"Enter."

It was a command, not an invitation.

Ryan propped his cane against the outside of the jamb. He steeled himself and opened the door.

Squaring his shoulders, he did his damnedest not to favor his injured knee when he stepped into Horace Blackthorne's private office. The sleek, modern public reception areas downstairs contrasted with this room, a time warp from the fifties. The old–fashioned Venetian blinds were lowered against the late afternoon sun, blocking the view of the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance. Ryan squinted into the glare sneaking through the cracks. Although his boss didn't smoke, the office always smelled of pipe tobacco. He cleared his throat, surprised at its dryness.

"You asked to see me, sir?"

Blackthorne looked up from the sheet of paper he'd been reading. No pleasantries, not that Ryan expected any. When the man didn't gesture toward one of the two utilitarian chairs fronting the steel desk, Ryan held himself erect, squelching the urge to grab the back of one for support. He waited while the man placed the paper into a file folder, gave it a tap, then set it in the wire basket on the corner of the desk.

Blackthorne removed his half–frame reading glasses, snapped them into a leather case, and slipped them inside his jacket pocket. He pushed away from his desk and levered himself to his full height.

At six–three, Ryan usually looked down on people, but he adjusted his gaze upward to lock eyes with his superior. Blackthorne disguised his emotions well, but over the last ten years Ryan learned to eke out the subtlest signals. A shift in the eyes, the twitch of a jaw muscle, a minuscule shoulder shrug—these were flashing neon signs. Today, the man stood stock–still, like the bronze statue of Old Whatshisname in front of City Hall back home.

Ryan waited out the silence, his eyes moving up Blackthorne's furrowed brow to the salt–and–pepper hair, neatly parted, still thick. He resisted the urge to run his fingers through his own hair, hanging in unruly tendrils over his collar.

"You met Alvarez." A statement, not a question. "Where are the files?" Blackthorne leaned forward. His gaze bored into Ryan's. Did he detect a glint of eagerness in his boss' eyes?

Uncertainty spread outward from Ryan's middle like ripples on a pond. Two weeks in the hospital kept him out of the loop, but not so far he didn't know about the rumors—all blaming him for the screwups. That a leak existed at Blackthorne, Inc., and he was suspect number one.

He balled his fists, keeping his hands away from the flash drive in his pocket. The intel. Mr. Alvarez's list of stolen artworks. Nothing worth killing for. But a sleazebag like Alvarez might be dealing in more than smuggled art. Was there a connection between Alvarez and the failed Forcada mission in Colombia? Ryan had to find the leak, and he'd do whatever it took to prove his innocence, even if it meant investigating Horace Blackthorne himself.

He kept his gaze steady. "The grenade destroyed the computer, sir. Along with the entire building."

Blackthorne hesitated. Cleared his throat. Nodded, the barest twitch of his chin. "Finish your rehab, take some extra leave."

"I'm fine, sir. Give me the weekend. I'll be ready for a new assignment on Monday."

"Two fouled missions. You're no good to me, the firm, or yourself now. I read your medical reports. I spoke with your doctors. We're not negotiating, Harper. Six weeks personal leave while you finish your rehab, plus any vacation time you've accrued, if you need it. Three months on security detail, and then we'll discuss your future as a field agent."

Security detail. A Blackthorne euphemism for chaperoning spoiled offspring of arrogant aristocrats or media hotshots. Why not say, "You're fired." His gut clenched. That's precisely what his boss had in mind.

Ryan reached for his wallet. He pulled out his ID. Ryan Harper. Six–three, brown eyes, brown hair, two hundred pounds. Not much had changed. True, he was thinner since his illness. He focused on the photo. The face of a younger man, fresh and optimistic, stared back at him.

The soft click of the laminated card landing on the scarred steel desk echoed through the room.

Ignoring the card, Blackthorne sat down and reached for the file folder on his desk.

Ryan pivoted, disregarding the pain in his knee. The one in his belly hurt worse. He retrieved his cane on the way to the elevator. On the ride down, he flipped open his cell phone. If there was anyone left he could trust, it would be Dalton. His ex–partner was out of the country on assignment, but even on his voice–mail recording, the Texan's easy drawl loosened the knots.

He waited out the message, concentrating on keeping his voice steady when he spoke. "It's Harper. Call when you can."

The elevator doors opened. He snapped the phone shut. Outside, sunlight bounced off the buildings, but its warmth eluded him. In the building's grassy courtyard, a group of young children chased around an abstract sculpture, one that always reminded him of a bunch of asparagus. He hated asparagus. He tuned out the giggles, but he couldn't turn off the image of Carmelita. His fingers ached, and he released his death–grip on the cane. On the way to the parking garage, he passed a wire trash bin. Without missing a step, he flung the cane inside.

Ryan sat behind the wheel, his mind replaying the afternoon in the warehouse, pieces falling into place. The smells he'd attributed to the cats. The clutter on the floor. At the time, he'd disregarded the Spanish writing on the cartons. He remembered one now, tilted on its side. Éter. Ether. An abandoned meth lab. With a sense of purpose, he put his Mustang into gear.