Page 7 of A Burning Rage

I back my vintage 1969 silver Jaguar out of the garage and head down the street to the secured gate leading into our small private development. Whenever I drive somewhere alone, I take the Jag. I purchased this car as a reward for myself the first year the company was profitable. It’s my baby.

I roll to a stop at the security station and wave at the guard on duty. “Good morning, Tony.”

“Good morning, sir,” the young Hispanic man says through an open window. “Have a good day.”

He opens the gate for me and nods as I drive through.

A couple of years ago, I purchased a section of a new housing development in Lincoln Park that had just broken ground. They hadn’t started selling lots yet, so I was able to buy the entire cul-de-sac. It’s now a private, gated community for my family, completely fenced in and secure. My sister Lia calls it The McIntyre Family Compound. The name has sort of stuck because now everyone, including the grandkids, is using it.

Traffic is heavy as I head toward downtown Chicago to my office building located on N. Michigan Avenue. I arrive a few minutes before eight, park in my reserved spot in the underground parking garage, and take an elevator up to the 20th floor.

Diane Hughes, my long-time administrative assistant, is already at her desk. In her eighties and still sharp as a tack, Diane keeps my office running smoothly. She’s a tiny thing, barely five feet tall, with short white hair and pale blue eyes. I keep expecting her to retire—with a significant retirement bonus that will outlast her—but when I ask her about it, she tells me to mind my own business.

“Good morning, honey,” she says when I walk into the executive suite. “You’re here early.”

“Troy’s coming to meet with me at eight.” I pass her desk as I head to my office. “Please send him in when he arrives.”

“Will do.”

Once I’m in my office, I switch on the lights and boot up my PC. While it’s coming online, I indulge in one of my favorite pastimes—looking at photos of my family. My desk has become cluttered with picture frames of all sizes, featuring photos of me and Beth, our wedding, Beth and our kids, and the four of us.

Maybe soon to be five?

I hope so.

I grew up in a large family—I’m the oldest of seven kids. I want that for my kids, too. And, if I’m being honest, I want that for myself. Beth seems happily on board with the idea. She is one of only two kids, and when she was born, her brother was already an adult. Because of their age difference, Tyler was more like a parent to her than a sibling. After having grown up essentially an only child, and having seen my big, boisterous family in action, she welcomes the idea of us having a big family, too.

We’re not the only ones with that idea. My brother Jake and his wife, Annie, are expecting their fourth child. Jamie and his wife have two kids now. My sister Sophie and her husband, Dominic, have one, and they’re working on another one. The more, the merrier. That’s my motto. None of my three youngest siblings have kids yet, but give them time.

Once my computer is up and functioning, I check the work e-mails that came in overnight—status reports from operatives working the overnight shifts, mostly performing protection duties or surveillance. Fortunately, there’s nothing urgent I need to attend to.

Right at eight, there’s a knock on my open door. I glance up to see Troy Spencer standing there, a black leather briefcase in hand. He’s dressed impeccably, as always, in a dark Armani suit.

“Troy.” I smile as I wave him in. “What’s so urgent it couldn’t wait until lunch?”

But Troy isn’t smiling this morning. There’s a grimness to his expression that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Nothing ever fazes Troy. He’s cool under pressure and rather unshakable, which makes him a fantastic corporate lawyer. And a good friend.

My attorney—because that’s who he is right now, not my friend—steps into my office and quietly closes the door behind him. Then he takes a seat in one of two black leather chairs facing my desk. His dark eyes lock onto me, and for a long, heavy moment, he just stares at me.

My skin tightens. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry this isn’t a social call, Shane. I’m afraid we need to talk.”

“About?”

He pulls a manila folder out of his briefcase and lays it on my desk.

“Enough with the drama, Troy. Just spit it out.” I smile despite the growing knot in my stomach. The longer he’s silent, the more worried I become.

He lets out a heavy breath. “I received an unexpected e-mail last night from the parole board governing the psychiatric hospital where Andrew Morton is incarcerated.”

Everything in me stills.

Andrew Morton.

I haven’t heard anyone speak that pyscho’s name in nearly five years.