“I didn’t know,” she whispered. And she hadn’t known that fact. There was a hell of a lot about Michael Brody that she didn’t know. And Chris.

“He’s not armed. He’s up there with that man, and he isn’t armed.” Terror climbed up her spine.

Chris nodded, determination on his face. He dug into his other pocket and handed her his cell. “Call the police. I need to go.” He looked at Brian, and Jamie’s heart cracked at the love for the boy on his face. “Love you, buddy. I’ll be right back.” He slammed the truck door. Jamie listened to his running footsteps fade away.

Jamie crouched on the floor, dialed 911, and forced a smile at her nephew. “Why don’t you get down on the other side, and I’ll tell you about your dad when he was a boy as soon as I’m done on the phone.” Her neck, ankles, and wrists were in some serious pain. And her brother just ran off to meet a killer. Not just any killer, but the killer from his nightmares.

Please be careful, Chris.

Brian cautiously moved off the seat to the floor, his serious eyes studying her. She tried to get comfortable, stretching out her legs and rubbing at her wrists.

And bring back Michael in one piece.

Michael jogged up the stairs from the parking garage. There was an elevator, but the governor only used it for hauling awkward items into the home. He strode through a few halls, heading toward the kitchen, feeling a bit like an intruder but not too bad. He’d had the run of the house since Uncle Phil had been elected to office years ago. He’d spent a full two months living here during the summer of his uncle’s first term while he did some investigative pieces on a bill in the Senate.

He needed to wake up his uncle and father. He inhaled deeply, smelling coffee. Someone was already up.

Coffee before anything.

He suddenly felt his exhaustion and rubbed at his eyes. The effects of driving all night and his stress over Jamie were about to catch up with him in a bad way. Coffee held a promise of making everything better. He pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen. Empty. Except for a steaming coffeemaker. Michael grabbed the pot, noticing it was half full. Someone had been caffeinating already. He’d fill a cup and head upstairs. He poured the steaming liquid into a cup. Now if only the police would call and say they’d spotted the car the tattooed man was driving. If they could just get their hands on him. Maybe—

The kitchen door swung open, and his uncle’s head of security stepped in, froze, and blinked at Michael. His mouth actually dropped open. Michael tried not to laugh at the man’s surprise. Wasn’t easy to shock the unflappable man. But wow, what had caused the bruise on his cheek?

“Hey, Gerald. I’m trying to catch my father before he takes off. Sorry so early, but Mom said they were leaving at the crack of dawn. You know what time? You’re driving them, I assume?”

Gerald blinked a few more times, glanced at the clock on the coffeemaker, and tugged at his sleeves. He always reminded Michael of an owl. He was wide-eyed and blinked frequently, his lanky body constantly hidden in oversized brown or black jackets that gave the impression of wings. “I think they’re leaving in thirty minutes.”

“Great. I’m glad I didn’t miss them. Wow. Do I need to worry for the other guy? Who did a number on your cheek?”

“Accident.” The owly man stared at Michael for a few more seconds.

Okay. None of my business.

“Want some coffee?” Michael asked to fill the silence. Stupid. Gerald had probably made it, and Michael was politely offering him his own coffee?

Gerald started to back toward the swinging door, his gaze never leaving Michael’s. He buried a hand in his coat pocket. Unease crawled up Michael’s spine, and he frowned.

Someone’s not happy I let myself in. Which made no sense; Michael always let himself in. He probably popped in every other month. What was up with this morning? Should he apologize?

Gerald’s back touched the door, and he reached back with his other hand to push it open the rest of the way. His baggy sleeve slid up his arm an inch.

Michael stared at the narrow burst of color on his skin.

Time stopped.

How had he not noticed the tattoos? Because he always wears the stupid coats. And driving gloves.

Michael lunged, flinging his cup of hot coffee at the man’s face. Gerald crashed backward through the door, howling at the hot liquid in his eyes. His pocket hand pulled out a gun, but Michael tackled him. They crashed to the floor, and the gun went off. Michael felt a burn rip his ribs under his arm, and his ears instantly rang.

With Gerald underneath him, he slammed the man’s right arm against the ground, and the gun spun across the floor. The entire right side of Michael’s chest was on fire. They’d landed in a large formal dining room, its wood floor polished to a high sheen and slick as ice.

Michael threw his body after the gun, scrambling across the slippery floor on his hands and knees, feeling warm wetness seep through his shirt. He grabbed the firearm and spun around, his fingers settling into the comfortable familiarity of the Glock. With shaking arms, he pointed the gun at Gerald.

Michael swallowed hard at the sight of Gerald in a mirrored position.

Both on their knees, both with a gun, both aiming at the other.

Gerald breathed hard, his hands tight on his backup weapon as he locked in on the bleeding man in front of him. One of the first things he’d done after arriving at the mansion was arm himself; he’d felt naked in front of the trooper who’d given him the cell phone ticket. In the past, Phil had made fun of him for preferring to carry two guns. He wouldn’t be laughing now.