Chapter One

The fugitive they were tracking had been sentenced to life for four murders—including a cop—making a knock-and-announce warrant futile…and deadly.

FBI Special Agent Evan McGarry held up three fingers, wishing they had a hardened steel battering ram to break down the door.

Two fingers .

Due to exigent circumstances, they didn't.

One finger .

Evan slammed his shitkicker against the door. The wood cracked. He kicked again. Another crack, louder this time. The door shuddered but didn't break.

Deputy Marshal Angela Martinez pulled her radio. "Want me to call for that battering ram?"

Fuck. That .

"Cover your eyes." He unslung his Remington 870 shotgun, aimed in on the lock and pulled the trigger. The acoustical blast shattered the early morning stillness of the tiny Boulder suburb.

Ignoring the recoil pounding his shoulder, he racked in and fired off two more rounds, leaving the door splintered with a gaping hole where the knob and lock used to be. With the muzzle of the shotgun leading the way, he breached the door, searching left and right as he made a rapid entry. Behind him, his team fanned out with shouts of "clear" as they hit the other rooms on the ground floor.

Evan's heartbeat was a steady staccato as he passed a large, nearly empty bookcase at the base of the stairs. He and Martinez headed to the second floor. The cloying scent of stale garbage and God knew what else tainted every breath he took. Beneath the stained avocado-green carpet runner, one of the steps creaked. He froze, but heard nothing, save for his own breathing.

Given that he'd blown a hole in the front door, Stonewall Jackson Jones had to know they were coming. The goal was to take him alive. If possible. If the man presented a threat, Evan was fully prepared to blow him straight to hell.

At the top of the stairs, he fisted his hand. A piece of rope hung from a rectangular panel in the ceiling—a recessed attic door. The rope wasn't swinging, and he couldn't detect any motion from above.

The first bedroom on the right was an office with a wood table, a chair, boxes of papers stacked against one wall, and an old corn bristle broom on the floor in front of the window. Evan aimed the shotgun at the closet door, sliding his finger to the trigger and nodding to Martinez. She threw open the door. Empty, aside from half a dozen metal hangers lining the rod.

They cleared the next bedroom and headed into the remaining room, this one containing a double bed with the comforter thrown back. Martinez covered off on the closet, aiming in with her Glock. Evan whipped open the door. A rack loaded with hangers bearing shirts, jackets, and long coats filled the closet. Shoes and more boxes sat on the floor. He shoved the hangers aside, verifying no one was hiding in the corner.

On the floor, by the side of the bed, was a pair of canvas sneakers. Prison-issue sneakers. Evan yanked off one of his tactical gloves and pressed a hand to the pillow. Still warm. Jones had been there. His gut told him the man was still in the house.

Jones was smart. By constantly switching locations, he'd eluded recapture for nearly six months since breaking out of the correctional facility in Sterling, Colorado. Not one hour ago, a local cop reported a resident living across from this house had seen a man fitting Jones's description climb inside a window.

He glanced out the bedroom window into the backyard. Along with the same cop who'd called in the tip, one of Evan's best friends, ATF Special Agent Brett Tanner, guarded the backyard. His other best friend, DEA Special Agent Adam "Deck" Decker, and another cop were positioned outside the front door. No one could have gotten past them.

Deputy Marshal Roy O'Shea joined them in the bedroom. "Nothing?" His voice held disbelief.

"He's here." Or was . Evan strode back into the hallway. There was only one space in the house that hadn't been searched.

He looked up at the rope attached to the attic access panel. "Cover me." He shouldered his shotgun, then grabbed his Glock and a tactical flashlight from his belt. He pulled on the rope.

The access door lowered, creaking on rusty hinges. Evan unfolded the aluminum ladder screwed into the underside of the panel. He clicked on the flashlight and started up the rickety stairs.

Just before poking his head above the level of the attic floor, a deadly epiphany flashed before his eyes.

Jones was a homicidal sonofabitch with nothing to lose, and he had people helping him.

The man would be armed.

Easing back down the stairs, he held up his hand, indicating no one should move. He returned to the first bedroom and grabbed the old broom from the floor.

Back in the hallway, he shoved his ballcap between the bristles so it would stay in position, prominently displaying the letters FBI embroidered in gold over the brim. He climbed partially up the ladder, pulling his Glock out and easing the broom into the attic. He held his breath, waiting for his cap to get blown away. It didn't. Jones was either playing it cool…or hiding.

Lowering the broom, he handed it to O'Shea and clicked the flashlight on again. In slow increments, he poked his head into the attic. Musty air filled his nose. Cobwebs hung from nearly every ceiling joist. Boxes and crates littered the floor, with an old rolltop desk and chair abutting one wall. Aluminum air conditioning ductwork ran from a central unit, fanning out across the wood floor.

Slowly, he climbed the rest of the stairs. At six-three, he could barely stand to his full height without whacking his head. Hanging from one of the joists was a bare bulb light. He tugged on the chain. Reluctantly, the bulb flickered to life, adding only slightly more illumination.

Creaking from the stairs told him Martinez and O'Shea were heading up. With their guns out, they checked every corner, every shadow. Still no Jones.

"You sure he's up here?" Martinez asked.

"Gotta be." Evan's gaze lit on the large antique rolltop desk. How was it possible they'd gotten the desk up here in the first place? They'd had to have done it in pieces and reconstructed it in the attic.

At only five-three and a hundred and thirty pounds, Jones was a small man. When it came to homicide, size didn't matter.

Evan walked quietly to the desk, aimed in, and whipped up the rolltop door. No Jones. Only a screwdriver and a crowbar. There had to be a hiding place somewhere up here. They just had to find it.

The aluminum AC ducts were wide enough for Jones to creep into. Evan knelt beside the magnetic flap covering the filter slot. No filter. He aimed his flashlight beam inside the duct. Still no Jones.

With the heel of his hand, he started banging on the ducts, listening for a change in sound. Nothing.

"He must have snuck out," Martinez said. "Maybe before we got here."

"Don't think so." Evan shook his head. "Stay here. I'm getting Blue." He backed down the attic stairs, then headed to the main floor.

"Anything?" one of the other agents stationed at the front door asked.

He shook his head and continued outside onto the porch. Deck held out his arms in question.

"He's in there." Evan was sure of it, and he never ignored his instincts.

Assisting Denver's Fugitive Task Force was a collateral duty for him, like it was for Deck and Brett. As a member of the FBI's Child Abduction Rapid Deployment team, following his instincts had helped him find more missing children than anyone else. But this was no child they were after.

He glanced at the pile of pool cleaning supplies leaning against the railing. A pool brush, leaf skimmer, and a few plastic tubs of pool chemicals. A white van sat in the driveway. In thick black letters, Mile High Pool Cleaning had been painted on the sides. They already knew the van was empty, and the owner of the house—Francis Manello—wasn't home.

Evan grabbed a leash from the center console in his Expedition, then opened the door to the specially fitted dog kennel that took up the entire passenger compartment. Blue scrambled to his feet, pinning Evan with smoky-blue eyes. His dog was a big German shepherd, around ninety pounds. If not for his unusually colored eyes, Blue could have won at Westminster. But then Evan would never have met the best partner he'd ever worked with.

"Time to go to work, pal." Blue's thick tail wagged as he clipped the leash to his dog's collar.

Blue hopped out, prancing as they headed back inside. Together they'd found dozens of missing children. Today, he'd put Blue's skills to work tracking a cold-blooded killer.

They climbed the stairs to the second floor, detouring into the bedroom with the prison sneakers. He pointed to the sneakers, waiting while his dog gave them a thorough sniffing. "Find him."

Blue rose on his hind legs, resting his front paws on the bed to sniff the sheets and pillow. He dropped back to the floor, putting his nose to the rug and following a track directly into the hallway to the base of the attic stairs.

"Good boy." He unclipped the leash, allowing Blue to climb the stairs ahead of him. "Blue's coming up," he shouted to O'Shea and Martinez.

By the time Evan made it up the ladder, Blue was already circling the attic, still on a strong track. He went to a corner and sat. Evan clicked on his flashlight. Nothing seemed out of place. But he trusted his partner.

Kneeling, he eyed the boards closer. Two of them didn't have nail heads. That could explain the crowbar he'd found inside the desk. Someone might have removed these boards with the crowbar and never nailed them back in place.

Blue sat like a statue, staring at the boards in front of his paws. Evan retrieved the crowbar, signaling for O'Shea and Martinez to aim at the floor. He jammed the crowbar beneath one of the boards and popped it off. At the same time his heart began slamming against his ribcage, he dropped the crowbar and yanked out his Glock.

Wedged into the tight space was Stonewall Jackson Jones. Jones's hand moved—the one holding a 9mm.

Before O'Shea and Martinez had a chance to pull their triggers, Evan stomped his boot on Jones's wrist, pinning the gun to the man's chest hard enough to bust a rib. They were bringing this piece of garbage in alive.

Jones grimaced, his lips twisting into a snarl. "Shit." Beneath Evan's boot, Jones wriggled, trying to free his arm.

Evan pressed down harder with his boot. "Don't even think about it," he warned as he quickly relieved Jones of the gun. If the man so much as twitched again, Martinez and O'Shea would blast him between the eyes, and Evan would be tempted not to stop them.

A low growl came from the back of Blue's throat. His K-9 was a trained tracker, but he'd defend Evan with his last breath.

He handed Jones's gun to O'Shea and drew a set of cuffs from his belt. "Get up," he ordered, adding, "Slowly."

When they could grab Jones's upper arms, the two deputy marshals hauled him to his feet. Evan cuffed him and searched him for more weapons. When he was satisfied there were none, the deputies took Jones down the ladder.

"Atta boy," he said to Blue, patting his dog's side and presenting him with his reward—a small, rolled-up towel. Blue snatched the towel and shook it from side to side.

Back on the ground floor, he watched Jones being loaded into the back seat of Deputy Martinez's vehicle. Several neighbors had gathered on the sidewalk to watch the spectacle.

Blue snorted, beelining for the empty bookcase at the base of the stairs.

"What is it, boy?"

The bookcase was about eight feet tall, flush against the wall but not quite touching the ceiling. Blue sniffed the sides of the case and sat, staring intently at the lower shelf. His dog had just alerted.

Evan knelt and peered at the scuff marks on the floor. A muffled thump came from behind the bookcase. Someone was there. He shoved the bookcase, easily pushing it four feet across the floor. "Well, whatdya know?" Behind the bookcase was a knob-less door with a flat brass lock. A deadbolt.

Could be a dog or a cat or some other animal was down there. He'd once worked with a U.S. Fish and Wildlife special agent who'd had some bizarre stories about people stashing illegal alligators and tigers in their basements. Neighbors never even knew they were living right next to a carnivorous petting zoo.

Normally, Blue wouldn't alert on animals, but still… The warrant in his back pocket was for the arrest of Stonewall Jackson Jones, and they had their man. Whatever was behind this door wasn't part of their warrant.

Evan turned to leave, but a soft moan filtered through the space between the bottom of the door and the floor.

A child's moan.

What the—?

He pressed his ear to the door, holding his breath. No more sounds came to him. He kicked at the door several times. It didn't budge. He yanked out his phone. "I need you inside," he said when Brett answered. "Grab Deck."

Seconds later, his friends joined him.

"By the way," Brett said. "Your battering ram just arrived."

Deck snorted. "Better late than never."

"Get it, will ya?" Evan asked. "Somebody's down there—a child."

"Hit the door," he said when Brett returned with the battering ram.

"My pleasure."

Evan drew his weapon. Deck did the same. Brett hauled back and slammed the battering ram against the door. Wood cracked and splintered. The door fell open, hanging by one hinge at the top of a wood staircase.

Evan flipped on the light. "Police!" Cautiously, he headed down the stairs. Deck's and Brett's boots clumped behind him. Blue's nails clicked as he took up the rear.

At the bottom of the stairs, Evan's breath caught in his throat.

Deck and Brett peered over his shoulder. "Oh man," Deck said.

Only it wasn't a man. Lying on a rusty cot was a boy who couldn't have been more than twelve. He wore tattered jeans and a blue T-shirt. His feet were bare. When Blue sniffed the boy's face, the kid moaned.

Before holstering, Evan looked around to verify no one else lurked in a corner of the basement. Aside from the rusty cot, the only other furniture was a table at the far end. A desktop computer and sheets of paper sat on the table. Tacked to the wall over the table were a few old, yellowing photos.

"Call an ambulance," he said over his shoulder as he rushed to the cot.

"You got it. I'll wait for them topside." Brett pulled out his phone and jogged up the stairs.

"I'll get some water," Deck added, following Brett.

Gently, Evan ran his hands over the boy's body, searching for injuries and finding nothing obvious, not even bruises beneath the T-shirt. The boy didn't move, only moaned again, louder, this time. Could be he was drugged. Which conjured up all kinds of ugly scenarios Evan didn't want to contemplate but had to.

The boy's lids flickered and opened. He bolted upright, flinging himself against the wall. "L-leave me alone," he croaked in a scratchy, parched voice. "Don't take me back there!"

"Hey, it's all right," he said in the gentlest, most nonaggressive tone he could muster. Whatever was going on here, one thing was clear: someone had hurt this kid. "My name's Evan. I'm going to help you. I'm the police. See?" He tapped the gold badge embroidered on his body armor vest, hoping it would ease the boy's anxiety. "This is my partner, Blue. Say hi, Blue."

Blue held up his paw.

The boy continued hugging the wall, trembling, but his eyes were riveted to Blue's paw.

"You can shake his paw, if you want. Then we'll get you out of here. Sound good?"

Green eyes widened as he looked up the stairs. "He could come back."

Evan noted the two needle marks in the boy's arm. "Not while we're here, he won't." Out of the kid's sight, he fisted a hand. If "he" showed up, Evan would slam the asshole face-first on the floor and cuff him.

Heavy boots pounded down the stairs. "Hey, there." Deck smiled tightly, holding a plastic water bottle in a death grip. Finding a child under these circumstances could affect even the hardest, toughest of men.

"This is my friend, Deck," Evan said, knowing how scared the kid must be. "What's your name?"

He swallowed. "Noah."

"What's your last name, Noah?" There had to be a family searching for him.

"Lund."

More pounding down the stairs. "Ambulance ETA in five." Brett handed Evan a blanket, then went back upstairs.

"Would you like to put this around you?" He held out the blanket, praying the monster who'd drugged Noah hadn't gotten around to hurting him. Not wanting to frighten the kid, Evan clamped his teeth—hard—to keep from venting his rage. Anyone who would do this to a child didn't deserve to breathe.

"How about I give you a lift out of here?" He held out his arms to the boy.

Noah's forehead creased, and he shook his head. "I'm not a little girl. I don't want to be carried."

Evan smiled. The drugs must have been wearing off. "Okay." He turned around, presenting his back to the boy. "Then hop on."

Hesitantly, Noah attached himself to Evan, piggy-back style.

"Uh, Evan?" From where he now stood on the other side of the basement, Deck motioned to the table with the computer. "You need to see this." He pointed to the sheets of paper beside the computer and the photos tacked to the wall.

With Noah clinging to his back, Evan went to the table. The scenario he'd conjured up in his brain took an even uglier turn. Bile burned the back of his throat.

The sheets and photos were all images of children—boys and girls ranging from about ten to fourteen years old. "Take some shots of all this." Whatever was going on here, he'd get a warrant and turn the entire house upside down and hunt down the owner.

Hearing the ambulance siren outside, he turned to leave but stopped. His mouth went drier than a desert.

No. No way. Can't be. But it was.

One of the photos tacked to the wall—an old Polaroid—was of a young girl.

Evan's heart thumped louder, faster, pounding in his ears like a hailstorm of bullets peppering a metal roof.

He knew the girl.

Hers was a face that had haunted him for twenty-four years and still did. Since the day she'd disappeared. She'd been twelve.

Gracie . Grace McGarry.

His twin sister.