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air from your body. Just because Noah didn’t enjoy the process didn’t mean he wouldn’t take on the deed.
    His jaw clenched tight, Sinclair asked, “What do you want to know?”
    Second slice was merely a nick. “You blame yourself?”
    A stiff-necked nod was Sinclair’s reply.
    Third one went a bit deeper. “Why? You weren’t even around when he was taken.”
    Sinclair’s green eyes went to shards of hard jade. “And that’s exactly why, McCall. I wasn’t there for him. I was his dad…I was supposed to protect him. Instead, I was—” Sinclair shook his head. “I was a lousy father.”
    Noah eased back on the knife, giving Sinclair a little breathing room. “You weren’t still at the rehab center, were you? By that time, you were back home, had recovered from your injury?”
    “Yes. My rehab was over.”
    “You were on disability but still with the Jets, right? Quarterback?”
    If a jaw could be made from granite, Brennan Sinclair’s would make the perfect specimen. The man didn’t bother to hide his contempt. “Can’t say much for your research skills, McCall, if you have to ask questions that a two-year-old could find the answers to.”
    Ignoring the man’s uncensored jab, Noah said, “And where were your wife and son? They lived in the same house with you?”
    “Of course they lived with me. They were supposed to be out of town.” He added with a trace of bitter sarcasm, “At Vanessa’s parents’ house.”
    “And instead they were where?”
    “Still in the city.”  
    “Odd that you would take on the guilt when someone you loved and trusted lied to you.”
    “Doesn’t matter. A father takes care of his children first. I failed him.”
    “Sounds like it was your wife who failed your son. Not you.”
    Fire leaped into Sinclair’s eyes, and Noah wondered if the guy was going to go for his throat. Instead, he showed an admirable amount of control—a plus in his favor—and spoke through gritted teeth, “Damn you, McCall. You know exactly why I feel guilty.”
    “Tell me anyway.”
    Sinclair surged to his feet. “You know what happened. And if you don’t, then you fucking suck at your job.”
    “Sit down, Sinclair. Unless you want to end the interview, that is.”
    The man slowly sat back down, but the fury remained in his eyes, banked for now.
    “Why do you want to work for LCR?”
    “I’m not sure I do anymore.”
    “Now that’s interesting. A commitment to rescuing the innocent can be demolished in the span of a few moments? With just a few words?”
    “Tell me, McCall. What kind of reaction did you want to see?”
    “A truthful one, which I think I got.” Noah changed tactics. “You’ve been trained and worked with some of the best.”
    “The Carmichael Group. I’m sure you’ve heard of them.”
    He’d heard of them, even worked with them. They’d designed the facility in Arizona where he sent all his Elite operatives to train. The Carmichael Group was made up of three former special ops guys, who after their service time ended, opened a training facility in upstate New York. They took only twelve candidates each session, trained the hell out of them and either broke them or made them lethal.  
    In their spare time they designed facilities for other organizations, which was how Noah first met them. In the last two years, they’d created a name for themselves in both security services and rescuing kidnapped victims.  
    Sinclair had been with the Carmichaels for three years—first as a student, then a trainer, and now a full-fledged partner. But it wasn’t hard to figure out why he wanted to leave them.
    There was no doubt that Sinclair’s training would be an asset to LCR. But how would the man react when he learned that Noah wanted to throw him to the lions on his first LCR op? Just how strong was Brennan Sinclair’s need for privacy? Would it outweigh doing the right thing? He would soon see.
    Brennan waited for McCall’s job offer, confident that it was