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Climbing out of his truck, he peered into the gloom surrounding him. The nearest streetlamp was more than twenty feet away, leaving him cloaked in the shadows. The bad news? Anyone scoping out his place could be hidden, too. And he knew. He knew. Someone was fucking there. Even if he couldn’t see them, he knew it.

And it was an enemy.

He squinted, but couldn’t make out anything in the darkness. The night was still, so eerily and unnaturally silent, he could hear the rush of air as he breathed roughly through his nose. His boots crunched the brittle grass under his feet as he made a beeline for the back of his house. Gentling his steps, he hunched his body as he turned the corner.

Rick felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight. With each careful stride forward, he couldn’t hear anything coming from in front of him or behind. It didn’t mean there was no one there. He learned long ago how to control his body, keeping out of sight and moving quietly so that he could get in and out without being noticed. Whoever was watching him must have had similar training.

He couldn’t explain it, didn’t know why he was so certain, but Rick was willing to lay money down that someone was watching him. And he needed to stop them.

Keeping his ears cocked in case they made a mistake, he pulled his keys from his belt with his left hand. His right strayed to the butt of his pistol. Carrying in Hamlet never used to be protocol for the HSD. Once Sly took over as sheriff and he hired Rick to be one of his deputies, that custom changed—and it changed swiftly. After Caitlin’s fate, they all decided it was better to be safe than sorry. Carrying their weapons became the norm.

One small problem, though. Just the sight of the gun was normally enough to keep disorderly drunks in line. With his military background, Rick felt more comfortable wearing an empty gun. No bullets meant less chance of an accident. The odds of someone who wasn’t in law enforcement drawing on him seemed so slim before this. Despite Grace’s warnings about Mathers and his bodyguard, Rick figured, if he couldn’t rely on his training to take down a threat without using a weapon, he deserved to go down in the line.

Training also said that he should radio for back up if he felt like something was wrong. He grabbed at his belt again, his hand closing on nothing. That’s right. He buzzed Grace earlier, asking if she wanted him to stop at the coffeehouse and bring something home for dinner. She’d had a headache and was going to lie down. Not wanting to disturb her, he picked up a container of Gus’s special of the day—lemon chicken and steamed broccoli—and let some of the locals draw him into more than an hour long conversation.

Adrianna wanted to check in on Grace. Isabella Abreu asked when she would be starting up the dancing lessons again since Serafina missed them. Phil Granger stopped by during the supper rush, assuring Rick that he’d been watching the entrance for weeks during his down

time and there was no sign of that Pope fella or any other outsiders. His old buddy Dave even cornered him outside Gus’s kitchen to point out that his hair looked like it needed a trim.

It felt… it felt nice to actually feel like he belonged in Hamlet again. Not the oddity, not the ex-military man who hadn’t been able to hack it on the outside. Rick was just another local, with his neighbors and his friends butting in and being nosy and already throwing odds on the betting pool for when he’d make an honest woman of Grace.

His fist tightened.

Grace—

Rick’s concern for her overrode all of his training. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being stalked, but the truck was on the other side of his house. He needed to find her, make sure she was fine. Grabbing his communicator, buzzing Sly… it could wait.

It had to.

Okay. Grace’s car was still out front; he had parked right behind it. So either she was in the house with some kind of hidden threat lurking outside, or she was gone and she hadn’t needed to take her own car with her to go.

He didn’t know which was worse.

So focused on getting inside, on getting to Grace, Rick jogged toward the front of the house. He slapped his hand on his cuffs, muffling the sound. His boots landed softly on the frozen ground. He forgot all about the silent menace until he turned the corner and, suddenly, he wasn’t alone anymore.

Swallowing his curse, he straightened, immediately taking the measure of the bastard who seemed to appear out of nowhere.

Guy was big. As big as Rick, even if the deceptive cut of his fancy suit made him come across as a mammoth. The spotlight haloed the other man, casting his face in shadow. Rick didn’t need to see his face. From the way he held himself, tall and proud, his head straight and his hands relaxed at his side, Rick knew exactly what kind of danger he was facing.

And that’s when the man spoke. His words were gruff, short, and to the point:

“Nathaniel Boone. Sergeant. 050-63-1205.”

Name, rank, and service number. All the things you gave to an enemy.

Okay, then. At least, now, he was aware of where they stood.

“Richard Hart. Staff Sergeant.” One rank higher. He’d take it. “Mathers’ man, are you?”

A small dip of his head was the only confirmation Rick needed. He had recognized the name, knew from Grace’s admissions exactly who this man was, but he needed to hear it. He needed to be positive before he reacted.

He’d done too much damage while on duty. Things he did that he couldn’t forget. For Grace, he’d do it all over again. If it saved her, no matter what it cost him, he’d pay the price.

And so would Nathaniel Boone.

“You carrying, Hart?” Boone asked.

His hands fisted again. For the first time since he became deputized, Rick bitterly regretted keeping his six chambers empty. Never taking his eyes off of his opponent’s belt and the gun that would be tucked in a side holster, he shook his head. He thought about bluffing before deciding against it.

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