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J ordan’s limbs were stiff and heavy as lead as he crawled into his Hyundai IONIQ and began the drive home.

It wasn’t even five o’clock, but the sky was overcast, and the thick, heavy dusk made it seem like nighttime.

After the sunshine of Africa these past two months, it was a shock to the system but more fitting to his grim mood.

Agitation swirled inside him. Kurt Montana had been one of the best men he’d ever had the privilege of knowing. He’d been honored to call him friend.

Now Montana was gone.

Jordan couldn’t believe it.

His eyes filled with tears, and he wiped them angrily away. Tears did no good. First Scotty. Now Kurt. The sickening hollow in his stomach kept growing until it threatened to consume him with grief.

It was a feeling he was well used to.

He wished their last conversation hadn’t been plagued by a shitty signal. He wished they could have had a real conversation rather than a crackly, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He’d never see him tomorrow.

Jordan needed to do something . Anything to keep his brain occupied. He’d volunteered to assist with the Evi1Geni-us case, but Ackers had ordered him to go home and get some rest instead.

Perhaps tomorrow he could talk Ackers into letting him join Red Team as part of the air crash investigation.

He knew the specifics about where they’d stayed, who’d they’d talked to.

The routes they’d driven. The individuals they’d dealt with at the embassy.

If the crash did turn out not to be an accident, he could jumpstart any investigation on the ground—assuming the local authorities let them.

As much as he wanted to do something, anything, they had to wait to see what the bomb techs found first. Perhaps it had been a mechanical failure. Or a bird strike. Pilot error.

A twist of fate.

“Fuck!” He slammed the steering wheel with his fist.

He exited the Marine base and headed toward his home in the woods out of town. It had taken a long time to get used to living alone and in the countryside after growing up in Chicago and coming from a large family. He pushed the thoughts of family aside before they could gnaw him down to the bones.

He thought of Montana’s daughter and the pain she must be enduring. Ackers, Novak, and Angeletti had driven down to Richmond to tell her the terrible news in person. He was selfishly glad he hadn’t been ordered to go too.

He’d send her his condolences after the fog cleared from his brain.

Headlights followed as he drove the icy road heading out of town. The temperature had dropped substantially with the threat of snow in the air. He slowed.

The idiot behind him, some yahoo in a big-ass truck, blinded him with his full beams and then revved angrily behind him.

Jordan took control of his own temper and indicated to pull over on the side of the road, but the truck slowed too.

He contemplated pulling across the road and blocking it and arresting the sonofabitch for dangerous driving.

But there were some sharp corners ahead and a nasty gorge.

Jordan didn’t want to cause an accident if anyone was coming the other way.

He tipped his rearview mirror to avoid the worst of the blinding glare and was immediately jolted as the truck deliberately rear-ended him.

What the…?

Jordan gripped the steering wheel tighter. He sped up, the truck followed in hot pursuit. This motherfucker was trying to run him off the goddamned road.

Everything left his mind except the road and the truck and the knowledge that if he let the truck pass him on this section of road there was a very good chance it would ram him off the road on the next corner and send him down a steep wooded hillside.

The turn after that was a narrow bridge over a jagged gorge.

His car might be electric, but it was fast. Zero to sixty in under five seconds.

He pulled away from the truck but had to slow for the dangerous corner ahead.

The truck cut the corners, crossing the white line, oblivious to the fact a vehicle might be coming in the other direction.

The truck’s nose eased past his rear bumper and nudged his car, causing a skid. Jordan had to speed up to correct.

Sweat formed on his brow despite the winter chill. This fucker was actively trying to kill him.

Jordan pushed the thought aside. He focused and increased his speed, grateful his training included tactical driving and evasion. But the other driver seemed to anticipate his every move, which suggested he also had tactical driving experience.

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel as another ram up the ass flung his car toward the guardrails.

He floored it. Ignored the slick road, the deadly gorge.

Concentrated on the drive itself. Like some high-speed racing game but with life-and-death consequences.

He couldn’t let the truck get alongside him, or there was a good chance he’d be through the guardrail and hurtling to a painful death.

Some might say he’d earned it .

Finally, he saw the truck headlights wobble behind him. The truck was forced to slow down or risk losing control.

Jordan raced on, pulling ahead, passing a car going in the opposite direction, jamming his hand on the horn to warn the truck and the innocent occupants of the other car to be alert for possible danger.

He hit the next straight and passed his own driveway, not slowing down.

Quarter of a mile farther on, he jammed on the brakes and turned into someone’s long driveway and immediately swung the car around to face the opposite direction.

The truck also slammed on the brakes but missed the turn.

It sat in the dark road with exhaust fumes creating a living, breathing fog that pulsed around it.

Krychek pulled his Springfield Custom Professional 1911-A1 and opened his door, stepping out into the damp, frigid night.

The truck revved angrily as he approached it, his pistol pointed at the driver’s seat. The license plate was covered in mud but before he could get close enough to see the occupants, the truck sped away, spitting gravel from the tires.

He lowered his weapon.

What the fuck was that about?

Jordan shook his head and got back in his car, waiting for a few minutes in case they decided to come back. He dialed Reid Armstrong, the former Legat in Jakarta and now in charge of this task force hunting for Hurek.

“Someone tried to run me off the road.”

“You in DC? Traffic is always a bitch.”

“Near my house.”

Armstrong’s tone changed when he realized Jordan was serious. “Deliberately?”

“Yup.”

“You think it’s related to the investigation?”

“I don’t know.” Jordan tried to unclench his jaw, but it wasn’t working. “You think Montana’s crash was an accident?”

“That’s what authorities are saying at the moment. ”

“Smells like elephant shit to me.”

Armstrong grunted. “I’ll send in an Evidence Response Team to you.”

“Should be able to collect paint samples and maybe tire impressions.” Jordan used his cell to photograph some from the semi-frozen mud at the side of the road. He gave the make and model of the truck.

“Any chance of traffic cams catching anything?”

“No.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Not out here. Unless he followed me from the base.”

“Did you cut anyone off?”

“No, I didn’t cut anyone off. Is that the road rage equivalent to asking a rape victim what she was wearing?”

“I was just looking for motive. Call the local cops to report it. They might know something if it’s some guy with known issues.”

“There was nothing simple about what just happened. It was a sustained and dedicated attack using a ten-ton truck. If I weren’t a trained operator, you wouldn’t be talking to me at all.”

There was a long pause. “Any idea why someone might want to kill you?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Maybe you were closer to finding Hurek than you realized…”

“Perhaps.” Krychek stared into the stark winter woods feeling like Atlas with the weight of the heavens on his shoulders.

Was it worth the cost?

Compared to losing Kurt Montana, capturing Hurek seemed inconsequential now, and yet, Jordan knew that’s what Montana would have wanted. To remove the scumbag from society and put him somewhere he couldn’t inflict his brand of violence on anyone else.

“I’m heading to my place now. If what happened was targeted, whoever’s behind it could know where I live.”

“Want to go to a safe house?”

“No.” He pulled back onto the road and drove down the long winding driveway to his isolated home. “Let these assholes show their faces. I can deal with them.”

“Want me to send another agent down to partner with you?”

In his house? “No. Thanks.”

“Call me if there’s more trouble or signs anyone’s been in your place. I’ll get the local police to come by, make sure they know there’s a serious issue. ERT will be there within the hour.”

Jordan hung up as he reached his home. His security lights came on and flooded the area surrounding the rustic cabin.

His alarm system app didn’t show anyone as having been inside his home since he’d left last November except for the bi-weekly housekeeper he employed, but apps could be messed with and so could people.

He got out of the car and examined the damaged rear end, the broken taillights.

A hassle to get repaired but minor damage compared to what could have happened.

He grabbed his pack from the passenger seat and put it on his back.

Then he opened the trunk, which resisted because of the buckled metal, but he managed to pry it open.

He dragged out the bags a buddy from DEVGRU had dropped off at the HRT compound and paused when he saw Kurt’s bag there too.

His eyes smarted with tears he didn’t want to shed.

He grabbed both bags and slammed the buckled trunk shut, locking it with the fob.

He lifted the two heavy bags and headed onto the porch, dropping one bag by the door and pulling his weapon before he entered the familiar space.

He cleared the whole house, top to bottom. Then he went outside and grabbed the other bag and brought it inside. Tomorrow, he’d tell Ackers about the attack, but that could wait. The man had enough to worry about right now.

Fatigue wanted to drop Jordan to his knees, but the flash of blue and red lights told him the cops had arrived.

He pulled his creds from his pocket and hung them around his neck to show he was an FBI agent and armed.

He glanced carefully through the drapes to make sure they were legit, but the guy was driving the right kind of car and wearing the right uniform.

Jordan kept his hand near his service weapon and went out to talk to the trooper and explain what had happened, leaving out any mention of wanted international terrorists or dead colleagues.

When he slipped into bed an hour later, he kept his alarm system armed and his 1911 on the nightstand within reach.

If anyone came to visit, he’d make sure they felt appropriately welcome.