'Dead?' Stephanie's mouth opened and closed like a fish. 'You killed her? You killed Tala?'

'I never said that.' He had, but he was never admitting it to anyone. 'But we'll be blamed. So get us home or so help me God, you'll end up just like her.'

Hands shaking, Stephanie obeyed, heading out of the city. 'Why did you kill her?'

'I didn't say I did.'

'So you found her there? Dead?'

'Yeah,' he lied tonelessly.

'Did Styx kill her?'

'It's possible, I suppose.'

'Oh my God. This is terrible. This is just . . . Oh God. Mom and Dad. They'll know. I'm gonna be . . . Hell. They're gonna know I took her out.' Stephanie was breathing hard, nearly hyperventilating. 'They're gonna find out. They're gonna kill me.'

'They're not going to kill you, because you are going to pull yourself together. Nobody's going to find out anything.'

'Because you say so?' Stephanie cried. 'Don't be a fool. She'll be on the news. They'll report a body on the news. My parents watch the news.'

In her current hysterical state, Stephanie was a neon sign screaming GUILTY. Calm her down, he thought. Take a breath. Take the tension down.

'So?' he asked, his tone now level. Reassuring. Convincing, even. He shrugged carelessly. 'She got out. How can they possibly know you took her unless you tell them? She was an addict. She wanted to score some blow. She crossed the wrong dealer and he blew her and her boyfriend away.'

Stephanie went still. 'Her what?'

'Her boyfriend. She was with someone, there in the alley.'

A shuddered-out breath. 'Who?'

'I don't know. Some old guy.'

'A cop?'

'Don't think so. Doesn't matter now anyway. They're both dead. Neither of them is going to say a word.'

'But what . . . ?' It was barely a whisper. 'What if he was a cop? If she was talking to a cop . . . maybe she was telling him everything. Maybe the cop told his partner. Maybe she told them about my family. Maybe the cops will-'

'Maybe you'd better concentrate on driving,' he interrupted, his tone still calm. Still smoothly menacing. 'We wouldn't want to have an accident.'

'No,' Stephanie whispered, and she seemed almost dazed. 'We wouldn't want that.'

She was blowing it all out of proportion. It was more likely that Tala was turning tricks in that alley and the guy was a simple john. Or maybe even a pimp. Tala was far too scared to say a word to anyone. But just in case Stephanie was even a little right . . .

Even if the dead guy wasn't a cop, if he'd told anyone about Tala there could be trouble. He needed to find out who the guy was, how the asshole had met Tala, and who he'd talked to about her.

Cincinnati, Ohio

Tuesday 4 August, 3.35 A.M.

Scarlett Bishop was watching him.

Under normal circumstances, Marcus O'Bannion might have welcomed the openly appreciative stare of a beautiful woman as he lounged, shirtless and sweaty. But these were not normal circumstances and Scarlett Bishop was no ordinary beautiful woman. She was a homicide detective.

Sitting in the back of an ambulance having his vitals taken by a paramedic was about as far from lounging as a man could get. And the detective's stare was not appreciative. It was watchful. Worried. Wary.

Because Scarlett was smart. She should be a lot more than worried, he thought. She should be scared. Because I am. Not of the fact that the bullet could very well have ended him, but because, for just a moment, he wished it had.

I'm tired. Tired of the greed and the violence and the twisted perversion going on all around him. He was tired of seeing the hopelessness in the eyes of the victims. He was tired of being too late. Because even if he could save every victim, he couldn't erase what had been done to them. Tonight he hadn't even saved the victim.

Tala was on her way to the ER, where they'd pronounce her DOA. Because she'd reached out to him for help. I should have been paying attention. I should have kept her safe.

He'd known she was being abused. The fear in the young woman's eyes had been real, tonight and every time he'd seen her in the park. She trusted me. And I let her down.

'Your pressure is normal,' the paramedic said, removing the cuff from his bare upper arm. 'So's your pulse.'

Marcus had told them that would be the case, but they hadn't listened to him, insisting on checking him out. He knew his body. Knew what it felt like when its functions weren't normal. But they were only doing their job, so he mustered a nod and a rusty 'Thanks.'

'You really should go in for an X-ray,' the paramedic continued. 'Just because the vest kept the bullet from piercing your skin doesn't mean it didn't do serious damage. You may have a broken rib or two.'

'I don't,' Marcus replied quietly, his focus on Bishop, who'd finally turned back to the crime scene. Starting where Tala's body had lain, she was slowly walking an outwardly spiraling circle, taking in every detail with eyes that he knew missed very little.

Abruptly she dropped into a crouch, leaning forward to check out what looked like a pile of trash swept into a crevice along the alley wall until her black braid slid over her shoulder. Impatiently she stripped off her gloves and coiled the braid into a figure eight, fixing it to the back of her head with some elastic gizmo she pulled from the pocket of her jeans. Her movements were quick and practiced, which came as no surprise. Unpinned, the tip of her braid nearly reached the small of her back. It likely got in her way often.

It would have been more practical not to mention safer to have cut it long ago. It would be a major vulnerability in a hand-to-hand fight, giving her opponent an easy way to immobilize her.

It would also give her lover something to hold on to as he . . . No. Not going there. Not today. But his mind already had, just as it had many, many times over the past nine months.

Ruthlessly corralling his thoughts, Marcus watched her motion to the CSU photographer, pointing to the asphalt, then pull on a new pair of gloves as the man snapped a picture.

She reached into the trash and drew out something that glinted in the beam of her Maglite. A bullet casing. A big-ass bullet casing. No wonder my back hurts so much.

She dropped the casing into an evidence bag, then rose fluidly to continue her search of the crime scene. She was, he thought, everything he remembered. Tall and proud. Lithe and graceful. Strong, yet compassionate. Too compassionate for her own good. Her job was eating her alive. There were shadows in her eyes that had nothing to do with lack of sleep. He knew this because he saw the same haunted expression in the mirror.

She was haunted too. Still, she'd come when he called. Just as she'd done before.

And just as before, he'd sensed a . . . connection between them, something more than the physical attraction he hadn't even tried to deny not in his waking thoughts or in his dreams. He wasn't sure exactly what the connection was, but he knew deep down that Scarlett Bishop would understand.

Understand what? he demanded bitterly. Me. She would understand me. The choices he'd made. The secrets he kept. The razor-fine edge that he walked. The darkness that drew him ever closer. She would understand. She might even help him.

Which was why he'd left her alone, and would continue to do so. Because as much as he yearned for the solace she might provide, he refused to drag her down with him.

Her gaze shifted from the crime scene to the man with a shock of bright white hair who'd just joined her in the alley FBI Special Agent Deacon Novak, Scarlett's partner on the Major Case task force. Marcus actually knew Deacon better than he knew Scarlett, having met the man at a handful of social gatherings co-engineered by Marcus's stepfather and his cousin, Faith, most recently the party celebrating Faith and Deacon's engagement. Marcus had been happy for them. Deacon seemed to be a decent man.

Too decent, he thought. He couldn't see Novak approving of any of the blood-soaked fantasies of revenge that flooded his mind as a crime-scene tech placed markers on the asphalt, next to the mess that had been Tala's blood and brains.

She was only seventeen. And she'd been gunned down like an animal.

A sheet of white paper attached to a clipboard appeared in his vision, blocking his view of the carnage. 'If you're not going to let us transport you to the ER,' the paramedic said in a disapproving tone, 'you need to sign this form.'

'I've had broken ribs before. I'm just bruised,' Marcus said, glancing at the form long enough to sign it before returning his attention to Bishop. She was now walking toward him, Deacon Novak at her side.

Marcus pushed to his feet, biting back a grimace. His back throbbed like a bitch, but he had his pride. It was bad enough that he was shirtless while Scarlett and her partner were fully clothed Deacon in a suit and tie, no less. Talking to them from a sitting position was simply not going to happen.

Scarlett met his eyes for a brief moment before turning to the paramedic. 'Well?' she asked crisply. 'What's the verdict?'

'Contusions,' the paramedic said. 'Possible broken ribs.'

She frowned. 'So why isn't he en route to the ER?'

The paramedic shrugged. 'He's refused transport.'

'Because it's only a bad bruise,' Marcus muttered. 'Can I have my shirt back?'

Her glance flicked down to his bare chest, then shot back up to his face like a rocket. 'I'm sorry. Your shirt is evidence now, along with the Kevlar vest, but my partner brought you something to wear,' she said, her tone coolly efficient.

'Marcus,' Deacon said pleasantly.

Marcus nodded once. 'Deacon,' he said in the same pleasant tone.

Deacon held out a plain black T-shirt. 'Good to see you're not dead.'

Marcus clenched his teeth against the memory of the shots fired at close range. 'Yeah,' he said bitterly. 'That would have left an even bigger mess.' He tugged the shirt over his head, managing to swallow most of a groan as fire streaked across his shoulders and down his back.

'I heard that. You need to go to the hospital,' Scarlett said firmly.

'No. I don't.' Marcus took an experimental deep breath, happy when both his lungs inflated properly. 'I've had enough of hospitals to last me a lifetime. Nothing they can do for broken ribs anyway.' He gave the medic a nod. 'But thanks for checking me out.'

'Whatever,' the paramedic said, shaking his head as he slammed the ambulance doors closed and drove away.

Then it was just the three of them at the end of the alley, standing in a little bubble of silence as CSU processed the scene fifty feet away. Scarlett and Deacon were waiting for his statement, he knew. Suddenly wearier than he'd been in months, Marcus straightened his spine, his gaze arrowing in on the patch of bloodstained asphalt. He had to be careful. He was tired, he was in pain. But most of all, he was filled with cold rage. In this state he could easily reveal more than he should.

Clear your mind. Tell them only what is relevant to catching Tala's killer. Everything else was not their business.

He cleared his throat. 'Her name was Tala. She was only seventeen.'

Cincinnati, Ohio

Tuesday 4 August, 3.45 A.M.

'Tala what?' Scarlett asked evenly, thanking God that the man had put a shirt on. Not staring at his chest had taken a sizeable portion of her concentration. Now she could focus on his words. Now I can do my damn job. A girl was dead. The victim deserved justice, not the half-assed efforts of a homicide detective who couldn't keep her hormones in check.

Scarlett was glad Deacon had arrived. In the moments she'd stood in the alley alone with Marcus O'Bannion, she'd lost her professional perspective. Her emotions had taken over and a few of those emotions hadn't left her feeling proud of herself. She'd felt jealous of the dead girl, for God's sake, because he'd been meeting her. Then disappointment that he'd been meeting her. All combined with a nearly obsessive refusal to believe that whatever Marcus was up to could be wrong in any way.

She believed too deeply, too blindly, that he was a good man. That he was a hero.

'She never said her last name.' Marcus didn't look at them as he spoke. He was staring at the crime scene, at the spot where the girl had died. 'I didn't get the chance to ask.'

Because the girl had been shot. As had Marcus.

'What did she get the chance to say?' Scarlett asked.

Marcus clenched his jaw. 'That her family was in danger. When I asked from who, she said, "The man and his wife, they own us."'

Scarlett's heart sank.

Deacon muttered a curse. 'Owned exactly how?' he asked.

'I started to ask, but that's when the first shot was fired and she collapsed. The only other words she said were "Help" and "Malaya". Then she was gone.'

'Malaya.' Deacon was already typing on his phone. 'She could have been talking about a place. A reference to modern-day Malaysia.'

'Or it could have been a word,' Marcus added quietly. 'Tagalog for "freedom".'

'Tagalog,' Scarlett murmured. 'A dialect of Filipino, right?' Which would make sense. The girl's ethnicity was Southeast Asian. That included the Philippines.

Marcus nodded once. 'Yes.'

Deacon glanced at him with interest. 'You speak Tagalog?'

'No. It's also a newspaper based out of Manila,' Marcus answered.

'How do you know that?' Deacon asked, more curious than suspicious.

Marcus shrugged. 'My family is in the newspaper business. My grandfather read five papers before breakfast every morning when I was a boy. He collected the front pages of papers with famous headlines. One was from the Malaya, on the day Marcos was exiled. I asked him what it was all about, and he told me that malaya meant freedom.'

'You remembered that, after all this time?' Scarlett asked. 'That was nearly thirty years ago. You couldn't have been more than four or five years old.'

Another shrug. 'I remember nearly everything he ever said. This one word was very important to him, though. He'd been in the Philippines during the war, made friends with some of the locals. They were prisoners together. In Bataan.'

As one, Scarlett and Deacon winced. 'Rough,' Scarlett murmured.