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stronghold in the mountains of Peru. Finally, after five years of hell, he’d collected enough information for the DEA to launch a multi-agency raid on the major holdings within Alvarez’s empire.
    He’d turned the last bit of data over to his DEA contact last month, then received word a week ago—the first time the DEA had initiated contact with Niko since he’d gone undercover—that the raid was a go.
    Unfortunately, in order to maintain Niko’s cover, his contact hadn’t told him when the raid would take place. All Niko knew was that if he was caught, he’d be arrested and tried like everyone else.
    He’d made certain, however, that his contact promised that the assault team would take care not to hurt any women or children in the raid. Knowing Alvarez and the immoral bastards who worked for him, Niko wouldn’t put it past them to use the women and children as shields to protect their own hides.
    Additionally, Niko had arranged for his aunt to be taken to a safe house. He knew she felt ashamed of her time with Alvarez, and he hoped she’d accept counseling before returning home.
    Niko rubbed the brand on his right biceps, still burning with shame over being marked like an animal by Alvarez. Dios , he was tired of this life. Tired of avoiding his own gaze in the mirror because he didn’t like the man he’d become. Tired of deciding what actions he could take to solidify his reputation as a dangerous bastard to cross while inflicting as little damage as possible on innocents.
    He wanted out of these custom silk suits that smothered him. He wanted to leave behind the expensively furnished rooms reeking of corruption and pain. He wanted away from the lackeys who fawned over him because they knew he was Alvarez’s chosen one, or because they feared the man Niko had become.
    Although why he was suddenly so goddamned impatient after five intolerable years, he couldn’t say. Maybe it was just that he finally saw the potential for the light at the end of the tunnel and, like a kid, wanted his reward now, not later.
    For the first time in years, Niko thought back to the day that had started this entire string of events.
    Rafe threw a soapy sponge at Niko, hitting him in the chest. It was a sunny, hot day in southern California and the boys were helping Pop wash the car. Growling, Niko turned the hose on his little brother. With a shriek of laughter, Rafe darted away.
    “Rafael Archimedes Andros,” Mamá called from the kitchen window. “Get back inside this moment. I told you to clean up your room.”
    Niko snickered. “Yes, little one, go finish your chores.”
    Rafe stuck out his tongue with all the dignity of his nine years and stomped into the house.
    Laughing, Niko turned the hose back on the car.
    “That’s good, son. I’m—”
    A squeal of brakes caused Niko to glance toward the street. A dark blue Chevy Impala had pulled up to the curb. He had a moment to recognize the leaders of the local Mexican gang, when one of them raised an automatic weapon and started firing.
    “Courtesy of Jaime Alvarez!” one of the boys shouted.
    On the other side of the car, Niko’s father crumpled to the ground. “Pop!”
    Niko raced around the hood. Something stung his arm, but he ignored it. He slipped in the soapy water and fell to his knees by his father. He distantly noted that the chattering of gunfire had stopped and the car had peeled away. But Niko’s focus was on his father. Pop lay facedown on the ground, blood pooling beneath him.
    “Pop!” Niko reached out to shake his father’s shoulder, then stopped. They’d had a lesson on first aid at school and one of the things he remembered was not to move a victim in case there was spinal cord damage.
    He carefully checked his father for a pulse, but couldn’t feel one. “No! Pop. No. Be alive, Pop. Please be alive.”
    Niko squeezed his eyes shut as a wave of fierce emotion surged through him. The following twenty-four hours had been the closest he’d ever