The master bedroom in the penthouse is locked in a heavy, suffocating silence, broken only by the sharp, metallic click of firearm magazines being checked and loaded.
Locke stands beside the bed, bathed in the dim, golden light of the bedside lamps. His black leather club vest is gone, replaced by a dark, form-fitting tactical shirt that clings to the broad expanse of his shoulders, a black combat belt strapped tight around his waist.
He works with a frightening, practiced efficiency: rack the slide, engage the safety, slide the heavy matte-black pistol into his tactical kydex holster.
I sit on the edge of the mattress in my silk robe, my hands folded tightly in my lap to hide the subtle tremor in my fingers.
My health might be back, my body strong and steady, but watching the man I
