I’m nearly to the top and notice the gunfire on the front side of the building is still echoing, but to my ear, it doesn’t sound like it’s Townsend that’s shooting back anymore. My stomach turns over on itself, and my heart nearly stops dead in my chest when I hear the sound of approaching footsteps. I’m still a few stairs below the edge of the roof, so I bring my weapon up and dash up the last few steps, sweeping the barrel of my weapon left then right, firing blindly as I go.

Townsend grunts as he throws himself to the side to get out of my line of fire. He hits the ground hard and drops his AR but scrambles back to his feet just as I run out of ammunition. I throw the M4 down and reach for my Glock, but Townsend is quicker. He pulls his sidearm and fires before I can get mine out of my holster. A bright white, fiery pain erupts in my arm as the bullet tears into me and I cry out.

“Blake! Blake!” Astra’s voice rings in my ear.

“Don’t. Don’t you do it,” Townsend warns as I reach for my Glock.

Gritting my teeth, pain pulsing in time with my heart, I raise my good hand as Townsend steps over to me, the barrel of his .45 trained on my face. It feels like my arm is on fire, and I feel the blood spilling from the wound, soaking my shirt, and making it stick to me uncomfortably.

Davis Townsend stands over me, his face unsettlingly calm. He’s not a large man. Six-one maybe and very lean. His ash brown hair is cut short and thinning, and his eyes are like dark chocolate. He’s got a long face and a prominent chin and looks like the sort of man who would do your taxes, not a murderous mastermind.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says. “I will. But I don’t want to.”

“You don’t have to do any of this, Davis,” I reply. “You can still walk away and—”

“No. I can’t. And if you’re here, you know I can’t. You know what they did.”

“I do.”

“They have to pay for it.”

“Blake!” Astra’s voice comes through my earpiece again. “What’s going on up there? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say.

“We’re coming up.”

“No. You’re not. Stay on the ground. That’s an order,” I say and suck in a breath as the pain flares. “Davis and I are fine. We’re talking things out.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he says. “The balls are all in motion already, and they can’t be stopped now.”

“There isn’t anything you’ve done that can’t be undone, Davis.”

“I think we both know that’s not true… I’m sorry, you are?”

“Unit Chief Blake Wilder,” I reply, gasping. “FBI.”

He nods. “Well, given the fact that I shot you, I think we both know this can’t be undone, Chief Wilder. The law doesn’t look too favorably on people who shoot federal agents.”

“May I sit up, Davis?” I ask.

“Sure. Go ahead. Just don’t make any sudden moves toward the pistol on your hip.”

Grimacing as pain shoots through my arm and all the way up into my shoulder, I manage to get myself into a seated position, then decide to push my luck and get to my knees, careful to keep my hand well away from my hip. Townsend doesn’t stop me. The grief I see on his face is tangible, and it breaks my heart for him. I swallow it down though. I can’t let my sympathy for his plight interfere with what I need to do here.

“Believe me when I say I wish we both weren’t here right now,” he says.

“Trust me. I wish we weren’t either.”

“Honestly, I don’t know what to do right now. I can’t let you stop what I’m doing. My work is too important. Those people have got to pay for what they did,” he says.

“I understand, Davis. But the kids you took have nothing to do with what happened,” I tell him. “They’re innocent—”

“So was my boy! Sean was a good kid. He didn’t hurt anybody. He didn’t deserve to die that night,” he snaps. “And those four didn’t deserve to get away with what they did. So, they’re going to suffer the same way I suffered.”

“Davis—”

“Do you have children, Chief Wilder?”

I pause for a moment, then shake my head. “No. I don’t.”

“Then you’ll never understand what it’s like for your child to be killed. Or to watch the ones who killed him go on to live happy, fulfilling lives,” he says. “It’s like you die twice.”

“I can only imagine.”

“I don’t think you can.”

“Okay. That’s fair. But—”

“No. Enough talk. I don’t want to hurt you, Chief Wilder. You seem like a good person,” he says. “But at the same time, I can’t let you interfere with my plans. And I already know you’re going to try. I really don’t have a choice. I have to finish what I started.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I said enough talking,” he says, his voice cold.

I watch as the emotion drains from his face, and he grows unnaturally calm. He’s made up his mind and has decided he has no choice but to kill me to keep me from stopping him.

“I’m sorry,” he says somberly. “I really am.”

Proving that he’s not a killer and unused to doing such wet work up close, Townsend swallows hard and closes his eyes for a brief moment as he works up the nerve to pull the trigger. It’s not much, but it gives me the window I need to act. Ignoring the pain that makes me want to scream, I lunge forward, and grab hold of Townsend’s wrist, bending it awkwardly so the barrel is pointed away from me. My movements are fast and fluid, my experience with martial arts overwhelming the man who clearly hasn’t had any training whatsoever.

Still gripping Townsend’s wrist, I’m able to get to my feet, then give it a vicious twist. He screams, and his weapon hits the ground with a clatter. But he’s flailing, and his other fist crashes into the side of my head, the blow so forceful, I stagger a couple of steps away from him, my field of vision filled with stars. It tastes like I’m sucking on pennies as the coppery taste of my blood fills my mouth. It was a lucky shot, but it gave him back the advantage.

Townsend is reaching for the waistband of his pants at the small of his back where he undoubtedly has another weapon. Not wanting to give him the chance to grab his gun, I give myself a shake and rush forward, throwing a wild haymaker at his jaw. He steps back, and my fist goes whizzing by, barely grazing his chin. It’s such a hard and desperate punch that my follow through puts me off balance, and Townsend takes advantage of my mistake by delivering another blow to the side of my head.

Knowing that going down will be the death of me, I somehow manage to keep my feet and spin around, throwing a kick that catches him in the kidney. He crumples to the side and grunts, pain contorting his features. I doubt that Townsend has ever been in a fight, let alone taken a punch before. Holding his side, he backs up a few steps. If I let him get too far away from me, he’s going to pull that weapon and then I’ll be in an absolute world of crap.

“Stop, Davis,” I say through gritted teeth. “It’s over. Let’s just—”

“It’s not over until they pay for what they did.”

He reaches behind him again, and I rush forward, desperate to keep him from getting his hands on that gun. My fist connects with his face with a sharp crack that sounds like a baseball hitting an old leather mitt, and his nose explodes in a spray of blood as his head snaps back. His eyes are watering, and his face is twisted with pain, but he reaches for his gun again. Pressing my advantage, I deliver a combination of blows to his face and midsection. Townsend howls in pain as every punch lands with devastating effect.

Townsend takes several quick steps back and goes for his gun again. If he gets it, I’m dead. Rushing forward, I put everything I have into the kick I deliver to his midsection. The blow drives him back, and I watch in horror as Townsend’s eyes widen and his mouth falls open. It feels like slow motion as I watch the backs of his knees catch the low wall behind him. He pitches backward and goes over the wall. The last thing I see are his feet as he falls off the roof before he disappears completely. A couple of seconds later, I hear the sickeningly wet thud of his body hitting the ground.

With a cry of disbelief, I rush to the edge and look down, the site of impact and Townsend’s broken body lying in a crimson pool tell me that he’s dead.

“Oh God,” I groan. “What did I do?”