“No kiddin’—you talked to Tomaselli? I heard he was back in the States and that he was shot. Didn’t hear where he was or what happened, though.”

“His unit was cleaning out a nest of insurgents in the hills near the Khyber Pass in Afghanistan, and he took a bullet in his leg.” Jake glanced downward. “That’s where they got you, too, he told me. Right leg or left?”

“Left.” Dan shifted the lap robe to reveal a prosthetic attached just below his knee.

“Damn. I’m sorry,” Jake said with feeling. “Tomaselli didn’t tell me you lost the leg.”

“Hell, Jake. I didn’t lose it. I know exactly where it went.” Dan grinned and Jake laughed, shaking his head. But before he could say anything, Dan looked past him and grimaced. “Hang around, will you?” he whispered. “I’ve gotta do some PR stuff. I promised the doc—and I could use some backup.”

Jake glanced over his shoulder, following Dan’s gaze. The pretty brunette and the small group she’d been talking with were walking in their direction. They’d been joined by a midthirties woman in jeans and sweater and a tall lanky guy with cameras slung around his neck.

“PR?” He looked back at Dan.

“Yeah. A newspaper reporter is doing a story on the equipment in here.”

That takes care of the guy with the cameras and the woman in jeans, Jake thought. “Who are the two women with the doctor?”

“They must be from the Seattle Women’s Club—the group that donated the equipment I’ve been using.”

“Sure, I’ll stay.”

“Thanks,” Dan murmured.

Jake stepped aside, silently observing as Dan said hello to his doctor and was introduced to the older woman, Winifred Abbott, and her granddaughter, Chloe Abbott.

“Hey, Sarge,” a male voice called.

Chloe looked over her shoulder. A pajama-clad patient sat in a wheelchair across the room, grinning broadly at the tall, burly man walking toward him. Dressed casually in a light-blue cotton shirt tucked into belted jeans, black boots on his feet, the visitor seemed to dominate the room.

“Our patient has arrived,” Dr. Jacobson said. “Are you ready to talk to Dan?” he asked the reporter.

“In a moment.” She gestured at the male nurse and the other man standing next to the patient in the wheelchair. “Tony, can you get a few candid shots first?” The photographer nodded, lifting his camera to focus on the trio.

Dr. Jacobson waited until the photographer lowered his camera. “I think we’re ready. Ladies, shall we…?” He waved the reporter ahead of him, following with Winifred and Chloe.

The man talking to the patient turned and stared straight at Chloe, his eyes narrowed. She’d only seen his profile earlier; now she realized that her earlier impression of “good-looking” hadn’t done him justice. His eyes were a bright blue in a ruggedly handsome face. Short black hair, dark eyebrows and lashes, high cheekbones and a strong jaw combined to create a sense of strength and purpose.

His eyes didn’t waver from her as she crossed the room with Dr. Jacobson, and the group was introduced to Dan West, the wheelchair-bound Marine.

“I’d like you all to meet Jake Morrissey,” Dan said after shaking their hands. “Two years ago, he was our master sergeant during my first tour of duty in the Middle East.”

Jake shook hands with the reporter and photographer, Dr. Jacobson and the nurse, then Winifred, before he reached Chloe.

“Chloe.” His fingers and palm were slightly rough with calluses, engulfing her much smaller hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Mr. Morrissey,” Chloe said politely. He held her hand a few seconds too long until she tugged discreetly. He immediately released her, a slight smile of apology curving his mouth. Amused, she smiled back at him and his gaze sharpened, holding a glint of admiration.

“Mr. Morrissey.” The reporter claimed his attention. “Since you worked with Dan, I’d like to include you in the article. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” He gave the reporter a half smile before looking at Chloe and Winifred. “As long as it’s all right with the ladies?”

“Whatever makes the article more effective is fine with me,” Winifred said. “Our goal is to generate more donations to the medical center’s equipment fund.”

Chloe murmured her agreement.

“Excellent. I’d like to get some shots of you using the equipment first, Dan, then we’ll take group photos.” The reporter bustled off with the photographer, Dr. Jacobson and Dan in tow.

“It’s a terrible thing to lose a limb, especially at his age,” Winifred said. “He’s such a nice young man.”

“He’s a good soldier, too,” Jake replied.

“I believe Dan said you served together before you left the military. Are you retired, maybe playing golf full-time?” Chloe asked, curious.

Jake laughed, his teeth a flash of white in his tanned face. “Not hardly. I started my own company when I left the Marine Corps more than five years ago—Morrissey Demolition. We’re headquartered just south of Pioneer Square. And two years ago, my reserve unit was called up and I was on active duty for twelve months. I’ve been back in Seattle running the company again for the past year.”

“How interesting. What exactly do you demolish?”

“Large buildings, mostly. We also have a contract with the Colville Tribe’s construction company. We remove boulders and rock from logging roads on their reservation in eastern Washington.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Chloe tried to envision working with explosives on a daily basis.

“Not if you know what you’re doing.” Jake shrugged. “I specialized in explosives in the military, and my crew has years of experience in this kind of work.”

“Chloe,” the reporter called, “will you join us, please?”

“Excuse me.” Chloe walked over to the small group surrounding Dan.

“You have a very attractive granddaughter, Mrs. Abbott,” Jake said, watching Chloe as she bent to talk to Dan.

“Yes, I know.”

Jake turned his head and his gaze met Winifred’s, her green eyes shrewd as she studied him.

“You aren’t the first man to admire Chloe,” she said. She tilted her head, and a small smile raised the corners of her mouth. “But I must say you’re the first one I’ve thought had serious potential.”

“Potential?” Jake repeated warily.

“Chloe is a strong-willed woman,” Winifred continued as if Jake hadn’t spoken. “And very bright. Just like my son and me, she stayed on to become a professor at the University of Washington after graduating magna cum laude.”

“Is that right?” Jake said evenly. “I have an engineering degree but I earned it in bits and pieces. The Marines moved me around fairly often.”

Winifred waved her hand dismissively. “It’s not about where a person is educated, it’s about how intelligent that person is in all aspects of his or her life.” She leaned closer. “My husband never went to college, but he was one of the most intelligent men I’ve ever known. Well rounded, that’s the important thing.”

Jake nodded without commenting, his eyes returning to Chloe.

“She teaches English at the University of Washington,” Winifred said. “Her office is in Liberty Hall, although I believe I’ll let you find out her phone number yourself. And Chloe recently bought a nice little house in the Queen Anne District. Where do you live, Mr. Morrissey?”

“I have an apartment on the top floor of the building I own, near Pioneer Square.” Jake grinned, amused by Winifred’s no-nonsense approach. “I’m also healthy, my bank account isn’t overdrawn, I’ve never been married and I don’t have any children. What do you think, Mrs. Abbott? Do I pass inspection?”

She laughed, her eyes gleaming with approval. “Yes, son, you pass. Now all you need to do is convince Chloe.”

“That might take a while. I’m heading back to Vegas tonight to finish a job. It’ll be four or five days before I’m back in Seattle.”

Winifred nodded. “Then I’ll expect you to attend my monthly brunch two weeks from this Sunday, promptly at 1:00 p.m. I assume you’ll be bringing Chloe?”

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll certainly try.” Jake chuckled. The old lady was a force to be reckoned with. If Chloe was anything like her grandmother, he was in for a hell of a trip.

The Seattle Tribune lay open on the table. The article and photos taken at the UW Medical Center took up half of page six.

Rage hissed and uncoiled in his belly, spreading its heat through his veins. His fingers curled into fists, creasing the edges of the newspaper.

He reread the paragraphs, his morning routine disrupted as he ignored his customary breakfast of half a grapefruit and a single slice of rye toast, cut in a precise line from corner to corner. The mug of Starbucks coffee grew cold while he stared at the picture.

Three civilians stood next to a wounded solder in a wheelchair. The caption identified the patient as a marine private. The white-haired older woman was Winifred Abbott, a founding member of the Seattle Women’s Club. The club’s fund-raising had purchased the rehab equipment being used by the recovering marine. On Winifred’s left was a late-twenties brunette identified as her granddaughter, Chloe Abbott.

He didn’t have to read the name of the man standing to the right of Chloe Abbott. Jake Morrissey was all too familiar. He’d meticulously researched Morrissey for the past year and tracked his schedule and whereabouts for the past two months. Morrissey currently had a contract to implode a casino in Las Vegas; the demolition crew had been there for two weeks and weren’t due to return for another two days.

He’d been unaware of Morrissey’s return to Seattle this week. He was sure it wasn’t in the original plans for the Las Vegas job. He didn’t like it when schedules changed.

The Tribune article said Master Sergeant Morrissey had once served overseas with the wounded marine.

This marine was alive.

Other young men serving with Morrissey hadn’t been so lucky.

The fresh-faced marine, the older woman, the granddaughter and Morrissey smiled directly at the camera in the group photo. In a second photo, Morrissey’s head was bent toward the younger woman, his lips brushing her ear as he whispered to her, and her hand rested on his forearm with intimate ease. The look on the ex-master sergeant’s face said Chloe Abbott meant something to him. Their body language hinted that they knew each other well.

Despite intense covert observation of Morrissey’s life over the past six weeks, he’d uncovered no evidence of close family members and only casual ties to women friends. Morrissey’s personal life appeared to lack anyone whose death would cause him the devastation and grief he deserved.

That situation had apparently changed.

At last. At long last.

Time for the revenge his soul craved. He had the woman’s name, and he’d check her out. This might be his chance to destroy Jake Morrissey’s life just as his had been destroyed.