Not on His Watch. Cassie Miles

be deserted. No lights shone from the office windows. The stealthy gray of dawn thinned the night shadows into faded streaks.

      If Quintin Crawford had to guess, he’d place the time in the snowy scene to be somewhere between six and six-fifteen in the morning. Quint and four other agents stared at the high-resolution video on the large flat monitor in the special-ops room. They were watching, waiting for something to happen.

      On the screen, a bearded old man came onto the street. His lips moved. His hands, in ragged mittens, pounded the air and twitched as he mumbled incomprehensibly. He could’ve been anyone—any tired soul who got fed up with the daily struggle and opted out. Not too long ago, Quint silently acknowledged, that guy could’ve been him.

      Trudging aimlessly, the bearded man pulled his brown knit cap low on his forehead. His filthy, rumpled jacket and grease-stained trousers were also brown. The only hint of color showed in the dark red woolen scarf wrapped around his neck. Beside him, a three-legged black-and-white Border collie bobbled along in syncopated gait. When the dog hopped ahead, the man hurried for three paces, then slowed again as he rounded the corner and disappeared.

      It was quiet on the street, windless. Nothing moved.

      For one fleeting instant, the building shuddered and shimmered with an eerie glow. More light than color, this brief flash signaled the onset of danger.

      Quint’s muscles tensed. His senses alert, he watched the screen.

      The gray dawn shattered in flames.

      With a deafening roar, a fierce explosion erupted from inside the stone walls. Glass splintered. Metal door frames crumpled. A ball of fire pitched the Fiat and the Toyota like empty tin cans, sending them crashing and rolling on the concrete street. The Fiat landed on its roof with tires spinning in the air. Black smoke gushed across the sidewalk. The granite entrance gaped like the ragged jaws of hell, spewing flame and soot.

      In the wake of this man-made thunderhead, a remembered pain—more intense and fearsome than any physical hurt—sliced through Quint’s gut. The knife twisted. He closed his eyes and catapulted backward in time. Two years, three months and nine days ago, he had faced another senseless explosion. In those fire-streaked skies over Texas, he had lost everything.

      In his mind, he saw the single-engine Cessna. His wife, Paula, on her first solo flight. The white winter skies over the prairie. Another plane. A blast of gunfire.

      On the ground, Quint was helpless. He could do nothing to stop the attack.

      The Cessna was caught—trapped in the cross fire between earth and air. Lethal flares. Tracer bullets. There was a flash. A shimmer. An explosion. The underbelly of the clouds glowed blood-red.

      Pieces of the Cessna, debris, fell to the earth.

      Quint’s heart dropped. His world stopped rotating on its axis. He was numb, yet aching in every fiber of his being.

      Without Paula, he had no reason to live. In the months that followed, he prayed for death—a dark, silent embrace to fill the inconsolable emptiness. He rode into the plains alone and stayed for days, waiting, begging for the end to come. But death was a stubborn bastard.

      Eventually, Quint’s bitter tears ran dry. The remnant of his life was nothing better than a sick joke. He had his health, his oil business, his ranch…and no reason to enjoy any of it.

      Somehow, he forced himself to go on, learned how to laugh to keep from crying, told himself that he’d be able to accept Paula’s death. Someday. He’d pull himself together and become a whole man again. Someday.

      Someday wasn’t here. Not yet.

      His eyelids pried open as the last echoes from the office building explosion on the high-resolution screen faded and the picture went black. It would’ve been nice to pretend this bombing was a DVD from Hollywood where the macho hero would stride through the flames with a smudge on his forehead and a beautiful starlet tucked under his arm—but real life was seldom so neat and tidy. All too often, people died. Real people.

      It was the job of Quint Crawford and the other members of Chicago Confidential, a special division of the Federal Department of Public Safety, to confront the violence and end it. They pursued their investigations undercover—deeply undercover. All agents had other lives. When not on assignment, they worked at successful careers that weren’t necessarily related to law enforcement.

      The Confidential program had started in Texas under the direction of Mitchell Forbes, and there was another branch in Montana. Here in Chicago, the front for their operations was Solutions, Inc., a fictitious corporation located on the penthouse floor of the Langston Building, a skyscraper in the heart of the city.

      With a quick glance, Quint surveyed the faces of the other four agents who sat at the round table in the high-tech confines of the special-operations room. Everybody but the boss seemed shocked by the explosion, a little off balance. Quint was the new guy in town, on loan from Texas Confidential, but he wasn’t sure he liked the way this assignment had been introduced with a bang. It might be good to lighten the mood.

      “I have a couple of questions,” he drawled. “First off, what happened to the dog?”

      Three of the other four agents chuckled, but Vincent Romeo, the head of operations, did not crack a smile. This dark, brawny man, a former National Security Agency operative, was responsible for setting up this new Confidential branch. Though Vincent had the reputation of being a good man and an effective agent, his attitude seemed aloof—somber as his black turtleneck and trousers.

      In Quint’s estimation, Vincent was a serious tight ass. The only time he brightened was when he looked at his redheaded wife, Whitney MacNair Romeo, who had to be the prettiest agent in any Confidential branch.

      Coolly, Vincent responded, “By the time the authorities responded to the explosion, the dog and his owner were long gone. No one—not even the security guards in the building—were injured in this explosion.”

      “So, they never saw the dog again,” Quint clarified. It seemed odd that the authorities on the scene wouldn’t make a point of finding a witness.

      “The dog isn’t our problem,” Vincent said. His tone was near sarcastic. “If there are no more questions, we’ll continue with our briefing.”

      Quint stretched out his long legs and leaned back in the surprisingly comfortable ultramodern chair that hugged his behind like a handcrafted leather saddle. If Vincent wanted to play it cool, Quint would oblige. “Cause of the explosion?”

      “The mechanics of the bomb will be explained in a moment.”

      “When was this video taken?”

      “Two days ago.”

      “Where?” Since it was March, Quint assumed the snow on the curb indicated a colder climate. Something about the shadows and light made him think of northern latitudes.

      “Reykjavik, Iceland.”

      “Why?” Quint asked. This was the hard question—the one that would surely drive their undercover investigation.

      Vincent’s jaw tightened. The corner of his mouth pulled into an expression that could’ve been a frown or a sneer. “You don’t waste words, cowboy.”

      “Y’all have to excuse my impatience.” Quint purposely exaggerated his Texan drawl. “I didn’t know we were chitchatting at an afternoon tea party. You just take your time…city boy.”

      Vincent’s coal-black eyes flared. Apparently, he didn’t like to have his leadership challenged.

      Beside him, Whitney groaned. “This is what I hate about working with men. Everything turns into a contest.”

      She was much too ladylike to call this altercation a spitting match, but that’s what it was. Neither man would quit until they knew whose spit flew the farthest.

      Ever since Quint arrived in Chicago two days ago, Vincent Romeo had been treating him like a brainless hick from the sticks. That