For such stupidity, Martino surely would’ve killed Vincent himself. That is, if Jack hadn’t choked the guy with his free hand, slid the knife back out of his forearm, and beaten him to it.

Luckily for Jack, Vincent had been carrying a gun along with his knife. Also lucky for Jack was the fact that he had been trained in Special Forces to skillfully handle a gun with either hand.

These things, however, were not as fortuitous for Martino’s men. True, one of them was lucky enough to shoot Jack in the middle of the gunfight that ensued, but he certainly didn’t live long enough to brag about it.

But unlike his men, Martino himself seemed to have all the luck in the world. Not only was he not among the eight dead bodies FBI backup collected when they finally showed up at the warehouse, but apparently, Lady Luck was smiling down on him a second time when she steered his case into the inexperienced hands of Assistant U.S. Attorney Cameron Lynde.

Two years of his life down the drain.

Jack didn’t want to believe it. But she said that the decision not to prosecute was hers. And if that was true, then . . . the hell with her.

The elevator hit the ground floor and the doors sprang open. Jack stepped out and was immediately accosted by a throng of reporters. Unfortunately, this was not an unusual occurrence; he unwittingly had become the focus of media attention after the shoot-out at the warehouse—eight dead gangsters tended to pique people’s interests—and ever since, reporters had come calling whenever Martino’s name popped up in the news.

“Agent Pallas! Agent Pallas!” The reporters shouted over each other, trying to get to him.

Jack ignored them and headed toward the front door. The female reporter from the local NBC affiliate, whose interest in him lately seemed to go beyond a mere professional level, fell into stride alongside him with her cameraman in tow.

“Agent Pallas—we just got word about the Martino case. As the FBI agent in charge of the investigation, what do you think about the fact that Roberto Martino will continue to walk the streets of Chicago as a free man?” She shoved her microphone in Jack’s face.

Maybe it was due to extreme sleep-deprivation. Or maybe it was because of the fact that (according to the psychologist he had been ordered to see every week) he had some lingering “rage” issues related to his undercover work and capture. Or maybe, possibly, it had something to do with the fact that he’d been tortured for two days by the guy. But before he realized what he was doing, Jack fired back a reply to the reporter’s question.

“I think the assistant U.S. attorney has her head up her ass, that’s what I think. They should’ve assigned the case to somebody with some fucking balls.”

Every television station in Chicago led off their six o’clock evening news with his tirade.

And then they re-aired it again, on the ten o’clock news. Of course by that point, word had spread to the national correspondents that a Chicago FBI special agent had verbally bitch-slapped an assistant U.S. attorney on live camera, and then his comments were everywhere: CNN, MSNBC, the Today show, Nightline, Larry King Live, and everything in between. Not to mention that the footage earned the dubious distinction of being the most downloaded video on YouTube for the entire week.

Needless to say, Jack’s boss was not pleased.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Davis demanded to know when he hauled Jack into his office the following morning. “You’re the one with your head up your goddamn ass, Pallas, making a comment like that on national television!”

Things pretty much went downhill from there. Some feminist group began making noise in the media, claiming that Jack’s comment about assigning the case to somebody with “balls” was—taken literally—a sexist statement that only a male prosecutor could’ve handled such a tough case.

Which is when the Department of Justice stepped in.

Despite his initial outburst over the situation, Davis worked for two days to appease the DOJ. He emphasized that Jack was Chicago’s most talented and dedicated agent and suggested, in terms of a disciplinary action, that Jack issue a formal apology to Ms. Lynde and the U.S. attorney’s office and be put on six months’ probation. The lawyers at the DOJ said they would take Davis’s recommendation under advisement.

That Monday morning, Jack got into the office early to start working on his apology. He knew he’d been out of line, both with the comments he’d made to the reporter and the things he’d said to Cameron before that. Admittedly, he’d handled the situation poorly. Very poorly. On top of the shock and frustration he’d felt when hearing her news, the fact that he’d come to trust her had only increased his anger. But at this point, he hoped that they could somehow figure out a way to get past the situation and move on.

He had left the door to his office open while he worked, and after a few minutes of staring at a blank computer screen—apologies didn’t exactly come easy to him—he was surprised to hear voices coming from Davis’s office. He’d thought he was the only person in that early.

Davis sounded angry. From across the hall, Jack couldn’t pick up much of the conversation, other than to hear his boss say the words “bullshit” and “overreacting.” Since Jack didn’t hear anyone else speak, he wondered if Davis was on the phone. But regardless of whomever Davis was talking to, Jack had a pretty good idea who he was talking about. He got up from his desk and headed to his door when—

Davis’s office door flew open and Cameron Lynde stepped out.

Catching sight of Jack, she stopped in her tracks. A look crossed her face, one that Jack knew well. Over the years, he’d seen that expression many times when someone saw him approaching.

Caught.

Cameron covered the look quickly, and coolly met his gaze across the hallway. She turned and left, saying nothing.

When Davis stepped out of his office next, he also saw Jack. He shook his head somberly.

That afternoon, the Department of Justice issued an order that Special Agent Jack Pallas be transferred out of Chicago immediately.

Jack had a feeling he knew just who he could thank for that.


“WHATEVER YOU’RE THINKING about, you’d probably be better off leaving it in the past.”

Jack glanced over and saw Wilkins staring at him. “I wasn’t thinking about anything.”

“Really? ’Cause the car stopped three minutes ago and we’ve just been sitting here in front of this house.”

Jack looked around to get his bearings—shit, they were just sitting there. Nice to see his exceptionally fine-tuned special agent powers of observation were intact. He blamed their witness in the backseat for this. She distracted him. It was time to put an end to that.

He called over his shoulder. “You’re free to go, Ms. Lynde.”

No response.

He turned around.

“She’s out like a light,” Wilkins told him.

“So do something about it.”

Wilkins peered into the rearview mirror. “Yoo-hoo, Cameron—”

“Yoo-hoo? That’s really FBI-ish.”

“Hey, I’m the good cop. I make it work.” Wilkins turned back to the task at hand. “Cameron—we’re here.” He glanced over at Jack, whispering. “Do you think she’d mind if I call her Cameron?”

“Right now I think you could call her anything and get away with it.” He even had a few suggestions on that front.

“Okay, time for plan B,” Wilkins decided. “Someone needs to go back there and wake her up.”

“Sounds good. Hope that works out for you.”

“I meant you.” When Wilkins saw Jack’s expression, he gestured innocently. “Sorry. I have to stay here and man the wheel.”

Grumbling under his breath, Jack opened the car door and stepped out, catching his first good glimpse at Cameron Lynde’s home. Or at least, the place that was supposedly her home.

He stuck his head back into the car. “Are you sure this is the right place?”

“She said 3309 North Henderson. This is 3309 North Henderson,” Wilkins said.

“Yeah, but this is . . .” Jack turned around and tried to decide how best to describe the sight before him.

“One hell of a nice house,” Wilkins said approvingly.

That pretty much covered it. As Jack stood there on the street, the elegant house rose grandly before him, three stories above the ground. There was an arched portico framed by columns that flanked the entranceway. Sprawling ivy adorned much of the house, and a garden wrapped around the right side and stretched all the way back to the garage. He guessed the place had to be sitting on at least a city lot and a half.

The first question that popped into his head was how a government-salaried prosecutor could ever afford a house like that.

Wilkins appeared to be of a similar mindset. He leaned over the seat and peered through the passenger-side window. “What do you think? Rich husband?”

Jack considered this. There was a rich somebody, because she certainly couldn’t afford that kind of house on her own. Either that, or he hadn’t been that far out of line when he’d made the crack three years ago about her being on Martino’s payroll.

Wilkins read his mind. “Don’t even go there. That’s exactly the kind of crap that got you in trouble last time.”

Jack pointed to Cameron, still conked out in the backseat. “The only place I’m ‘going’ is back to the office, as soon as we fix this situation here.” He grabbed the handle and opened her door. “Let’s go, Ms. Lynde,” he said in a commanding tone.

No response.

“She’s still alive, right?” Wilkins asked, turning around to look.