Tristan Walters winced as he rotated his right shoulder. It was more from the memory of the pain he’d been in for almost two months, rather than the actual stiffness he felt now. The gunshot wound, still fresh in his mind, had healed as much as it ever would. Only the week before he had been confident the worst of his discomfort was behind him.

But now, with London expecting some bad weather, his shoulder ached once more.

"I think I can safely forecast rain in the next few hours," he told the young, blond man sitting at the desk opposite him. Tristan ran his left hand over his dark brown hair, conscious even without a mirror of the silver beginning to salt itself through the strands.

It hadn’t been until two months ago he’d started to feel his age. He’d lost his Agency partner in the same fight he’d sustained the gunshot wound. Jasper Peterson and he had worked together for almost ten years. Neither of them had been virginal novices—they both had known full well the danger and risk inherent in their work.

That knowledge hadn’t stopped the pain of mourning a good friend and colleague. Preston Jones had transferred in while Tristan had still been doped up on a remarkable cocktail of painkillers and slowly recovering in the hospital. Preston had taken over from their old manager—who had been in collusion with the terrorist directly responsible for Jasper’s death.

When Tristan had returned to work less than a fortnight later, Preston had brought in Lucas Sloan and introduced him to Tristan as his new partner. Like many partnerships, they had begun rockily. Tristan hadn’t been in the mood to break in a newbie, especially not one who appeared to have only just passed his thirtieth birthday. The man had been still wet behind his ears and that was something Tristan wasn’t sure he’d wanted to be responsible for.

Feeling like the stereotypical cranky old man despite the fact he still had a few months before he hit forty, Tristan hadn’t exactly given the man a warm welcome.

Keeping his temper on a short fuse was the fact he’d been relegated to desk duty—mostly paperwork and organising the schedules and week’s roster. It was all busy stuff designed to keep up the appearance of him being one of the team. Tristan found himself frequently grinding his teeth in order to stop himself from snapping at his colleagues. Being chained to his desk felt like the end of the world, and despite knowing it was temporary, the mind-numbing nature of the files was soul-destroying.

All through this Lucas had been patient, something Tristan had appreciated but had not been able to bring himself to acknowledge. As he’d healed, Tristan had found himself chuckling now and then at a quip Lucas would make, or zinging the man with a witty rejoinder.

It had been almost a fortnight after their introduction when Tristan had first invited Lucas down to the local for a pint after their day had ended. The two men had started talking superficially, but the wind-down sessions after a shift had become a semi-regular thing. Slowly, the ice had begun to melt between them.

Now, two months later, while Tristan didn’t think they would qualify as best mates, there was a level of understanding and trust between them. Time and experience would solidify their partnership.

"Who needs the weatherman when my partner is a walking meteorology indicator?" Lucas joked. He tilted his head, the long strands of his blond fringe fell into his eyes and Tristan snorted.

"Bet you twenty pounds over the next six months my shoulder and I predict the rain more accurately than the Met Office do, too."

Lucas appeared to be about to reply when Preston stuck his head out of the door to his office. "Walters! Sloan! In here, now."

The two men exchanged equally blank looks.

"Do you know what this is about?" Lucas asked. They both pushed away from their desks and stood.

"Not a clue," Tristan replied. "I was about to ask you the same thing. I have my final medical later this afternoon to clear me for active duty. We weren’t supposed to be assigned anything new until tomorrow."

"Then it must be something big," Lucas postulated as they walked side by side towards Preston’s office.

"Or boring," Tristan added pessimistically.

Preston Jones had shown himself to be a tough but fair leader. His door always stood open unless he was in the middle of a private meeting. Over six foot of muscle, still evidently in shape from his years in the Army and with a no-nonsense manner, Preston had gone over well with most of the agents. His black hair was still buzzed short, but there was no mistaking the sharp look in his dark eyes. Unlike his field days though, Preston now generally wore dark suits and looked the part of a manager.

Tristan and Lucas both deeply respected the man.

Preston stood behind his desk with a manila folder in one hand and a sheaf of papers in the other. He glanced up as Lucas and Tristan entered the office. Preston nodded to the two chairs in front of his desk and returned his attention to the reports he seemed to be in the middle of sorting.

"Close the door and have a seat, gentlemen," Preston said without looking at either of them again.

Tristan held out a hand and slowly pushed the door closed. Simultaneously both he and Lucas exchanged another silent glance. Tristan cocked an eyebrow. Lucas shrugged.

Excerpt From: Passionate Vengeance

"Impress me, George." Lucas Sloan pushed one hand down on the wiry tech’s shoulder and leaned in close.

George ran a hand through his messy brown hair and pushed it out of his eyes.

Lucas smirked and tried to read the man’s laptop screen over his shoulder.

"You really need a haircut," Lucas teased.

"I thought Jones ordered you and Walters to take four hours down time before you showed your faces back here?" George complained, though there had been no real sting to his tone.

Lucas shrugged and pushed aside the oppressive feeling of worry and doom that had haunted him the last day or so.

"Keep your voice down, mate," Lucas snapped as he cast a quick look around to make sure no one had overheard him. "Preston did order Tristan and I to take a few hours’ rest before we hit this again. You announcing to the world I’m here will just get me in deep shit. So shut it, all right?"

George chuckled, seeming unconcerned by his ire.

"Everyone is hard at work helping you and your partner solve this case," George said with evident amusement. "While you and Tristan get your beauty sleep, we’re all back at the grindstone. No one will tattle on you for coming in an hour early. You got my message, I presume?"

"I couldn’t sleep," Lucas explained. He hesitated, searching George’s expression before continuing. "I don’t know if it’s because this is my first real case—not just with Tristan as my partner, but my first real mission—but it’s hit me hard, really got under my skin. This girl we’re searching for, Abigail Turner, you know she’s been injected with some sort of super-vaccine? Something that crazy Dr Harper and an ex-Manager of the Agency, Emma Henley cooked up to do heaven knows what with. They’ve injected her with it multiple times. All the other test subjects have died over the last six months and now she’s missing. How am I supposed to take ‘down time’ with all this going on?"

"Tristan Walters didn’t have much trouble with it," George teased him.

Lucas shook his head impatiently. "Don’t be fooled by that calm, suave demeanour of his," he warned. "He only went back to his flat to settle Kimber. She might appear all blonde curls and laughter behind that brilliant brain of hers, but she was exhausted, mentally and physically. Tristan has fallen hard for her and protecting Kimber comes naturally as breathing to him now. He left only so she could rest. Otherwise he’d be hiding out here trying to find this poor girl with me."

"Sounds to me like Tristan isn’t the only one falling around here," George chuckled.

Lucas narrowed his eyes, his heart pounding. Don’t be a fool, he insisted, George can’t possibly know about that dream you had when you nodded off in the car. Get a grip, Sloan!

"Don’t be ridiculous," Lucas snapped, more annoyed at the truth behind George’s words than his friend actually speaking the thought aloud. "I haven’t even met the girl yet, I can’t possibly have feelings for her. I sympathise with the shit she’s going through and want to help her. That’s it."

George threw him a sympathetic look. Lucas frowned, not sure he was pleased to have been baited into speaking so defensively. George remained thankfully silent, seeming to be happy to leave his teasing at that.

"I’ve only been here six months longer than you, mate," George changed the subject. "And take it from me, the first few cases are the ones that really grab you by the throat. Just a word of caution, if Jones or any of your superiors feel you’re getting in too deep you’ll be relegated to the mailroom. If they tell you to take a break, take it. If you’re ordered to back off something you better have a really good reason or irrefutable proof to support you if you go against orders. Old hands like Walters can get away with shit because they’ve earned their reputations and have brass balls. Everyone knows Walters and those like him are solid agents and if they break the rules it’s for a bloody good reason. Right now you’re not just a newbie but an unknown. Earn your rep and then play fast and loose with the rules."

Lucas nodded, knowing what George had said was nothing less than the truth, but something about this case had a hold on him. The vulnerability he could feel in these victims, Abigail Turner in particular, had crawled under his skin and wouldn’t leave him.

Before the meeting where Preston had ordered him, Kimber and Tristan to take a rest, George had shown him Abigail’s driver’s license and photo. Pale skin with green eyes and strawberry-blonde hair falling below her shoulders, she’d looked beautiful and haunted.

When Lucas had taken a brief nap in his car he’d dreamt of Abigail, lying crumpled on the ground, her hair covering her face as her slender body shook with sobs. She lay in a ring of fire calling out for help with the desperation only the truly needy could ever use.

He couldn’t go home and lie in his bed, pretending this was a regular case. Something urged him that time was of the essence, and he wasn’t used to denying his gut feelings. They’d been right far too often. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, ignoring the way parts spiked up and others fell into his eyes.