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first. Targets shot in the head did not shoot back. But Tony was letting off steam. This was his release valve for the pressure cooker of law enforcement. Better than taking it out on live suspects, which was frowned upon by the brass.
    Another perp sprang up before Tony could eject the spent magazine and jam a new one into the .40 Glock semiautomatic. The thug came straight at him, howling like a banshee. The clip jammed.
    Tony flicked his head and sweat sprayed like raindrops. With a hard snap of his wrist, he Frisbee’d the gun at the target carrier system in the ceiling. It hit the drive motors and gummed up the works, stopping the paper assailant in his tracks.
    Laughing, Tony pulled a .45 caliber pistol from his thigh holster and blew the bastard away. Four holes in his forehead. Just call him Mr. Efficient.
    The target carrier was dead, too, but Tony wrote it off to the cost of doing business. This was a private range, and the owner knew Tony was good for the repairs, but probably wouldn’t charge him. The law enforcement gig still got him a few perks. Maybe he’d donate the Glock to Goodwill. He didn’t give second chances to guns—or women—who screwed him over.
    He holstered his pistol and grabbed a towel to mop his brow. He’d stopped using Quantico’s firing ranges. The Bureau took a dim view of their agents killing the equipment, and they’d started docking his pay. Anyone else probably would have been disciplined, but Tony was this year’s top gun. Even outside law enforcement circles, he was known as the agent who’d tracked down Robert Starr, a cunning and deadly Unibomber copycat. He’d also been key in averting another Waco-like tragedy in a religious cult in Oregon.
    Yeah, the Bureau loved Tony Bogart these days, so much so that they’d just put him on six weeks’ administrative leave and strongly suggested he take anger management classes. And all because he’d been working his ass off trying to convince them to admit him to the training program for the Bureau’s elite crisis response team.
    CIRG, the Critical Incident Response Group, was roughly the equivalent of the army’s Special Forces. Tony had the physical skills, but lacked the temperament, according to the psychologist who’d evaluated him. She’d diagnosed him with intermittent explosive disorder. And why? Just because he’d taken offense at some of her snide and insinuating questions and called her a free-associating bitch? She’d accused him of having a flagrant disregard for the rules. Ha. When was the last time she’d danced to the tune of a submachine gun’s bullets? The rules were great until they got you killed.
    In his whole life, Tony had only wanted a couple things really badly—and he’d been denied both times. CIRG was one. A woman from his past was the other. He’d grabbed for the gold ring twice, and it had been snatched away both times. But sometimes fate threw you a bone, even years later, and it looked like he might have another chance at the woman.
    He grabbed his bag of gear and stuffed the towel inside.
    She would never know what hit her.
    After ten years of “stellar service,” according to his performance reviews, Tony was taking an enforced leave of absence. The only good news was that it coincided with an opportunity that was deeply personal. For the last two weeks, he’d been receiving anonymous messages on his cell phone, informing him that he had the wrong suspect in the unsolved murder of his younger brother.
    Butch had died a grotesque death six months ago of multiple wounds from a pitchfork, and Tony had vowed to bring the monster who killed him to justice. In his last voice mail, the snitch had been kind enough to reveal some vital information about the crime, and Tony had finally decided it wasn’t a hoax.
    Tony banged out the door of the firing range and into the muggy Virginia heat. Tonight, he was on his way back to Mirage Bay to catch a cold-blooded murderer. He just had time to