ONE

      Sean Murphy hated to close his eyes. A terrifying past waited for him in sleep, a past that sometimes invaded even his waking hours. Love for his six-year-old son, Patrick, was what kept him sane, kept him battling to return to normal. Patrick needed him, now more than ever. All they had left was each other.

      The St. Louis apartment Sean had rented on his return to the States was small but adequate for the present. The future would take care of itself. At least Sean hoped so. There had been a time when he’d believed God was guiding him through life. Now, he felt adrift.

      Fog of sleep dulled his senses, but not so much that he failed to hear a strange sound in the dark. He froze. Listened intently. Heard nothing more. Sighing, he wished he knew how to stop being so jumpy. Every creak of the old building brought irrational fear.

      A cadence of soft steps followed. Sean sat bolt upright. “Patrick?”

      The sound ceased. Sean slipped out of bed, wishing he still had his rifle and full battle gear. St. Louis might not be Kandahar, but that didn’t mean there was no danger. Yes, his emotions were raw. And, yes, chances were that he was merely imagining a threat. There was only one way to find out. He must see for himself.

      Since Patrick’s near-drowning accident in the swimming pool at his maternal grandparents’ estate, the boy had been having trouble with speech as well as motor skills. Therefore, he sometimes sought out his daddy without explanation. That was probably what Sean had heard. Still, he refused to disregard an instinctive warning.

      Barefoot, he tiptoed to the open bedroom door and waited in the shadow from the night-light in the hallway. A low mumble reached him. How could Patrick be talking in his sleep when he had so much trouble doing so awake?

      Sean pressed his back to the jamb and slowly eased forward. The voices were clear. For an instant he wished they weren’t.

      “I ain’t killin’ no kid. You got that?” one person grumbled.

      “We aren’t supposed to. Just the father.”

      “Fine. What if the kid sees us? What then?”

      “Nobody’ll know we’re here if you shut your yap,” the other prowler whispered. “Come on.”

      Sean tensed. He was strong, ready to defend himself, but anything might happen if Patrick awoke. The boy’s most frequent utterance was a high-pitched squeal of fright and frustration. If he began to carry on like that, the attackers might change their minds and harm him, too.

      Going on the offense was the answer. Sean grabbed the junior baseball bat he’d bought to help Patrick regain coordination and braced himself.

      The first man led with his pistol, giving Sean a one-time chance of disarming him. Wood in the child’s bat cracked as Sean brought it down on the assailant’s wrist. The man dropped the gun, doubled up and howled. His partner didn’t wait for him to recover. Instead, he fired blindly in the dark, then turned tail and ran.

      Sean dove for the gun and connected. Its owner leaped onto his back and tried to wrest it away. He might have succeeded if he’d had both hands in working order—or if his cohort had stuck around to help.

      Sean continued to struggle with the man in the confines of the narrow hallway. His temple hit a doorjamb. Flashes of light, like exploding mortar shells, blinded him. Noises of war filled his ears. The acrid smell of gunpowder and the portent of death seemed to be everywhere.

      A trickle of blood wet his close-cropped hair as survival instinct locked his fingers around the cold metal in his hands. At that moment, nothing could have pried open his grip.

      There was a muted crash, then a tinkling, rustling sound. Clarity returned enough to suggest that the first man had stumbled over the Christmas tree he and Patrick had just decorated.

      A child screamed.

      Patrick!

      Lunging, Sean knocked the intruder aside and struggled to his feet, gun in hand. That was enough. The injured man scrambled away, rounded the corner into the living room and disappeared out the door.

      Sean wanted to follow. To capture at least one of the thugs who had declared their intent to kill him. But he didn’t. Patrick needed him more. The child came first. Always had. Always would.

      So, now what?

      * * *

      Police officer Zoe Trent had recently graduated from Canyon County K-9 Training Center in Desert Valley, Arizona, with her Belgian Tervuren, Freya. Being partnered with a specialized K-9 had been a goal of hers ever since completing the police academy. Now that it was time to return to her regular assignment in Mesa, Arizona, however, she knew she was going to miss the new friends she’d made during the twelve-week K-9 training program.

      Wishing there were an easy way to keep in touch, and knowing they would surely drift apart as normal life resumed, she’d struggled to fall asleep tonight. A Christmas carol ringtone on her cell phone startled her awake.

      Freya barked to accompany her muttered, “Hello?”

      “Zoe?”

      “Yes.” Coming alert, she raised on one elbow.

      “It’s me again. Sean Murphy. Sorry to bother you, but you did tell me to call if I needed anything.”

      Instant worry for her college chum infused her. “Of course. What’s wrong? You sound awful. Have you had another PTSD flashback?”

      “It’s worse than that.”

      Her dark eyes narrowed, and she raked stray tendrils of long brown hair away from her face with her free hand. “How can it be worse? It’s not Patrick again, is it?”

      “He’s okay, so far. There’s nobody here I can trust, and I really need help. Somebody’s trying to kill me.”

      “What?” How could she express doubt without jeopardizing their seasoned friendship? “Are you sure? I mean, you told me you’d been a little confused since your medical discharge.”

      “I