fucker. Drove them all batshit sometimes. But absolutely nothing got the guy down—at least not for long. The rest of them could learn a thing or two.