Hero Worship (Wayward Sons #5)

1. Prologue

August

The doctor's hands shook as he clicked through the imaging files, and my mind flashed to the last time I'd seen hands tremble like that. It was right before I'd put a bullet between a human trafficker's eyes. Twenty years of behavioral analysis kicked in without my permission. Micro-expressions, body language, the slight hitch in his breathing… All were tells I'd spent my career cataloging in interview rooms while hunting the worst humanity had to offer. Now I was using those same skills to read my own death sentence. Just not the kind that ended in a body bag.

He pulled up the latest scan on the monitor, the screen's harsh glow illuminating his face as he zoomed in. Even from where I sat, I could see my right knee wasn't healing the way it was supposed to.

A patchwork of surgical screws and stabilizing plates crisscrossed my kneecap and upper tibia, fusing the shattered pieces back together like some kind of macabre jigsaw puzzle. Thick bands of scar tissue streaked across the joint space, remnants of the trauma surgeries required to salvage what was left of my knee after the bullet tore through. Even to my untrained eye, it was clear the damage was extensive. Probably permanent.

The doctor's words blurred together—post-traumatic osteoarthritis, implant failure. The message was crystal clear: I was done.

Twenty years of walking into rooms where monsters had been, reading their signatures in blood and bone, hunting them across state lines until justice was served. But justice had always meant handcuffs and courtrooms. What good was a badge when I couldn't even walk without a cane?

"What about more surgeries?" I pressed. "Experimental treatments? There's gotta be something else you can do! Money's not an issue."

Deep down, I already knew it was futile. The pitying look in his eyes said it all. Another tell I'd learned to read too well—the same look I'd given countless families when I had to tell them their loved ones weren't coming home.

The doctor shook his head, turning back to the screen where my ruined knee hung in digital suspension. "More surgeries might help manage the pain and improve your mobility to an extent, but the damage is just too severe. I know it's not what you want to hear, but you need to face reality. Your body can't handle that kind of stress anymore, no matter how much metal we put in there."

I clenched my fists until my nails bit into my palms. Frustration bubbled up inside me like a goddamn geyser ready to blow. How many monsters had I tracked down? How many families had I given closure to? And now it was all over, thanks to one stupid bullet.

I bit my tongue until I tasted copper, choking back the stream of obscenities that threatened to spill out. Losing my shit wouldn't change a damn thing, no matter how good it might feel in the moment. I was still fucked six ways from Sunday.

I stood up stiffly, trying not to wince as my knee protested the sudden movement. The doc made a move like he wanted to help me, but I waved him off. I didn't need his pity. I'd drag my crippled ass out of there under my own power, thank you very much.

I grabbed my cane and hauled myself to my feet, feeling twice my age. I caught my reflection staring back at me in the window—dark circles under harder dark eyes, three days of stubble, and the kind of muscle that came from fieldwork, not a gym. At least that hadn't changed yet. The badge in my pocket felt heavier than ever, and for a second, I was glad I couldn't see it.

I limped out of the clinic and made it to my car, collapsing into the driver's seat with more force than necessary. Over two decades of putting my life on the line, taking bullets and beatings. Hell, even a machete to the arm once—and this was how it ended. At forty-two, all I had to look forward to was a retirement cake and a desk job pushing papers until the Bureau finally put me out to pasture.

Through the windshield, heat waves distorted the world like a fun-house mirror. How many times had I watched monsters walk free on technicalities? How many victims' families had I faced with nothing but "the law" as an excuse for our failure?

The sound of knuckles rapping against the driver's side window shattered my spiraling thoughts, sharp as gunfire in the stifling quiet. I watched the approach in my side mirror, cataloging details out of habit. Controlled movements, perfect posture, deliberate eye contact. He was a predator wrapped in Italian wool. Three months ago, I'd had protocol and procedure to hide behind when we'd crossed paths. Now all I had was the growing certainty that he moved like every subject I'd ever profiled, and the more uncomfortable realization that I understood exactly why he did what he did.

Algerone Caisse-étremont. Fucking great. Just what I needed right now.

He stood there in his designer suit, not a dark hair out of place, looking for all the world like he was posing for a goddamn GQ spread instead of slumming it in a clinic parking lot. His expression was as calm and unruffled as ever, but there was a sharpness in his green eyes that set my teeth on edge. Like he'd been waiting for this moment, watching and biding his time until I was at my lowest point.

I hesitated for a beat. Every instinct screamed at me to tell him to fuck off and peel out of there, putting as much distance between us as possible. Especially since the last time I'd seen him, I'd been holding a gun to his head in his private prison, demanding he release the Laskin family.

My first real taste of choosing justice over law was the moment I'd decided a family of vigilante killers deserved freedom more than the "legitimate businessman" who'd kidnapped his own sons like they were corporate assets to be reclaimed. The whole mess with Shepherd Laskin had shown me just how far Algerone would go to control everything and everyone around him. Sure, giving the Laskins that contract had worked out. The Laskins might've been killers, but at least they only hunted monsters.

Still, I'd learned everything I needed to know about Algerone when he'd treated his own flesh and blood like property. Those boys—Xander, Xavier, and Xion—they weren't just his legacy to secure. They were people. Something a psychopath like Algerone would never understand. Not that holding a gun to his head had fazed him. I was pretty sure the bastard couldn't bleed even if I had pulled the trigger.

But beneath the knee-jerk wariness, a small, traitorous part of me was curious. The asshole had to have a reason for seeking me out like this, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't intrigued.

Against my better judgment, I hit the button to roll down the window. "The hell do you want, Caisse-étremont? In case you didn't notice, I'm not exactly in the mood for company right now."

The corner of his mouth twitched in a ghost of a smile. "I take it the prognosis was not favorable?"

I clenched my jaw, biting back the urge to tell him exactly where he could stick his polite inquiry. "You could say that. Apparently, my days of chasing down scumbags are over. Guess I'll have to find a new hobby. I hear knitting is real popular with the geriatric crowd these days."

Algerone made a considering noise, studying me with those unnerving green eyes. Everything about him screamed danger from the way he held himself, the calculated warmth in his voice, the predatory focus of his attention. "A shame, truly. You were one of the Bureau's finest. It will be their loss."

I barked out a harsh laugh. "Spare me the condolences. You don't give a shit about the FBI unless someone pays you to, and you sure as hell don't give a fuck about me."

Algerone's expression remained maddeningly calm in the face of my hostility. He loomed over the car door like a shadow, all crisp lines and cold authority. Behind him, heat waves rippled off the asphalt, making the world beyond him waver like a mirage. Everything about his stance screamed dominance play, the kind of power move I'd seen from a thousand suspects who thought they held all the cards. The difference was, with Algerone, it wasn't just an act.

"On the contrary, Agent Valentine. I have a great deal of respect for your skills and experience. Which is precisely why I'm here."

Something flickered in those cold green eyes, the same eyes his sons had inherited. But where Algerone's held nothing but calculation, I remembered the heat in Xander's gaze during that briefing room meeting. The way he'd sat there and called me 'daddy' with a smirk that had no business being that distracting. Hard to believe this stone-cold bastard had produced those three boys, let alone tried to steal them back from the Laskins like they were corporate assets instead of people.

I narrowed my eyes, suspicion coiling in my gut. "What's that supposed to mean? You got another 'legitimate' contract like the Laskin job? Because we both know how that turned out. Or maybe you've got more family members to kidnap?"

"Ancient history." Algerone waved off the accusation with the same dismissive ease he'd shown when I'd confronted him about locking up his own sons. "And as I recall, that situation resolved itself quite... efficiently. The Laskins proved quite capable at hunting down Kevin Calcin."

"Yeah, they did. Funny how treating people like people instead of property tends to work out better." I couldn't help the dig, remembering how differently the Laskins had handled Xander and his brothers. Like family, not assets to be controlled. The way Xander's eyes had lit up when roles were assigned during that briefing, before he'd turned that wicked grin on me...

"I have an offer for you, Valentine." Algerone's voice cut through my thoughts with surgical precision. There was an undercurrent beneath his polished veneer that set my nerves on edge. The kind of tone I'd heard from too many suspects right before they showed their true colors.

I scoffed. "An offer. Right. Because you're just the type to do someone a favor out of the goodness of your heart." I shook my head, reaching for the ignition. "Thanks, but no thanks. I've seen how your 'offers' work out for people. Just ask your sons."

Algerone's hand shot out, lightning quick, and caught my wrist with an iron grip before I could push the button. "I assure you, Agent Valentine, my offer is quite legitimate. And I think you'll want to hear me out before you dismiss it outright."

I glared at him, every muscle in my body tense and ready for a fight. The last time we'd been this close, there had been a gun between us and justified cause. "You've got about thirty seconds to explain what the fuck you're talking about before I introduce your face to my fist. Just because your son thinks I'm daddy material doesn't mean I won't knock you on your ass."

Something dark flickered across Algerone's face at the mention of Xander. Possessive. Controlling. The same look he'd worn when he'd discovered his sons had built lives without him. "Lucky Losers Inc. is launching a new program," he said, voice clipped. "Our goal is to bring in talented people like yourself to train potential recruits one-on-one to carry out international covert operations."

"You want me to train your incoming assassins?" The irony wasn't lost on me. Here I was, about to lose my badge, being offered a job by the same man I'd nearly arrested twice. The same man whose son had...

"I want you to be a handler," he said flatly. "You've got a gift for seeing potential in people, Valentine. The kind of insight that can't be taught. We need someone who can identify and shape raw talent." His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "The pay is good, and you'll have the opportunity to keep working without all the red tape of the Bureau and a nearly unlimited budget."

The offer dangled in front of me like bait in a trap. I knew Algerone was manipulating me—hell, I'd made a career out of recognizing manipulation. But knowing the trap was there didn't make it any less tempting. Not when the alternative was watching the world burn from behind a desk.

"Sounds like vigilante bullshit to me," I said, but the words lacked their earlier bite. "I spent over two decades upholding the law, not finding ways around it. Just because I'm out of the game doesn't mean I'm gonna throw my principles out the window and start running with mercs."

"You misunderstand me, Agent Valentine." Algerone's tone held that same patronizing patience he'd used when explaining why kidnapping his own sons had been for 'their own good.' "We are not mere mercenaries. We operate within the bounds of the law... for the most part. Our clients are strictly vetted—governments, major corporations, high-net-worth individuals with legitimate security concerns." He paused, green eyes boring into mine. "I assure you that what we do aligns well with your moral principles. As the Calcin contract proved."

I raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Forgive me if I have a hard time believing that, considering your reputation. You're not exactly known for coloring inside the lines." Or respecting basic human rights when it came to family.

Algerone's smile took on a sharp edge. "My reputation is carefully cultivated to serve my interests. But I assure you, I have lines I will not cross. Lines that align with your own moral compass."

I leaned back in my seat, considering his words. I couldn't deny that the idea of getting back in the game held a certain appeal, even if it meant working for this manipulative bastard. I'd dedicated my life to protecting the innocent and bringing criminals to justice. The thought of being sidelined, forced to watch from the bench while the world went to shit... it galled me.

And if taking this job meant crossing paths with Xander again... No. That was exactly the kind of thinking that would get me in trouble.

"But I wouldn't dream of pressuring you," Algerone said, pulling out a black card and offering it like a peace treaty. "I do hope you'll at least consider my offer. When you're tired of playing desk jockey and filling out paperwork, give me a call."

I stared at his outstretched hand, at the sleek black business card pinched between his manicured fingers. A part of me wanted to tell him to shove it up his ass, that I wasn't some washed-up ex-fed he could manipulate into doing his dirty work. But another part of me, the part that had spent twenty years watching criminals slip through legal loopholes while good people died, was intrigued despite my better judgment. Maybe there was more than one way to serve justice. Maybe I'd been playing by the wrong rules all along.

"I'll think about it," I said gruffly and snatched up the card. "No promises."

Algerone inclined his head, that faint smile still playing about his lips. "Of course. Take all the time you need." He straightened up, adjusting his cufflinks with the same precise control he applied to everything in his life. "But I would advise against waiting too long. A man with your talents won't be content warming a desk for long. Sooner or later, you'll be itching to get back in the game. And when that itch gets too strong to ignore, bring that card to Echelon downtown."

"The restaurant?" Images of Xander in that briefing room flashed through my mind. The way he'd prowled like his father, but with heat instead of ice. The way he'd...

"You know the place." Algerone's voice cut through my thoughts. "I'll be seeing you soon, Agent Valentine."

With that, he turned and strolled away, his expensive shoes barely making a sound on the cracking asphalt. Through my windshield, I watched his figure shimmer in the heat haze like some kind of mirage, disappearing between the cars. A hot wind gusted across the lot, sending a crushed paper cup skittering across the concrete. The clinic's shadow had crept closer while we talked, the afternoon sun sliding west, but the heat hadn't let up an inch.

I stared down at the sleek black card resting in my palm. It wasn't a business card, per se. It was the size of a playing card on heavier cardstock, black on both sides except for the ace of spades embossed in gold on one side. Just like the ones I'd seen in that briefing room, spread across the table while Xander's eyes had burned into mine.

Algerone Caisse-Etremont was no better than half the criminals I'd spent my career hunting, except he wore a thousand-dollar suit and could talk his way into anyone's good graces. A psychopath who treated his own children like assets to be acquired.

I could toss the card out the window, pretend this conversation never happened. Go home, pour a drink, and start figuring out what the hell to do with the rest of my life. But that thought alone was enough to make my knee throb, a sharp reminder that I was stuck with no way forward. A washed-up agent with more scars than years left, watching the world move on without me.

No.

As much as I wanted to hate the guy, Algerone wasn't wrong. Sooner or later, I'd reach a breaking point. That itch to be back in the thick of it—to feel the adrenaline pumping, to have a purpose again—would eat away at me until there was nothing left. And when that time came, would I really be willing to spend my life filling out forms and waiting for the clock to run down?

I tucked the card into my pocket and stared out the windshield, my thoughts racing. Taking Algerone's offer meant crossing a line I'd sworn never to cross. Meant becoming the kind of person I'd spent my career hunting down. What would be left of me if I took that step? Would I even recognize myself in the mirror?

Then again, who the hell was I now, anyway? A desk jockey with a cane and a drawer full of pain meds. Maybe my moral high ground wasn't worth much these days.

And if the job meant seeing Xander again... well, that was a complication I'd deal with when I had to.

Starting the engine, I cast one last glance at the clinic in my rearview mirror, then hit the gas, leaving the parking lot behind. The card burned in my pocket like a hot shell casing. I wouldn't call him. Not today. But late at night, when the pain kept me awake and the walls of my bedroom closed in... well, that was a different story.

After all, a man could only watch the world burn for so long before he either had to walk away—or pick up a match of his own.