Page 60 of The Devoted Game

Ryan muttered a thanks and stalked off to find the men’s room. He pushed through the door, let it close, and slumped against it. His fingers traced the outline of the Zippo in his pocket as every cell in his body screamed for nicotine.

What the hell was he doing?

Sweat dampened his skin, and in the blink of an eye, a tenth of a second, his body reacted to the chemical triggers that seriously messed with his head. Heart pounded. Chest constricted. He straightened away from the door, flung the useless cigarette into the trash bin, and started to pace.

How the hell could he believe for one damned minute that he could play this game? His hands shook, answering the question.

He hadn’t fired a weapon in three years. No one’s life had depended upon him in the same. Counting Alyssa Byrne and Katherine Jones would be a joke. Finding Jones had been slightly more difficult, but Grace and the others hadn’t actually needed him for the job. Other than trading emails with this psycho fan, Ryan understood that he was just a fifth wheel in the whole effort.

Hell, he had spent most of the time playing head games and doctor with Grace.

The next victim could present a real challenge. Like the ones he used to face on a daily basis.

He paused to stare at his reflection in the mirror.

Who was he kidding?

He was a drunk. A nobody. A has-been.

His initial reaction to this when Grace first showed up at his door had been right. He had known then that there was no going back. TwoSesame Street–level rescues did not a hero make.

The hero was gone. How many times had he told himself that in the past three years?

Flattening his palms on the counter, he leaned nearer the mirror, looked closely into the face staring back at him.

“You can’t do this.”

But he wanted to.

Damn it.

He wanted to.

That was the truly screwed-up part. He wanted to be that hero again ... just for a little while. Just for Grace.

He didn’t want to disappoint her.

“Stupid, McBride. First-class stupid.”

After splashing some cold water on his face, he grabbed a paper towel and scrubbed it away. He took a minute to focus on his breathing. Slow, deep breaths, pushing out the center of his chest and then tightening his belly as he released in a destressing technique that occasionally worked.

It was true. He was a drunk now. Smoked a pack a day. Used sex for a distraction rather than for true physical intimacy. His life was a train wreck with carnage lying all over the place.

But he still wasn’t going to walk away and let some scumbag wreak havoc in his name. Hell no. He would get this piece of shit. And then he could go back to being the coward who didn’t give a damn if he lived or died.

Sounded fair enough.

If he screwed up and somebody died, maybe Worth would just shoot him and put him out of his misery.

Ryan hesitated once more before going back to the conference room, took one last look at the fear in his eyes.

Someonecoulddie.

Even with Grace’s help, he might not be able to save the next victim. But in this screwed-up scenario, if he didn’t try, the victim didn’t have a chance.

“To hell with it.”

He walked away from the fear in the mirror and took the stairs to the third floor. When he reached the conference room, he still felt breathless. He didn’t let that stop him, though, as he barged in andassessed his audience. Worth had taken a seat and everyone, including the SAC, looked at Ryan expectantly.