Jo thought of the flash of attraction she had felt when she had seen him in all that leather, with all those weapons on his body. He had seemed so thrilling and mysterious. Now, she confronted the reality of what the guns and knives were used for. What they did. What his body had done to other bodies.

“What would you be doing with your life if the war hadn’t happened?”

There was a pause. “I would have been a farmer.” He shifted in his seat. “I would have liked to have a plot of land I could cultivate. Some animals to care for—horses to ride, cows to graze and milk. I would have liked . . . to be one with the earth.”

As Syn seemed to become steeped in sorrow, he lifted his palms and stared down at them, and she imagined he was picturing his hands in good topsoil, or traveling down the flank of a healthy horse, or cradling a newborn calf.

“A farmer,” she said softly.

“Aye.” He put his palms down on his thighs. “But that is not how things went.”

They were silent for a while. Then she felt compelled to say, “I believe you. Everything you said, I believe.”

He leaned to the side and rooted around inside his leather jacket. Taking out a slim wallet, he presented her with a laminated card.

“Here’s my driver’s license.” When she shook her head, he put it up in front of her. “No, let’s do it all. That’s who I am, but the address is an old flophouse where I stayed with my brothers.”

She glanced at what he held out. The name listed was Sylvester Neste. And the street was like “Maple Court,” or something equally all-American.

He took the license back. “As I said, I’m living with the male—man, I mean, and his family. I’ve got no wife, no kids, and never will. So you know everything about my current status.”

Jo opened her mouth to say something, but he cut her off. “And here’s my telephone number.”

He recited seven digits. Twice. “You want me to write it down for you? There’s a pen right here.”

Taking her Bic out of the drink cup holder, he bent down and fished around the Slim Jim wrappers at his feet. Wrote his number on the back of a Hershey’s wrapper. Tucked the number into the drink cup holder and put the pen back where it had been.

“Any questions for me?” he said evenly as he tucked his wallet away.

Jo looked over at him. “I’m not going to pretend to be comfortable with some of the things you stated. But it’s . . . they’re the reason I think you’re being honest, though.”

“I withheld nothing.”

“I feel like I should apologize for forcing you to talk.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’m a stranger and this is a dangerous time. There’s nothing wrong with taking care of yourself.” He brushed the top of his Mohawk. “Also, I have no Facebook page. No social media anything. Who gives a shit about all that. I also do not have an email address, and I do not put money into the banking system.”

“At all? So how are you paid?”

“In cash, and I will not apologize for being off the grid. No one should trust the government.”

She laughed dryly. “I don’t judge you on that.”

“It is what it is—and feel free to verify everything. I’ll give you my Social Security number if you want? But I’ll tell you that it’s one that was bought and paid for on the black market. I don’t really exist in the records of the world you live in.”

“Syn.” She briefly shut her eyes. “I didn’t mean to turn this into an inquest.”

“Do you want my Social Security number?”

“No. I don’t.”

As they came up to a four-lane byway, she braked at a red light and took a right. She didn’t expect him to say anything. Ever again.

“I’m not a hero, Jo.” He put his elbow on his window’s jamb and propped his hard chin on his knuckles. “I have no future, and a past I don’t waste time thinking about. I’ve got this moment here and now, and even when it comes to that, I’m only halfway present. You spoke the truth. I’m a joke.”

“I didn’t mean that,” she said sharply.

“Yes, you did. And I’m not hurt by the truth. Why should I be hurt by the reflection of myself in the mirror of your eyes?”

“Syn . . .”

Jo looked over at his profile. With his Mohawk and his hooded eyes focused on the road ahead, he looked like exactly what he’d told her he was. A military man who had seen the very worst of humanity, been at the mercy of governments and greedy politicians, and learned that trust was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

“I’d like to tell you I’m sorry,” she said.

“No sympathy, remember?”

“I didn’t express any.” She briefly took both hands off the wheel and held them up. “I only said I wanted to tell you that. I also wish I could tell you that you’re anything but a joke, and that I’m grateful you talked with me. Somehow, I don’t think you talk much about yourself and I can see why. I’m very sad about your past.” As he opened his mouth, she shook her head and cut him off. “I didn’t say any of that, though. I’m just expressing what I wish I could say.”

His mouth twitched on one side, like he was trying not to smile. “You’re exploiting a loophole.”

“Next time define your terms better, then.”

“Aye.” He looked over at her. “I shall do that.”

After a moment, he reached over and gave her a little squeeze on the knee. When his hand stayed put, she covered the back of it with her own.

“I’m truly sorry,” she whispered softly.

Syn pulled his arm back, removing the contact, and then he cleared his throat.

“So where are we going?” he asked brusquely, as if he were closing a door.

And throwing a dead bolt on the thing.

Outside of the Brotherhood’s downtown garage, Butch grabbed onto his dead sister’s friend’s arm to keep her from collapsing onto the dirty sidewalk. Mel McCarthy was badly beaten, in a way no woman ever should be.

“What the hell happened to you?”

Mel grabbed onto the lapels of his leather jacket with torn-up hands. “Oh, God, Butch . . .”

As she looked up at him, blood dropped out of her nose and landed on the bodice of her pale pink bustier, widening the bright red stain that had formed over her left breast. There was also a nasty abrasion on the side of her face that was likewise leaking, and around her throat, ligature marks were a ruddy band in her pale skin. And the injuries continued from there. A dull scratch ran from her collarbone into her cleavage, and below the waist her black skirt was off-kilter and her black fishnet stockings were ripped, more blood running down the bare skin of her thighs from cuts and scrapes.

“Come here,” he said, holding her up. “Let’s get you out of the cold.”

Opening the door into the garage, he helped her inside, holding her up as she limped on the one stiletto that still had a heel. There were a pair of stuffed armchairs off in an alcove, next to the refrigerator and the space heater, and he took her over to one of them. As she eased down onto the padded cushion, her wince told him more than he needed to know about where else she’d been hurt.

Leaning to the side to turn on the heater, he opened his mouth to say something, but struggled to put together anything coherent. Too much of him was focused on wanting to find whoever had done this so he could kill them.

Mel put her head in her hands, her tangled hair falling forward. “I am so stupid. So stupid to have been alone with that guy—”

Butch crouched down and took her palms from her face. “Hey, hey. Stop that.” He brushed a strand of her long, brown hair back behind her ear. “We need to get you to the hospital.” And to a rape kit. “And we should call the police—”

“No!” She wiped a tear off her cheek and winced. “I’m not going to do that—”

“Mel, this was a crime.”

“I don’t know his name—”

“That’s okay, we’ll give a description to the CPD, and we’ll make sure they have a DNA—”

“I’m not going to the police.”

Butch gripped her hands. “Mel. I can’t imagine what you’ve just been through. But I know for certain there are people who can help you—people who can also make sure that the piece of shit who did this to you will get what he deserves.”

Her eyes were luminous with tears that trembled on her lashes. “I can’t. I just want to forget this ever happened—”

“Caldwell has a SART program, and I can put you in touch with them. They’re really good and they—”

Mel sniffled. “What’s a SART?”

He thought of his shellan and how much he had learned from Marissa as she’d studied how humans deal with violence against females. “It’s a sexual attack response team. It’s a multidisciplinary approach that is all about the survivor. It’s medical people, law enforcement, social workers, all coming together to support you as you seek justice. I promise you, they’re good folks, and—”

Mel’s eyes went down to their linked hands. “I can’t go to the police.”

Butch frowned. “I know that it will be hard. But I swear, you’ll be taken care of—”

“You don’t understand.” Her stare came up to his own. “It’s really not an option for me.”

And that was when her meaning sunk in. As the implications became obvious Butch released her hands and sat back on the cold concrete floor.

“I don’t want you to think any less of me.” She sniffled again and cleaned her tears with the back of her arm. “But yeah . . . it’s not going to happen.”

“I don’t think less of you.”

“You sure about that.”

“Absolutely, I am. I just . . . it’s not where I expected—” Butch cut himself off. “But enough about that—”