Lost in Shadows

Prologue

The nurse, her face hidden by a surgical mask, moved to strap Lucky’s left arm down. Lucky grabbed her wrist. She turned to him, her eyes wide with surprise as well as more than a hint of fear.

He forced himself to relax, to release her.

“No restraints.” He hoped she attributed the tremor in his voice to the fact that he was naked under his flimsy hospital gown. And the cardiac catheterization room was freezing. “Please.”

Both his hands shook uncontrollably—no way he could hide that, so he didn’t bother trying. Besides, once she saw the panorama of Technicolor bruises blossoming over the rest of his body, she’d quickly figure out that he was no ordinary patient. Maybe she already had.

Instead of arguing with him, she averted her eyes and backed away as if Lucky was a load of nitro, armed and ready to go off at the slightest provocation. He lay back on the hard metal table with its too-thin mattress and stared into the bright operating light, willing himself to not think, not remember, not feel. Just be.

Breathe in, breathe out.

And wait to see what the rest of his life would hold. Once the doctors finished their poking and prodding and pinching, taking a piece of his sorely abused heart muscle with them, they would render their verdict: either he’d be labeled a cardiac cripple at age thirty, forced to take medical disability and leave the ATF, or they’d let him get back to work.

To the life he’d left behind when he and Chase Westin went undercover three months ago, trying to get inside The Preacher’s operation. To his simple, well-ordered life governed by the laws of chemistry and physics, where he spent his days analyzing and reconstructing bits and pieces of bombs.

A life that seemed like another world after what happened two days ago on Christmas Eve.

Breathe in, breathe out. Don’t think. Don’t remember. Don’t feel.

“Ready, Mr. Cavanaugh?” His cardiologist’s chipper voice pierced Lucky’s awareness.

Before Lucky could answer, the heart specialist drew back the sheet that covered Lucky’s legs and pushed aside his gown, pouring icy cold brown soap over Lucky’s groin and thighs. The nurse standing beside him looked down and made a small noise, muffled by her mask, as she saw the damage inflicted on Lucky’s body.

Lucky ignored her. Only two days and he was already getting used to blocking out other people’s reactions when they learned what had happened to him. What The Preacher and his man, Fergus, had done to him.

Hell, he’d cheated death.

Handling the shock and morbid curiosity that came with surviving should have been easy.

Easy as breathing.

“Just relax, Agent Cavanaugh,” the cardiologist said as he pressed his fingers against Lucky’s femoral artery with one hand. The nurse slapped a large, wicked appearing syringe into his other hand, the overhead light making its needle gleam like a steel dagger. “The midazolam should start working now. You won’t be unconscious but you will relax and probably won’t remember anything.”

Lucky closed his eyes and sank back onto the scrawny excuse for a pillow, wishing the doctor’s magic potion could truly erase the memories, stop the nightmares that flashed before his eyes in a constant, never-ending instant replay.

Breathe in, breathe out.

His brain grew foggy and despite his best efforts, he began to remember...

<><><> 

Christmas Eve, two nights ago