Anyone who thought an FBI job glamorous never sat in a cold car on an unlit side street in the middle of the night.

Since joining the Bureau eight years ago, Eric Erickson had never been in a car chase—or a gunfight. Sure, there’d been some tense moments, but undercover assignments were all about the mundane—blending in and acting like a regular Joe. Or in his case, a regular Eric. Today, if things went as planned, that was all about to change. A wave of anticipation rippled through his chest. He pulled on a black stocking cap before glancing in the rearview mirror.

For three weeks he’d put on his pilot’s uniform, eaten lunch in the airline break room and met up with coworkers for drinks after work. Today, the stakes would change. Today, he’d get a new route, a new copilot, and gangsters for passengers.

Reaching beneath the steering wheel, he brushed the grip of the tiny handgun in his ankle holster. Man, he wished he had his service weapon, but the Glock 27 would have to do. His cell dinged from the passenger seat. Time to go. He took a deep breath.

Fidelity. Bravery. Integrity. The FBI motto. Words he lived by.

As he exited the car, a cool October breeze nipped at his nose and ears and rushed up the sleeves of his jacket. He tugged on the hood, slid his hands into leather gloves, and jogged across the dark street.

He trotted down a short embankment, crouching through the shadows until he spotted the gas station near the main road. Using the darkness for cover, he found the single-track mountain bike trail he’d scouted earlier and began the uphill trek.

Despite his pace, his body wouldn’t warm. Denver was beautiful, but he was beginning to see why a coworker declared Colorado “the land of boogers and chapped lips.”

Approaching the split in the trail, he slowed. A familiar face emerged from the shadows.

“It’s cold as balls up here.” Grant Morgan’s refined British accent made the crude comment sound like a melody. He held up a plastic bag with the bug and transmitter.

Eric grabbed the baggie and shoved it into his coat pocket. “No kidding. Let’s get this over.”

“Hold up, mate. We have some things to talk about.”

That was the other thing about Grant’s accent—everything sounded like a lecture.

“Okay, talk. Quick.”

A dark curl escaped Grant’s knit hat and stuck to his forehead. “I know this assignment means a lot to you.” He has no idea. “But if you see anything that looks like trouble, get yourself out of there.”

Eric grunted his affirmative. “Don’t take unnecessary risks. Yes, Dad.”

“Good.” Grant slapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

By the time they arrived at an eight-foot-tall chain-link fence, the muscles in Eric’s back and shoulders had pulled into knots. He did a few neck rolls, shook out his upper body, and gripped the galvanized steel.

The other agent’s stare bore into him. “Stay in contact. I’m here if things go sideways.”

Eric nodded, then pushed the tip of his shoe into a link and climbed. At the top rail, he swung a leg over and dropped to the ground. He stepped quietly, sticking to the perimeter and, after several minutes, arrived at the tarmac. Staying in the shadows, he prowled among the planes until he found the King Air owned by Rocky Mountain Charters.

The owner had a sketchy history, but it was his newfound relationship with a notorious crime family that had landed him on the Bureau’s radar. Eric’s mission was twofold: ferret out the relationship and record incriminating conversations.

His other target was Vincenzo Alario, a man so vicious and unforgiving, he’d once choked a man with a wad of dollar bills for cheating at a game of cards. But that was only one transgression in a lifetime littered with them, each more heinous than the last.

Eric’s pulse roared like an F-15 throttling for takeoff. More than anything, he wanted to see justice served. He’d endured a lot in his life, but treating Alario like a regular man would test him like nothing he’d done before.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the cabin door key. Palming it had been easy. He’d manipulated the security guard into conversation, distracting him with a newly-discovered secret weapon—the Broncos. Once the guard had exhausted his predictions for the upcoming Dolphins game, he left to start his rounds and forgot to secure the lockbox.

Eric popped the hatch, unfolded the stairs, and climbed into the dark plane, sweeping the narrow beam from his small flashlight across the cabin. The bug in his pocket differed from the one he’d hidden in the owner’s office a couple of weeks ago. The plane didn’t allow for a live surveillance feed. To compensate, he had an internal storage transmitter to hide as well.

The light rail that ran the length of the cabin above the windows seemed a suitable location. He placed the bug dead center between the two groups of seats, then walked to the cockpit. The transmitter would be safest here. He wedged it into a nook above the rudder and clicked the button on the mic clipped to his lapel to update Grant. “It’s done. Heading back.”

“Copy that.”

Eric made his way to the door at the back of the aircraft and smiled grimly. For more than twenty years, he’d thought of this moment. Hell, he’d even dreamed about it. Now that it was here, he wouldn’t let anything stand in his way.