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desperate need of a fix. The situation was volatile, and I knew it wouldn’t take much for him to use that gun.”
    Mark rested his forearms on his thighs, clasped his hands between his knees, and kept his gaze fixed on the floor as the tragedy replayed in agonizing detail in his mind. “The clerk—his name was Jason Wheeler—tried to open the cash drawer, but it stuck. That infuriated the gunman, and he put the gun to the kid’s temple and said he had five seconds to open the drawer or he’d pull the trigger. To demonstrate he had no qualms about using the weapon, he took a shot in our direction. It didn’t hit any of us, but I knew we couldn’t expect to be as lucky if he fired again.”
    Mark took a deep breath. This was where it got really difficult to maintain an impassive tone.
    “While all this was happening, Coop decided to grab a bagel to go with his coffee. When he opened the door and the bell jangled, the guy turned, giving me a clear shot. I drew my gun. Unfortunately, Jason chose that instant to make his own move. He jerked away from the gunman as I pulled the trigger. My bullet hit him instead of the target.” Mark closed his eyes. Waited a few seconds. Opened them. “Coop took the guy down, but not before he managed to put a bullet in my leg.”
    “What happened to the boy?”
    At Emily’s soft question, Mark stared at his hands. “He didn’t make it.”
    The silence in the room was heavy, mirroring the burden that weighed down his soul. When he felt a touch on his shoulder, he forced himself to look up.
    “I’m so sorry, Mark.”
    “Yeah.” The word rasped out, and he cleared his throat. “I am too.”
    “I can tell the physical wound is healing. What about the emotional one?” The question was soft. Caring.
    He tried to smile, but his lips wouldn’t cooperate. “You’re being a psychologist.”
    “No. A friend.”
    Nodding, he accepted that. With gratitude. “That’s taking a little longer.”
    “Have you talked to anyone?”
    “A psychological assessment is required after an incident like this. The counselor didn’t think I was ready to rejoin the team.
    I didn’t argue.”
    “What team are you referring to?”
    “I work in a division of the Critical Incident Response Group.
    We deal with large-scale, high-profile crises.”
    She searched his face. “You’re on the Hostage Rescue Team, aren’t you?”
    “You know about that?” His eyebrows rose in surprise. Most civilians had never heard of it.
    “I read a book a few years ago by a former HRT sniper. It was . . . eye-opening.”
    “I’m not a sniper. I’m on an assault team.”
    “That’s just as dangerous. Maybe more so.”
    “We’re well trained, Emily.”
    “Grant was too.” Her eyes grew distant, and a flash of pain echoed in their depths. “Training doesn’t eliminate danger. Or risk.”
    In silence he reached for her hand and laced her cold fingers with his, unable to refute her statement.
    With an obvious effort, she refocused her attention on him.
    “Sorry. We were talking about you. Tell me about the letters and calls.”
    Shrugging, he tried to downplay them. “Some people have long memories, and Waco and Ruby Ridge didn’t engender a lot of positive public sentiment for the Bureau. We do everything possible to avoid the use of excessive force, but even in a situation like the convenience store—where a tactical resolution is justified—we get beat up.”
    “It sounds like you took the appropriate action, given the circumstances.”
    “That’s what the review board concluded.”
    “But it doesn’t bring back Jason Wheeler.”
    “No.” He should have figured Emily would zero in on the guilt that had been gnawing at his gut for close to three months. Even before she’d become a psychologist, she’d had good insights.
    “He was seventeen. An honor student. He had a great future ahead of him.”
    She thought about that for a few moments. “Would you do anything differently if faced with