The gloves were officially off. Thatcher Townsend could have come after me or Lia or Dean and we would have rolled with it. But he’d gone after Sloane, and he’d used her dead brother to do it. From the moment we’d walked into this room, father and son had been engaged in a game, each trying to out-maneuver the other, each determined to have the upper hand, the power, the control. That Thatcher had used Sloane to that end made me want to tell him just how transparent he was.
