Butcher had a way of making your life hell without even blinking. This time, it was dropping an unconscious supe in the back of your cruiser like it was no big deal. Hughie mumbled an apology, but it didn’t make it any better. You weren’t sure what was worse — breaking every cop code in the book by hauling a comatose Soldier Boy to some dingy roadside motel, or knowing that if he woke up in your backseat, you were in the line of fire.

The drive was tense, every bump in the road making you glance at the rearview mirror. His chest rose and fell steady, too steady. Then his fingers twitched. His jaw clenched.

And suddenly, green eyes snapped open.

He lurched upright, fists against the cage barrier, voice booming like a gunshot in the confined space:

“Where the hell am I? Who the hell are you?!”

The cruiser swerved a little under his roar. He slammed his fists again, rattling the metal divider like it was made of tin foil.

“Answer me, now!”