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see his former DI -- or at least the ghost of that merciless, tough-as-nails son of a bitch. He was gone now. Dean had helped scrape what was left of him off the Dasht-i-Margo in Afghanistan.  
    That was the true Desert of Death -- not this place. Half a world away, that hellish plain had claimed the life of more than one Marine. This one would not.  
    Not today.  
    Opening his eyes, Dean’s gaze fixed on the truck. Fifty yards, one-hundred-fifty feet, one foot after the other.  
    Cakewalk.  
    You want that Eagle, chico?  
    Eagle, globe, anchor -- he wanted it all. He pushed the cane forward in the sand and then drew his body after it. Slow, single-minded, the pattern of cane-foot-foot repeated as the hours, and the daylight, passed.  
    He wasn’t going to die here, not today -- not until he’d seen her one last time.  
    Touched her.  
    Tasted her.  
    You want your Eagle, chico? It’s right fucking here. You just have to take it from me.  
    Reaching Feo’s body, Dean rolled the dead man over. A delicate strand of silver at Feo’s throat led down to a sparkling blue stone splattered with blood. Dean clutched it, jerked once and stumbled through the open truck door and into the cab’s interior.  
    *****  
    My first few months in exile, I was sure I would return to my new apartment from one of my two part-time jobs to find Dean sitting on my front step. Around month four, I realized that wasn’t going to happen -- ever. Maybe one day in the far future for a few minutes at a court house right before or just after I testified in the murder of Felix Esposito, I would see him. That was all the hope or comfort I could look forward to.  
    It took me a week of crying myself to sleep after that realization to come to terms with the fact that, whatever feelings had been given birth to in that Phoenix house, they were mine alone. Those green eyes had never actually warmed. Dean had just been playing a part for two very different audiences -- fucking us both at the same time, just in different ways. For Feo and the others, getting fucked by Dean meant they would spend a very long portion of their lives in prison.  
    In some ways, I was living in a prison, too -- one constructed of circumstance. I would never again be Garnet Williams, but at least my cell looked out over Monterey Bay and it was filled with books. Lots and lots of books. Weekends and Fridays I worked at the public library. Tuesday through Thursday, I worked at a small bookstore on Lighthouse Avenue. Altogether I managed about thirty-six hours a week, just enough to cover my rent, groceries and utilities and nowhere near enough to consider getting a car.  
    It wasn’t bad, just lonely. And I’m not ashamed to confess I compensated by checking out a few romances each week from the library. I just wish I could say that the hero in each, no matter how differently described by the author, didn’t inevitably warp into Dean in my mind.  
    I was re-shelving in the romance section with a few select titles tucked along one side of my cart for home when I heard a small clearing of someone’s throat and realized I was not alone in the aisle.  
    I turned to find Dean standing there with the same wild curls, just shorter, and the same green eyes, neither cold nor warm, only fiercely guarded. I didn’t gasp or shout -- I merely started to faint.  
    Dean’s arms were around me in an instant, supporting me as he steered me to rest against one of the bookshelves. Just as quickly, he stepped back once it was clear I wasn’t actually going to faint. Shoving his hands in his jacket, he didn’t say anything, just stared at me.  
    Heart pounding in my chest, I stared back…  
    And blinked first.  
    “How did you find me?” I turned back to the cart as I asked the question, picking up the next book to shelve. “Did Hollman tell you?”  
    That earned a slight chuckle. “I’m sure she’ll have my balls if she finds out I tracked you down.”  
    God damn,