At last, he’d darted among the debris of a half-demolished building. As he hunkered there, struggling to catch his breath, he burned with blinding rage. But it wasn’t true anger, not the sort that would propel him to take action, because he couldn’t do anything to Doug without getting hurt worse in return. That’s what the rage truly was about: frustration and impotence and self-loathing and disgust, because he couldn’t solve this problem, and he could always solve his problems. This one loomed like a Titan above him, relentless and all-powerful, and as he crouched there, listening to Doug taunting him, closing in . . .

Gabriel started awake with a gasp. He sat up, then held completely still, mentally listing every weapon in his bedroom—gun, gun, knife, bat, knife—his gaze pausing on each hiding spot, as if he could see it in the darkness. Weapons, money, even food—it was stashed throughout his apartment, the security talismans he needed to feel safe. He’d hidden it all well enough that he shouldn’t need to worry about Olivia throwing open a kitchen cupboard and saying, “What’s up with the twenty cans of stew?” but he still did worry, however irrationally—

Olivia.

The terror of the memory flew back, and he thought of her sleeping in the next room. He scrambled up, crossed the room, threw open the door. He couldn’t see her—the back of the couch faced his bedroom door. He couldn’t hear her, either, so he jogged over, heart tripping even as he told himself he was being foolish, she was fine, just fine. But the memory lingered, the old threat entwining with new ones.

He rounded the sofa to find her sleeping soundly, lying on her side, blanket pulled up, hands tucked under her cheek, pillow half fallen to the floor. Resisting the urge to push the pillow back in place, he stepped away quickly. Whatever his excuse, he didn’t want her waking to find him standing over her. At best, she’d decide she needed to sleep elsewhere. At worst, he’d get a switchblade in his gut.

He double-checked the door locks and alarm. She’d left the curtains open on the floor-to-ceiling window. There was no nearby building tall enough to pose any risk of prying eyes, and if the condo hadn’t come with curtains, he’d never have bothered adding them. But he closed them now. Just to be safe.

Before they shut, he gazed down at the city, and that anxiety bubbled again, the memory returning, dragging with it a sense of impotence he hadn’t felt in twenty years.

It didn’t take a psychology degree to understand where the dream had come from tonight. The situation with James Morgan was growing steadily worse, and for the first time in his adult life, faced with a threat, Gabriel seemed unable to stop it. The fact that the threat was directed at Olivia was inconsequential. It felt the same as one directed at himself, and he didn’t waste a moment untangling that. All that mattered was that he accepted responsibility for this situation.

When Morgan had approached them outside the restaurant last week, Gabriel had decided to nip this situation in the bud. Couple blackmail with a generous dose of physical intimidation and the idiot would back off. Instead, Morgan had hired a private eye to investigate Gabriel and Ricky. When that failed to bring Olivia running, he’d made it clear to Gabriel that he would get her back by any means possible. Hence Gabriel’s visit to Morgan’s house, which should have put a clear end to everything. I’m better at this game and I will break you, James Morgan. But Morgan had gotten him arrested and charged, and then sent deprogrammers after Olivia. Every move Gabriel made, Morgan countered . . . and the threat against Olivia rose.

Gabriel finally had to admit the unthinkable. He hadn’t merely failed to solve a problem—he was actually making it worse.

Something had snapped in Morgan, and it wouldn’t miraculously repair itself. Morgan would continue this downward spiral, and before long Gabriel was sure he’d come after Olivia. Physically.

Gabriel had spent the early part of the evening scouring a dossier that Lydia had compiled on Morgan. He’d been searching for serious wrongdoing. What he had already would smudge Morgan’s squeaky-clean image but not soil it. Gabriel needed real leverage—something that, if revealed, would destroy Morgan’s chances of ever joining the senatorial race.

Dozens of things could ruin a future politician’s chances. Many of them fell into the category Gabriel would deem “no one else’s damned business.” But Morgan had made it his business. If Gabriel could dig up visits to a dominatrix or a male prostitute, he’d be set. Hard-core drug use would also do the trick. Drug dealing would be even better. Gambling habits were a possibility—that made voters nervous, worried a politician would raid the public coffers to support his habit.

Gabriel would have settled for an interesting fetish or a thousand-dollar tab at a strip club, but there was absolutely nothing. While Morgan might cut corners in business, in his personal life he was as clean as his reputation. The more Gabriel had scoured that dossier, the more agitated and frustrated he’d become—which is when Olivia had returned, providing a welcome distraction.

Gabriel now found himself at the front door, about to go out. When his threat hackles rose, circling the block once or twice usually settled him. Which made him sound like a dog patrolling his territory, and perhaps there was a little of that, but it was more about recovering his sense of security. This close to downtown, he’d see hustlers and dealers and thugs, and even the odd gangbanger. Not one ever gave him more than a moment’s glance. He wasn’t eight or twelve or even fifteen anymore. No one bothered him. No one dared. He was safe.