TWO

      “Sir, you can’t cross the line.” A Billings police officer blocked Dylan’s path to the brightly lit alleyway in the middle of downtown.

      Dylan grabbed the edges of his patience and held on. The panic tightening his lungs wouldn’t cooperate. He needed to know if Zara had been shot. With trembling hands, he flashed his FBI credentials. “Where is Zara, uh, Officer Fielding?”

      Or rather FBI agent-in-training Fielding.

      What had she been doing that landed her in a shootout? She’d left the training center hours ago. She and Radar should have been home, not in some dark back alley.

      The officer squinted at the official documents cased in the black leather wallet before straightening and pointing behind him. “She’s talking to the police chief.”

      Her dad. If she was talking, that meant she wasn’t dead. Dylan’s tension eased and relief rushed in, enough to take the edge off. But she could be injured. He had to see her for himself.

      Dylan ducked beneath the yellow crime scene tape strung across the entrance to the alley behind the jewelry store. The plastic banner fluttered in the breeze. Red and blue lights flashed on the brick building’s outer wall, the strobe effect distracting and eerie. A man on a stretcher was being lifted into the back bay of an ambulance.

      Dylan paused, torn between needing to assure himself Zara was okay and his duty to print and photograph the suspect. Though this was technically a police case, the fact that one of their agents—well, intern—was involved necessitated the team to work the case, as well.

      Duty won out, but the battle was hard fought.

      Before the ambulance drivers could shut the door, Dylan climbed in and used his MorphoRadID-2 biometric terminal to scan in the man’s fingerprints as well as snapped off a photograph of the unconscious man’s face.

      He sent both the print and the image to his computer while the handheld device wirelessly searched the various government databases. Hopefully, he’d be able to identify the suspect quickly.

      Done with that task, Dylan wove his way through the Billings police officers and their crime scene techs to where Special Agent in Charge Max West stood.

      As Dylan approached, Max stepped aside to reveal Zara and her canine, Radar. Zara’s face was pale, her hazel-green eyes wide and the pupils large, indicating stress. But she seemed intact, no visible injuries. Radar sat at her side, his ears back, his gaze alert as if he expected more trouble.

      Dylan’s heart squeezed tight. He resisted the urge to rush forward, to assess for himself that she was unharmed. This was the second time in less than a year that he’d had to face the reality of possibly losing her. The very thought struck terror in his soul. Because... He shied away from examining his feelings.

      He wanted to spirit her away to a safe place where she wouldn’t face danger again. Something she wouldn’t appreciate. She’d always been tough and independent, traits he admired even if they made him uneasy. He reeled in his reaction and lifted a prayer of praise for her well-being.

      She’d like that.

      He had to get a grip. He and Zara were friends, and colleagues, now. Soon she would go to the FBI academy and become a full-fledged agent. Letting his emotions run amok wasn’t smart or productive. He had to compartmentalize her in his mind.

      And his heart. The realization skipped through him like a rock over smooth water.

      Billings police chief Robert Fielding stood beside his daughter. He had linebacker broad shoulders, with graying hair and an intense stare. He gripped Zara’s shoulder, clearly in dad mode more than police chief. “You should have called the robbery in and waited.”

      Dylan met Zara’s gaze. “What happened?”

      Zara pressed her lips together. Obviously she was having a hard time avoiding exasperated-daughter mode. “Radar noticed activity in the alley. I did call the robbery in and wait. Unfortunately, Radar and I were made.” She shook off her father’s hand. “I had no choice but to return fire.”

      She’d come under attack. Dylan’s stomach churned.

      Robert hooked his thumbs beneath the edges of his utility belt. “I know. I’m not faulting you for defending yourself. You did what you had to. The guy will live.”

      Dylan was glad she’d done what was necessary to protect herself but he couldn’t deny his concern. “Are you okay?”

      She lifted her chin. “We’re fine.” She turned to her father. “Are we done?”

      “We’re not finished here,” Robert said. “Tell me about the driver.”

      There’d been more than one burglar? Dylan’s hand flexed around the device in his hand.

      “He wore a ski mask, so I didn’t get a look at his face,” she said. “I heard his voice, though. I’d remember him.” She visibly shivered.

      Dylan narrowed his gaze, sensing there was something she wasn’t sharing. “What did he say?”

      She slanted Dylan a glance and quickly looked away. “Before he drove off, he shouted that I was a dead woman.”

      Dylan’s stomach dropped. A wave of fear rushed in, making his blood pound in his ears. His parents had been killed by a man who’d vowed revenge on Dylan’s father. A threat his father hadn’t taken seriously. A mistake that had left a young boy orphaned.

      Now Zara had been threatened.

      Determined not to let that mistake be repeated, Dylan said, “She needs protection.”

      * * *

      Zara’s hackles rose at Dylan’s pronouncement. Really? He thought she couldn’t take care of herself? For a moment she focused her attention on the loud Hawaiian-print shirt peeking out from beneath his jacket and covering his official unit polo. She reined in her hurt and disappointment. She swung her gaze to her father, then to Max. “That’s not necessary. Radar and I will be fine. The guy doesn’t know who I am, and there’s no way for him to find out.”

      “Unless the press gets hold of this story,” Dylan pointed out.

      She knew that keeping the press and the public unaware of their classified missions was paramount to the success of the team. However, because of the dogs, the handlers had to be identifiable in certain situations, so the FBI provided a variety of uniforms and gear for different occasions. But to preserve the secret nature of their work the team’s public relations officer could devise a cover story. Zara assumed that would be the case here.

      Dylan’s normally jovial expression had been replaced with one of granite. His kind eyes had darkened with concern, tempering her annoyance. She could see his knuckles turning white around the machine in his hand.

      She understood his worry. She knew what had happened with his mom and dad. But his father’s situation had been completely different. There had been no way Brian O’Leary could have known the drunk he’d arrested, George Pitts, would make good on his slurred threat to extract revenge.

      The O’Learys had gone out on the Yellowstone River in their boat for a relaxing Sunday afternoon, not expecting George would be released from jail and follow them. George had rammed into their boat, killing himself, Beth and Brian O’Leary. Only Dylan had survived.

      Compassion flooded her, and she put her hand on Dylan’s arm. “I’ll be careful. I promise. Besides, I have Radar. He’s getting better every day.”

      So was she. The mandatory trauma counseling was helping her deal with the residual shock from the case that had ended in a bomb detonating and the gut-wrenching fear from nearly being killed.