FINAL JUSTICE

A MYSTERY AND SUSPENSE STAND-ALONE CRIME THRILLER

THE NO JUSTICE SERIES

BOOK 6

JK ELLEM

Copyright ©

28th Street Multimedia Group & JK Ellem

Final Justice is work of fiction. All incidents, dialogue and all characters are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the written permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property.No parts of these books may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

© Copyrighted Material 2024

www.jkellem.com

All rights reserved

Recap

When we last saw Ben Shaw, he was hitchhiking on the side of the road outside the town of Bright Water, having just left Samantha Rubino and her dog, Ghost. A mysterious truck driver named Sam offers him a ride south.

To ease the long trip, Sam gives Ben a drink, and he soon drifts off to sleep. The story continues…

FINAL JUSTICE

1

HOLE

The world was tilted off center, but Ben Shaw hadn’t slipped off the edge.

The ground beneath him was solid, and he could smell the dusty earth. He went to move his hands, but thin, sharp bindings held them in place—the same with his feet.

He blinked; his mind was foggy. Where was he? He couldn’t remember much. A town? Yes, he had been in a town somewhere. There were mountains and a log cabin. There was a young woman and a dog. Ghost? Was that the dog’s name? Odd that he could remember the dog’s name but not the—Sam. Yes, that was her name. Sam Rubino. How could he forget the fiery redhead with the blue-gray eyes, a smattering of freckles, pale skin, and those translucent pink lips? Why did most of the women he had met over the years have blue-gray eyes or some variation?

Bright Water. That was the mountain town. He had been there for a time but then left. How? Hitchhiked maybe? Yes, he’d left on foot. In his vague, groggy memory, he saw himself walking along the shoulder of a road, hands in his leather jacket pockets, shoulders hunkered against the cold.

Then, a truck flew past, a funnel of icy grit in its wake.

Then another truck. It had slowed, and this time, the truck stopped. Or had it?

It was slowly coming back to him. An old man was sitting in the truck’s cab, fatherly like Willie Nelson. He offered Shaw a ride, so he climbed in. And why not? He needed a ride. The truck slowly trundled off, and the man behind the wheel handed Shaw something. A cell phone? Some food? No, it was something else. The memory was there, just below the surface, trapped between the memories of Sam’s sweet lips and playing fetch with an old tennis ball and Ghost down by the creek at the back of her cabin.

From the gaping hole of nothingness inside his head, Shaw tried to drag the memory of what the old man had handed him. It was all there, in a yawning black hole—something shiny and metallic. A flask. Yes, that was it—a drinking flask. Shaw had taken a swig and thought nothing of it. The liquid, a powerful spirit, tasted slightly metallic. He passed the flask back to the old man and, for the briefest of moments, wondered why he hadn’t also taken a sip—maybe because he was driving. Then why keep the flask handy? Just to offer to strangers?

A slither of dread rose inside Shaw. Just to offer to strangers. People he picked up on the side of the road.

Shaw struggled on the ground, his hands and feet wrapped tightly by snakes coiled around his ankles and wrists like ligatures.

His vision cleared some more, and he saw half a body that looked as if someone had cut it clean through at the waist. It reminded him of a World War II movie, the beach invasion of Normandy—German artillery pummeling the Allied forces. Body parts thrown skyward in vast clouds of sand.

He wrestled against the snakes curled around his wrists and ankles, but they were too tight.

He looked again at the man’s torso. It stood upright in the dirt a few feet away from him, its arms and head bobbing like one of those inflatable signs at a car dealership. If someone had cut him in half, why was he still moving?

Where were his legs? Were his legs amputated because of some horrific accident? His arms kept wobbling in the air, and then Shaw realized he was swinging something. The man was not dead, and he was not cut in half. The ground swallowed his lower half, making it seem like he was standing upright to his waist in quicksand.

Maybe he was fly-fishing in a river and up to his waist in water. No, that can’t be right. There was no water, no river.

Shaw blinked again, and this time, his vision and mind cleared fully in one blinding realization.

It all came back to him.

The man who had offered him a ride was old. Maybe in his mid-sixties, with gray hair fashioned into a ponytail and a matching beard. He had intelligent, bright eyes. He was heavyset, with powerful shoulders, thick, deeply tanned forearms, and large, rough hands gripping the truck's steering wheel.

“Where are you heading?”

“South,” Shaw replied.

The old man gave a nod to the passenger seat next to him. “Hop in, then.”

Shaw swung open the door and climbed in.

“What’s your name, traveler?”

Shaw settled into the truck seat and placed his backpack in the footwell between his legs. “Ben.”

The old man offered his hand to Shaw. “I’m Sam. Pleased to meet you, Ben.” 

Ben had smiled at the irony of it. He’d just said goodbye to one Sam, only to meet another. Samuel, he had guessed, not Samantha. It’s funny how the world works.

He had taken Sam’s hand and remembered it was huge, meaty, like a bear’s paw, the palm ribbed with old scars and callouses.

Sam reached down, pulled out a bottle, and held it toward Shaw. “Here, have a drink, Ben. I can’t because I’m driving. But you go right ahead.”

Ben looked at the bottle of bourbon in Sam’s outstretched hand.

So, it wasn’t a metal flask. It was a bottle of bourbon. Cunning bastard.

Sam gave the bottle a tempting wiggle. “It will make the journey a lot easier for you. Might even get some sleep.”

Shaw took the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and held it to his lips. “Cheers.”

Sam returned the toast with a salute of his hand. “Here’s to you, Ben, and wherever the open road takes you next.”

Shaw took a swig from the bottle.

Here’s to you, Ben, and wherever the open road takes you next.

Shaw was now fully conscious, aware of what had happened and where the open road had deposited him.

His hands and feet were bound with cable ties, his mouth sealed with duct tape. He was lying on his side in the dirt, staring at the same old man, Sam, who had given him a ride in his truck. Sam was standing waist-deep in a hole, swinging a pick. With steady, determined movements, he was hacking away at the ground, stopping now and then to swap out the pick for a shovel to scoop the loose dirt onto a mound near the hole's rim.

This is where the open road had finally taken Shaw.

To his own grave.

2

BURIED

Shaw rolled onto his other side and saw a young woman lying bound and gagged in the dirt, just like him.

Thick cable ties were around her ankles, and her wrists were bound in front. Her face looked red-raw and blistered as if scalding hot water had been poured on her. Her nose was horribly twisted, and one eye was purple and swollen fully shut. Dried blood was caked around the duct tape and chin.

And she was naked.

Her pale skin was a mosaic of burns, cuts, bruises, and… teeth marks.

Her one good eye—blotched in red from bursting blood vessels—pleaded with Shaw. Tears and dirt streaked her cheeks, and sweat and leaves matted her dark hair.

Moans came from behind the duct tape. Help me. You must help me—words spoken through her one swollen eye.

Shaw rolled back to see Sam had finished digging. He had climbed out of the hole in the ground, and without glancing at Shaw, he walked toward the woman, who began to shake frantically. Her moans turned into high-pitched squeals as he lifted her to a seated position. He hooked his hands under her armpits and started dragging her toward the hole.

The woman squirmed, her bound feet kicking out, and all Shaw could do was watch in horror.

Reaching the hole's edge, there was no pause, no last words. He tossed her in like the carcass of a dead animal he was burying.

A meaty thud, then a muffled cry of pain floated out from the hole.

Then, grabbing the shovel, he began tossing dirt back into the hole. The woman’s cries could be heard where Shaw lay. Each cry faded in intensity with each toss of dirt back into the hole.

Like a machine, Sam worked without pause, the blade of the shovel swallowing up the mound of dirt until it was gone. Tossing aside the shovel, he stamped on the slight mound, compacting the dirt so that the grave became finally invisible.

Satisfied, he grunted and wiped his forehead on the back of his hand. It was late afternoon; the sun was sinking toward the horizon. He took a moment, then turned and looked at Shaw with cold, pitiless eyes. Executioner’s eyes.

He shook his head. “It was a mistake, taking you,” he said. “I was impulsive—saw you on the side of the road and thought, why not?” He gave a labored exhale. “I don’t take men. Never have. I wouldn’t know what to do with them.” He smiled, and to Shaw, it seemed almost genuine. “Women are different….” He looked away at the sunset, his face deep with lines and crevices, half his face in shadow. “They give me enjoyment.” He turned back to Shaw. “But men,” he shrugged. “I find nothing in them. Hollow. Empty. Unchallenging.” He sighed. “I live only for women, and they only live so they can die for me.”

Shaw narrowed his eyes. Who the hell is this person, and how many women has he killed before?

Sam edged closer and seemed to weigh up what options he had. Then he spoke again. “It’s time.”

Shaw was heavier than the woman, which required Sam to get down on one knee to get closer.

And Shaw let him. When he reached for Shaw, unlike the woman, Shaw didn’t struggle or fight. He let his body go limp and waited until the man was as close as he was ever going to be.

Shaw pivoted his hips, swung his bound legs up and over, and brought his thighs down on either side of Sam’s neck, then twisted his hips hard and drove his knees downward.

Sam toppled sideways, and his body bent. His head crashed hard into the ground.

Shaw squeezed his thighs together with every ounce of strength. Sam’s arms and legs thrashed about, his face turning red, then purple. He growled and snarled, his mouth frothy, his fingers trying desperately to force their way between Shaw’s thighs and his own neck.

Shaw arched his back, willing his muscles to tighten even more.

Sam’s thrashing arms and legs faded until his body went limp.

Shaw knew better. He kept squeezing as he held Sam’s neck in a vise-like grip before finally releasing him.

He rolled to where Sam lay, scuttled around until his hands were up against his pants, then began rifling through his pockets. His fingers touched something thin in one pocket, and he clawed out a switchblade knife.

The blade snapped open with a metallic click. Shaw inverted the knife and began slicing through the cable tie around his wrists. Moments later, the blade cut through, and he was free. He cut through the ties around his ankles and tossed the knife aside.

He picked up the shovel and, standing over the unconscious man, he brought it high over his head. The wide blade glinted in the fading sunlight, and Shaw aimed it at the top of Sam’s skull.

He swung down—then stopped. His eyes shifted to the nearby patch of dirt trampled with footprints.

Save the woman.

Shaw ran to the grave and began digging.

3

DIGGING

Judging from the depth of the other grave dug for Shaw, the woman would be lying under four feet of dirt.

Shaw began digging frantically, hurling shovelfuls of dirt over his shoulder. His mind focused on only one thing.

Save the woman.

A crater, small at first but increasing in diameter and depth with every shovelful, grew around his feet as he dug. Grunting with each thrust of the shovel into the dirt, he visualized her squirming beneath, her mouth covered in duct tape, trying to breathe through her nose. But instead of inhaling air into her lungs, she was suffocating on dirt, sucking it up her nose, then into the back of her throat. She would be spluttering, choking, dying painfully in a dark burial pit.

Drowning in water was one thing, but drowning in soil and dirt was a horror beyond his imagination. He had once killed a man by drowning him in mud, forcing his head down into a thick slurry of it. But the man was a sadistic killer.

This woman—whoever she was—was innocent. She didn’t deserve to die, and certainly not like this.

He kept digging, his arms a blur, rage turning white hot inside his head.

The crater became a hole, and he shoveled faster, his feet sinking deeper as he went.

Three feet down, he stopped, tossed the shovel aside, and fell to his hands and knees. He began clawing at the dirt, his fingers grabbing and gouging like a backhoe, raking the dirt behind him. A starving-mad dog searching for a buried bone. He watched her roll in, guessed the position she would have landed, and his hands dug down to where her head should be.

Tears of gritty sweat ran down his face, now a mask of grime and dirt, his hair clogged with soil, but he didn’t care. He kept on digging, kept on gouging the earth.

How long had she been buried? A full minute? Five? He didn’t know.

Save the woman.

His fingertips touched something buried beneath what he could see. Something soft. Skin. He dug faster. The dirt came away to reveal the top of a shoulder, then a forearm. His hands began digging along the shoulder, making for the neck and head, wrenching away handfuls of dirt and exposing more.

The neck appeared, then the back of her head. Shaw went faster, ignoring the searing pain in his shoulders and arms.

More dirt came away, exposing her upper torso. The side of her jaw appeared, then a pale cheek, followed by one side of her face and a closed eye. She lay on her side and had burrowed her face down and away from the dirt as it was shoveled over her. Both bound hands covered her nose and mouth.

His fingers slid down and began clearing the dirt away from her face. Her chin was tucked into her chest, her face angled downward.

“Please, please,” he groaned. He dug around her face, freeing the soil from under her head, and tilted it upward, brushing more dirt away from her nose and mouth.

His fingers found the carotid artery on the side of her neck.

Nothing.

He dug a trench behind her, then twisted her upper half onto her back while, from the waist down, she was still under a blanket of dirt.

He ripped off the duct tape, tilted her chin downward, slid his fingers carefully into her mouth, and raked out the dirt that was in there.

Twisting her on her back again, he measured down from the soft hollow of her throat to her sternum, placed his stacked hands on her chest, and began compressions, counting to thirty as he did.

Pinching her nose, he tilted her head back, sealed his lips around hers, and blew two breaths into her.

The woman’s chest expanded.

He searched for any signs of breathing: a slight wheeze from her throat, an inhale through her nostrils, any sign that she was alive.

Nothing.

Another thirty chest compressions. Another two breaths.

Still no pulse.

“Come on!” he yelled, brushing more dirt away from her face. He opened her mouth wide and peered inside. Dirt coated her teeth, but there was no debris in her throat.

How long had it been? Too long.

Thirty more chest compressions, harder this time, not caring if he broke her ribs. Ribs would heal. Death was permanent.

Two more breaths, then a third in hope.

No pulse.

Her skin was cold to the touch, and her head lolled to one side as he let go of her and sat back on his haunches, his eyes still watching for any signs of life. But it was no good. She was gone.

Shadows crept across the grave as he watched her. The sun was going down; all the warmth was leaving the earth, and it was the end of the day. The cycle of life would repeat tomorrow. But not for her. There was only today for her—no more tomorrows.

He sat with her for a while, holding her hand in his. Ants crawled across his grimy arms, and a beetle scuttled across his thigh, but he didn’t seem to notice.

The shovel lay next to him. Shaw gently placed the woman’s hand across her chest and grabbed the shovel. He had a body to bury—not hers: the old man, Sam. Shaw was going to do to him what he had done to the woman, and he was going to take his time in doing it.

He clambered out of the grave and looked around.

Sam was gone.

4

THE CALL

He didn’t know how long he had been in the hole trying to save the woman.

Twenty minutes, maybe. Long enough for the man to have regained consciousness and flee.

Shaw threw the shovel down, did a three-sixty-degree turn, then squatted and studied the ground. The dirt was a churn of footprints, drag marks, and scuff lines.

The man would have carried them both individually to this location while they were bound and unconscious. That meant making two trips. There was a risk that one of them would wake up and try to escape while he went back to collect the other. They had both been drugged; that was obvious. But he had wanted them awake when he buried them. He was meticulous and organized and wouldn’t have planned to carry them too far or overdose them on the drug, which meant he parked his truck close by on a side road, with direct access off the highway.

Moving outward in slow circles, Shaw scoured the ground, then stopped. A clear set of separate footprints moved away from the location. They were deeper, farther apart than regular walking. The man had been running—away.

Breaking into a run, Shaw followed. Ten minutes later, the ground sloped upward, and he climbed to the top of the shoulder of the highway.

There was a dirt pullover lane with tracks made by various vehicles. Then he spotted the double tracks of a large truck, maybe an eighteen-wheeler, the truck type he was confident Sam was driving when he picked him up.

Shaw looked in each direction—a fifty-fifty chance of guessing the right direction, even though there was no hope of tracking him down. He could be twenty miles away by now.

Turning back, Shaw looked to where he had come from and could just make out the shovel he had thrust into the ground as a marker. From this spot, maybe no one would notice the shovel unless they were specifically scanning the landscape for it.

He needed to call the police—flag down a passing driver and use their phone. Leaving the poor woman there, half buried in the ground, wasn’t an option.

But who could he trust? If he called the cops, they would think it was him who had tortured and buried the woman alive.

His DNA was all over her. On her lips and skin, too.

The choices were limited. Maybe he could catch a ride to a gas station and call the police anonymously from a payphone.

He looked up and down the highway again.

Fifty-fifty. Which direction?

He headed west and began running along the shoulder of the highway.

He didn’t know how long he had been running when he spotted something in the distance. As he got closer, he realized it was a row of dilapidated buildings, boarded up with ply, sagging, and sorrowful. One looked like an old diner, another a fruit store. Next to them stood the sagging carcass of an abandoned gas station. An access road—now just broken blacktop, rock, and dirt—branched off the highway, snaked through rocky ground, then up a gentle rise, cutting a path through tall grass before opening up at the front of the buildings and gas station at the summit of the rise.

Reaching the top, he searched the gas station first, his heart sluggishly hopeful of what he might find.

Old gas pumps, solid and speckled with rust, stood out in the front under a simple tin sheet awning on a metal frame that extended from the roof of the gas station convenience store. The pumps had thick stout hoses and large black and white dials like the reels on a slot machine. Then he saw it. A phone booth sat out in front of the gas station next to a large red soda cooler that still had the bottle top opener screwed into the front.

The phone booth was the old kind with a bi-fold glass door. He stepped inside and held back the bifold door with his foot. He picked up the receiver and got a dial tone. At least no one had vandalized it, and it was working. The phone company hadn’t disconnected the phone either. Some clerk at AT&T probably lost the work order among a pile of paperwork years ago.

During the run, he decided who he would call if he found a phone. Someone that he trusted, even though he didn’t know her that well.

He dragged out his wallet. At least he still had that. Sam was going to bury him with his ID on him. The plan was to have his ID on him so they could identify him if they ever found him, which was unlikely. The backpack he’d been carrying was missing, though. Probably in the back of the truck, along with a few other keepsakes Sam had accumulated on his travels from his victims. He pulled out a tattered, worn business card. After all these years, he had kept it but never imagined he would ever need to use it—until now.

He fed coins into the slot, dialed the long-distance number, and waited. Shadows stretched across the highway and through the phone booth glass. He could see a cluster of rocks on a small rise, perhaps half a mile away.

The phone made a buzzing sound in his ear and then was answered.

“Special Agent Alex Durant, please,” Shaw said.

5

ALEX

Alex Durant was a Chemistry Ph.D. grad from Stanford that the Drug Enforcement Administration had recruited right out of university.

Her first job was to pose as a lab technician and infiltrate a national drug cartel. Once inside, she set about gathering critical data as evidence. This included the location of every hidden production lab, distribution channels, raw material suppliers, and transport routes right down to the network of street-level pushers. Her intel was so detailed and immense that it eventually brought down the entire operation.

For Alex, however, it wasn’t just a job or a ladder-climbing career move that she found herself working for the DEA right out of Stanford. It was personal, and the DEA recruiters knew it when they first approached her on campus, posing as two visiting academics, and told her more about her past than she had known herself.

Alex was just fourteen when her mother, Vera Durant, became an addict.

Until then, Bob and Vera Durant had the picture-perfect life—the American Dream complete with a large ranch home in a good neighborhood, two cars, and family vacations twice a year: skiing in Colorado in the winter, waterskiing in the Lake of the Ozarks in the summer.

It was just her older brother, Zac, and Alex. The family owned an auto dealership in town and made good money. Not overly rich, but middle-class comfortable. Alex wasn’t sure when her mother had first been introduced to cocaine. As the accountant of the family business, it was easy for Vera to steal the money to feed her growing habit.

Alex, Zac, and their father did not know until the bank foreclosed on everything one day, and they were thrown out of the family home. The Durants lost everything, including the auto business and the cars.

It really didn’t matter to Alex—the holidays, the nice home, the lifestyle. She wasn’t a materialistic person. What she eventually lost mattered the most—her mom to an overdose. Her father, unable to cope, then had a breakdown.

But drug addiction wasn’t done with the Durants. As with any insidious disease, it was highly contagious among family and friends. Zac was an A-student, had a bright future, and was going to college to study medicine. He had a GPA of 3.9 and got 525 on his MCAT. With scores like that, he had his pick of universities.

However, after Vera Durant overdosed and their father was admitted to a mental institution, Zac dropped out and started drinking and taking drugs. He went off the radar and vanished from the world as though a crack in the sidewalk had swallowed him up.

That was over five years ago, and Alex did not know where he was today or even if he was still alive.

Now, her life’s mission was to put behind bars the source of the destruction of her entire family, no matter who they were or where they hid. The DEA gave her the nails, and she was the hammer.

Knowing that somewhere, every day, another family, sister, brother, mother, or father was about to go through the same thing that Alex had gone through, got her out of bed each morning. It gave her purpose and filled her with the grit and determination needed to go into battle each day. 

She couldn’t save her own family but had found solace in saving the families of others by hunting down the perpetrators. It was her medication, taken in regular doses to ease the chronic condition life had instilled in her.

Deep within the DEA headquarters on Army Navy Drive in Arlington, Virginia, the phone on Alex Durant’s desk rang.

“I have a Chris Adams on the phone for you.” For a moment, the name meant nothing to Alex. Then, a slow, knowing smile spread across her face, and a warm, prickly sensation filled her stomach. My God, after all these years. It certainly wasn’t a call she ever expected to receive.

“Put him through.” There was a click. “So, you remembered,” she said. The warm, prickly sensation grew into a rush of blood to her cheeks as she thought about the impulsive kiss she had planted on him when she had said goodbye in that cornfield in the middle of the night in Utah.

She was more than capable of looking after herself and getting out of sticky situations. But whenever she thought about that night, when everything had gone to hell in a handbasket, she knew, without Ben by her side, she would have ended up dead among the corn. Not that she had admitted that to him back then. The kiss was her subtle admission and thanks.

“I’ve got your business card right here,” Shaw said.

“It’s been like, what? Over three years?” Alex said. She had slipped Shaw her business card and said, “Anytime you want me to ride shotgun for you, give me a call. Like Steve McQueen in The Magnificent Seven.”

Shaw had read the card and given her a skeptical look. “Didn’t most of them die in the movie?”

“Which movie?”

“There’s only been one true version of the movie,” he said, pocketing the card. “And I’ve got more hair than Yul Brynner.”

“Dying is an occupational hazard.” She patted the shotgun next to her. “And you can ride next to me anytime…?”

“It’s Ben.”

Alex nodded. “Good. Otherwise, I was going to start calling you Chris Adams.”

Alex came back to the present. “So why now?” she asked. “What have you been doing all these years?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“I bet you have. What can I do for you, Ben?”

She could hear him inhale like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. “I need your help,” he finally said. “I’m being⁠—”

The line suddenly went dead, but not before Alex heard shattering glass and then a gunshot.

6

RUN

Glass rained down on Shaw, and he dropped the phone.

He ducked, and the telephone receiver dangled from its cable.

The bullet had missed him, but he wasn’t going to hang around for a second one to come. Survival mode kicked in.

Crouching, he pushed open the bifold door and crawled out on his hands and knees, shards of glass slicing into his palms.

He knew the direction the bullet had come from, and he needed to take cover behind something more substantial than glass and aluminum.

A large steel soda drink cooler squatted next to the gas station door. It was a dull red from decades of harsh sun, solid pressed metal, with a tarnished zinc alloy bottle top opener screwed into the front, which had prized open thousands of bottle caps in its day.

Training had taught Shaw that, during a gunfight, he shouldn’t take shelter behind an open car door, unlike in the movies. Car doors were typically thin sheet metal and plastic and did little to stop a bullet. The best option was the engine block. The large soda cooler was about three times the size of an average engine block and just as solid.

He crawled to the cooler, then pivoted around and sat upright behind it, his back pressed against the cinderblock side of the store.

It had to be him, the old man, Sam. He hadn’t fled as Shaw had first thought. He had gone a short distance, then followed Shaw, and now had him pinned down with a hunting rifle.

From the top of the rise, hidden next to the soda cooler, he could see down to the road below. There was no traffic. Nothing had driven past since he had been up here searching.

On the other side of the cooler was the door to the store, faded green and made of flimsy wood. The glass had been kicked out long ago. On the other side of the door was a white wooden bench, the wood rotting and bowed. The cooler offered the only decent barricade. He would expose himself as an easy target if he moved from behind it and headed for the door to get inside.

The light was fading, and it would be dark soon. He could wait it out until then and try to slip away. Then again, Sam could have a night scope on his rifle and pick him off just as easily as he could during the daylight.

In the distance, the twin headlights of an approaching vehicle came into view. Shaw watched as the lights grew in size before a compact sedan appeared. It drove past and kept going, its taillights shrinking, then eventually vanishing.

During the next ten minutes, no other vehicles appeared from either direction. Then a dark pickup truck, a Ford Super Duty, an arm casually sticking out of the driver’s side window, slid into view. The throaty sound of the big V8 engine drifted up to where Shaw sat behind the cooler before the pickup drove past and continued into the dull light.

The last of the daylight was almost gone. The horizon to the west was just a glowing rind of burned orange. Stars were poking through the deep indigo sky.

After another ten minutes, he decided enough time had passed. Tentatively, he edged out from behind the cooler and paused.

Nothing. No shot.

He rose to a low crouch, his legs coiled like springs, a sprinter readying themselves on the starting blocks.

The road was quiet, and a cool breeze picked up.

He waited.

Then, in the distance, two pinpricks of light emerged. Another vehicle was approaching. Shaw tensed his legs, ready to burst forward. He judged the distance down the slope to the edge of the road would take him maybe twenty seconds at a run-for-your-life sprint. Thirty seconds at a fast run while trying not to break an ankle on the way down. And zero seconds if a bullet hit him in the head.

He glanced back past the dilapidated buildings toward where the shot had come from but couldn’t see anything.

The vehicle was getting closer. He had maybe another thirty seconds to decide before he would miss the opportunity to run down the slope in time to wave down the vehicle.

It was now or never.

Like a jack-in-the-box, he sprung up and began running. Ducking between the two gas pumps, he leaped over the edge of the concrete curb and then headed down the slope, his feet churning up dirt and stones, zig-zagging as best he could, expecting any moment a bullet would slam into the side of his head.

Glancing to his right, he could see the vehicle now. It was boxy, not a pickup, maybe an SUV. Shaw ran faster, throwing caution to the wind. He didn’t want the driver to see him hurtle down the slope out of the darkness like some kind of carjacker.

Reaching the bottom was almost an anti-climax. Not one shot. He took a moment to compose himself as though he had been standing on the side of the road for a while like an ordinary hitchhiker rather than some maniac being chased by the Devil.

He dusted the dirt from his shirt, rubbed the blood off his palms on the back of his jeans, and straightened his hair. He had to stop the driver and not let his appearance scare him off. Hopefully, they would be male, less suspicious, and less cautious than a female.

The twin headlights grew brighter and reached where he stood on the shoulder of the road, painting him in a yellow glow.

He raised one hand and waved.

7

LOCK AND LOAD

Alex pulled the phone from her ear and stared at it.

A gunshot, that’s what it sounded like. Glass breaking, then the crack of a single gunshot in the background. In that order, because the projectile would have been traveling faster than the sound wave behind it.

A shot from a distance. Not close up.

She gripped the phone tight and put it back to her ear, listening intently. There was nothing. The call had disconnected—just static now. She dialed through to the switchboard. “I need a trace on that last call,” she said before hanging up.

Thirty seconds later, her desk phone rang, and she snatched it up.

“It came from a payphone booth on a road in Maryland. Connected to a Texaco gas station that was closed down in 1987.”

Maryland? A closed-down gas station?

“About a mile and a half east of a town called Ravenwood.” The operator gave her the map coordinates.

Alex thanked the operator and hung up. What was he doing in Maryland? And Ravenwood? Why did that place sound so familiar?

Drawing her keyboard close, Alex began typing away, accessing law-enforcement databases.

A few moments later, she tilted back in her chair and stared at the computer screen, her mind ticking like a bomb about to detonate. Ravenwood, a small town in Maryland, maybe seventy miles northwest of Baltimore, was the home of the infamous Eden Killer, where he had lived before being caught a few months back. Scrolling through photos, the town looked so quaint, so innocent—picture postcard perfect. Then again, the worst villains hid in plain sight. She remembered Ben telling her that during their brief, and one and only, encounter.

She tapped the desk with a pencil. I need your help. His words, then a gunshot. It was definitely a gunshot. But he had said something else—hadn’t he? She replayed the brief conversation back in her head. I’m being… then nothing. The gunshot had happened. I’m being what? Shot at? Chased? Arrested? An ass?

Alex didn’t know, but she knew for certain that Ben was in trouble—which seemed odd in itself. Someone like Ben Shaw didn’t get into trouble. He caused trouble.

She called up maps and set Ravenwood as a destination. It was a ninety-minute car ride, eighty miles north of where she now sat. Maryland fell under the jurisdiction of the Washington D.C. Division of the DEA, which meant she wouldn’t be stepping on anyone’s toes if she ventured out there.

A thought struck her. Surely Ben wasn’t involved in an active DEA case? No, it had to be something else.

All that mattered was that he had called her, and she was going to find him no matter what danger he was in.

It had just gone past five, and it was getting dark outside when she knocked on the open door of her boss, Nancy Chase. “Hi, Nancy. Look, I need a couple of days off, no more.”

Nancy looked at her strangely. “I thought you had a pretty heavy caseload?” she asked. Nancy Chase was a no-nonsense, Wild Turkey drinking thirty-year veteran of various law enforcement agencies who had spent the last ten years in the DEA.

Tough as nails with a flock of agents under her control, she was also fair and a softy at heart. She knew what the job entailed: long hours, little public recognition or political praise, personal sacrifice, and the emotional and psychological damage it could inflict. As such, she wanted to ensure all her agents didn’t burn out.

“Nothing that can’t wait a couple of days,” Alex replied. “And this is a personal emergency. Something I need to take care of.”

Nancy gave Alex a stoic look, and then her tough exterior softened. “That’s fine, Alex. Two days only. That’s all I can spare right now. But I want the Jessup file finished and on my desk before you go.”

An El Paso man was being prosecuted for large-scale fentanyl distribution, money laundering, and firearms offenses.

“No problem. Thanks, Nancy.”

By the time Alex dropped the file into Nancy’s in-tray, almost everyone had gone home for the day, and it was dark outside.

Returning to her desk, Alex ripped off the page from her notepad where she had written the exact location of the abandoned gas station near the town of Ravenwood, grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair, then made her way down to the basement parking lot and signed out an unmarked Ford Explorer.

Next, she went to the armory. After ten minutes of filling out paperwork, Terrance Gil, the armorer and her friend, stared down at what he had laid out on the counter for her. Alex only had her standard-issue Glock 17 and two full ammo clips. Ben was in trouble, which could only mean one thing: whatever trouble it was, it was biblical.

Gil tapped each item on the counter with his pen and checked off from his clipboard. “Two boxes of 9mm 115 grain. One Remington 870 12-gauge shotgun. Two boxes of shotgun shells. One Rock River Arms LAR-15 semi-automatic carbine with two hundred rounds of 5.56×45mm ammunition.” He looked up at Alex. “You know that scene in Terminator where Arnold Schwarzenegger walks into the gun store and starts listing off what he wants?”

Alex nodded. “Like a kid in a candy store.”

“Well, Alex, I feel like that store owner behind the counter, but for all the wrong reasons.” With a dubious look, he held out the clipboard to Alex. “Sign here.”

“Well, I promise I won’t shoot you,” Alex said, signing on the dotted line. She gave Gil a shrug. “Hey, it could be a wild goose chase. But you can’t be too careful.”

Without another word, Gil loaded everything into a black, heavy-duty duffle, pushed it across the counter to her, and then looked up. “I pity the goose,” he said drily.

Alex hefted the bag onto her shoulder. “Thanks, Terry.”

He flicked her a salute.

She began walking away, then stopped. The temptation was too much. She turned back to Gil and dropped into a deep voice. “I’ll be⁠—”

“Don’t,” he warned her with a pointed finger.

Alex smiled and kept walking.

8

OFF ROAD

Slowly, the dark shape morphed into a boxy, bronze SUV.

More the soccer mom family chariot suited to carting around muddy, sweaty kids and tongue-wagging dogs than the pickup truck variety.

Stepping out from the shoulder, Shaw waved it down, unable to see clearly who was behind the wheel.

The side blinker flashed, and the SUV eased onto the shoulder, the passenger side door coming to a stop where Shaw stood. The window powered down, and a hint of floral perfume wafted out. A woman sat behind the wheel. She was young, in her late twenties, with short, dark hair and a friendly smile, dispelling all the preconceived notions he had about who would and wouldn’t stop for a hitchhiker. Maybe she was a cop or had a gun within reach and knew how to use it.

He glanced behind her to the back seat, which was empty, and there was no huge teeth-baring attack dog in the rear cargo section either.

Things were looking up.

“Hi,” he said. “My car broke down, and I’ve been wandering around lost. Can you give me a ride?”

“Oh, you poor thing,” the woman said. No hesitation, no judgmental look. He knew he was a little scruffy and grimy and probably smelled too, but this didn’t seem to deter her.

Shaw’s eyes dropped to the woman’s abdomen, to the bulge that sat above the waist strap of the seat belt. She was pregnant, not heavily, but more than enough to show.

“Hop in,” she said. “There’s a gas station a few miles away.”

Shaw glanced along the highway in each direction and saw nothing in the flat emptiness except the blacktop shrinking into the encroaching darkness.

“Thanks,” he said while looking away. To the west, the sky still burned like orange coals, the landscape slightly more lit beneath, clinging to the last rays of the sun. There were a few spindly trees and a scatter of bushes maybe half a mile away. Nothing more. His eyes began tracing back to the SUV where he was standing. “I really appreciate⁠—”

A glint, a flicker of transferred sunlight, pierced his iris for a split second, then was gone. His eyes cut back to where he had just been looking. Countless hours spent staring at crowds, searching rooftops and high-rise windows, had trained his brain to search for the same anomaly he had just witnessed.

There, almost hidden by the meager clump of trees and bushes, was a small rock formation.

Dread, like a blunt cutthroat razor, sliced into his stomach.

He began backing away from the side of the SUV, his eyes still fixed on the spot in the distance. “Lady, you keep driving.” There was nothing there, but there was, and he knew it.

“What? I thought you needed a ride?”

“I made a mistake,” Shaw said, knowing he was about to pay for a huge mistake. “I don’t need a ride.”

“What?” the woman asked, craning her neck and peering at him through the passenger side window. “You said your car had⁠—”

“Go!” he yelled, stepping forward, then pounding the SUV’s roof with his fist. “Get the hell out of here!”

He backed away again, his eyes swimming back to the trees and bushes.

The woman shook her head. “You’re crazy, you know.” She went to put the SUV into gear. “Well, Mister, whoever you are, you can damn well walk for all⁠—”

A small round hole punched through the windshield glass, and the woman jerked back in her seat.

A delayed crack of thunder rolled in across the landscape.

The woman looked down at her chest, her mouth gaping, confusion in her eyes. A small red patch appeared in the middle of her shirt, then quickly spread. Turning, she looked at Shaw, her mouth opening and closing, no words coming.

Shaw moved, ran low and fast around the rear of the SUV, then came up on the driver’s side door and wrenched it open. He undid the woman’s seatbelt, shoved her across onto the passenger seat, climbed in, pulled her down and toward him until she lay across his lap, and pressed his hand down on the spreading red patch on her chest.

Blood, warm and sticky, pooled between his fingers. The woman groaned. Slamming the door shut with his other hand, he shoved the SUV into reverse and hit the gas pedal. The side mirror exploded as the vehicle shot backward, gathering speed.

“Hang on,” he yelled. “Don’t die.”

Her head lolled in his lap, her eyes vacant, his hand almost lost within a puddle of blood.

Another bullet pierced the windshield and punched a fluffy hole into the passenger seat headrest.

Now!

Shaw slammed on the brakes and kicked the steering wheel hard. The SUV pivoted on its rear axis, the front wheels screeching as the front swung around until the vehicle had performed a perfect hundred-and-eighty-degree J-turn.

With inertia, he slammed the car into drive and hit the gas again. The wheels spun, caught, and the SUV sped away.

Seconds later, the rear windshield shattered, and something shot between the front headrests.

Shaw glanced in the rearview mirror seconds before it exploded off its windshield mount.

“Christ!” he snarled. Grim-faced and holding the steering wheel one-handed, he lifted his other hand from the woman’s chest to see a dark pool rising where his hand had just been. Almost half her shirt was now drenched.

He pressed hard against her chest again. “Come on!” he screamed. She was getting paler by the second, life bleeding out of her. “Hang on!”

The left rear tire blew out, and the SUV bucked sideways, the rear fishtailing across the yellow median line.

Shaw’s training kicked in, and he brought the vehicle under control and back onto the right side of the road. With its rear tire gone, the SUV sagged into the back corner of the rear axle, the steel rim grinding over the blacktop in a shower of sparks.

One tire shot out: no problem. He could handle that.

Another tire was shot out, the front right this time. The SUV slewed sideways, and the bare metal rim, with the tire shredded away, found a wide crack in the road and dug in.

The SUV seemed to nose-dive before the back axle jerked upward, and the vehicle flipped off the road and onto the shoulder before tumbling down an embankment, rolling several times, shedding pieces of metal, plastic, and glass as it went before finally coming to rest in a dusty, crumpled heap on its roof.

9

WRECKAGE

Curled inside a womb of twisted metal, shattered glass, and ruptured plastic, Shaw’s world had turned a reddish hue.

Everything ached, from his teeth to his toes. He rubbed the blood from his eyes.

The pungent stink of gasoline cut through the groggy haze in his mind like a potent hit of smelling salts. He shook his head and brought his eyes into focus. Everything was upside down and pulled inside out. He couldn’t move. A tangle of something was holding him, pinning him down. He twisted his body and felt a release of weight shift off him, and a marionette of twisted limbs streaked with blood jiggled into view like a dead spider held within its own web.

Above him, twisted through a loose seat belt, legs bent unnaturally, one arm hanging down, a hand pointing at him accusingly, the woman teetered.

Wide-eyed, and her face a broken mask of red, he knew instantly there was nothing he could do for her.

Then, there was a splashing sound. Gasoline was dripping onto his arm, filling the cabin with heavy, toxic fumes. He was lying on the ceiling of the SUV.

The stench of gasoline grew stronger, and the dripping became a noxious drizzle onto the cuff of his leather jacket.

There was a sizzling noise followed by a distinct snapping and crackling, then an acrid smell. Something was burning, and a more corrosive stench filled the space.

Shaw twisted himself onto his stomach and clawed toward the driver’s side window, the door frame crushed to a narrow opening, the glass gone.

More gasoline fell on his back, shoulders, and exposed forearm. He pulled himself faster just as a wave of heat spread overhead, and a rippling carpet of flame tore across the fabric roof liner. Long tongues of flame dripped down and licked at his jacket and forearm, igniting them.

Screaming, he hauled himself through the crushed window frame and outside.

Now, there was a new, more intimate smell. Skin bubbling, then melting, fat and flesh cooking like roasting meat. Fangs of raw pain chewed into his wrist and forearm, and he rolled in the dirt, trying desperately to douse the flames that were consuming his forearm like a fiery, demonic beast feasting on his flesh.

Finally, the flames extinguished, leaving behind a patch of blistered and raw skin where the leather jacket sleeve had ridden up. He shivered and forced himself to stop. The cuff of the jacket was only slightly singed. He needed to get far away. He crawled along the ground, expecting a hail of bullets to slam into him. But they didn’t.

Reaching a small boulder, he dragged himself upright, sat with his back against the warm rock, and held his arm. The pain felt horrendous, as if a giant blunt potato peeler had sliced away all the layers of his skin.

And the smell.

Glancing up, he saw the woman, half in, half out of the wreckage, her head tilted at an acute angle, dead eyes staring directly at him. He must have dragged her body partially out of the vehicle when he crawled out.

The woman suddenly disappeared in a fiery ball of red and yellow that engulfed the entire vehicle.

A wave of heat smacked Shaw, but he just sat there, looking on as thick, black smoke billowed up into the sky, blotting out the stars.

After the wreckage burned down to a smoldering carcass of charred, twisted metal, Shaw struggled to his feet, nursing his arm, his mind still trying to process what had happened.

In the distance, a low ridge of mountains cut across the horizon, and there were no apparent structures. He couldn’t go back to the highway. That wasn’t an option. He had to get away from people because Sam would pick off anyone who came into contact with Shaw as he had done with the woman.

He could easily have hit Shaw and killed him while he was standing next to the SUV talking to the woman. He could have shot him while he drove frantically in reverse or when he turned the SUV around. Instead, he had taken out one tire, then a second.

Why? The answer was simple, evil, and cruel. He was taunting Shaw. It was a game for him.

But why? Who was he? Shaw didn’t have the answers, but as he hobbled off into the darkness, away from the cremated remains of mother and baby, he vowed he was going to find Sam and kill him.

10

SNIP SNIP

Alex unlocked the front door to her small but comfortable apartment, a one-bed, one-bath seven hundred and fifty square foot place on Columbia Pike, a three-minute drive from her office.

She just wanted to grab a few things, throw them in an overnight bag, and take off. It was already getting late, and she didn’t fancy pulling up to an old gas station in the middle of the night to search the place. Maybe it would be better to get a good night’s sleep, get up early, and hit the road then.

She entered the small hallway—and stopped dead. Something was wrong. She could sense it in the air. It smelled different and had an unwelcome texture, as though a deep sense of foreboding had contaminated it.

She gently closed the door behind her. After sliding her gun out, she began edging her way down the narrow passageway. The living room opened up, and she took aim at the man standing there, overlaying the front sight of her gun on the back of his head. “What the hell are you doing here?”

The man turned, holding a banker’s box. He looked at Alex, amused that she was pointing her gun at his head. He raised one eyebrow. “Well, hello to you too.” He placed the box down. “Let’s not add shooting an unarmed person to stealing, shall we?”

Alex slid her gun back into its holster, feeling a simmering of anger building inside her. “Stealing? What the hell are you talking about?” She was infuriated that he was inside her apartment, her home, her personal space.

Nick Bowen, thirty, a lawyer with a lobbying firm in D.C., nudged the box with his toe and threw her one of his famous smug smiles Alex had detested so much during the six months they had dated. She knew it was a mistake to date a lawyer. Nick was a smart-ass who thought he knew everything. However, her biggest mistake was allowing him to move in only a month after they had first met at Anteros, Pentagon City’s latest trendy cocktail bar.

“Stealing the rest of my stuff,” Nick said. “These are legally my possessions.”

“The last of them. And if you remember, I said I would courier them to your office.”

“That was a week ago.”

“I’ve been busy.” She looked around the apartment. God knows what else he had rifled through.

“How did you get in here?” she demanded. “I have your key, remember?”

“Your building super was kind enough to let me in. I live here, remember?”

“Used to live here.” Alex didn’t need this right now. She needed to pack and get going.

Nick nodded his head slowly. “Oh… that’s right. I did live here until you threw me out.”

“Give me a break,” Alex murmured. “You threw yourself out.”

“What was that?” Nick said, stepping forward, ready to pick a fight.

Alex folded her arms. “How’s Alicia, by the way? You know, the eighteen-year-old summer intern at your firm who I caught you fucking right here in my apartment when I came home early that day.”

Nick began grinding his teeth. His face turned slowly red. His eyes narrowed at Alex, and she could sense an eruption bubbling up inside him.

“I trusted you, Nick, and how did you reward that trust?”

He grunted, pacing back and forth in the living room, a parading peacock. He swiveled his head toward her, his face like granite. “I told you. She forced herself onto⁠—”

“You lied to me. That’s how you rewarded the trust I placed in you. You lied right to my face when I asked you if you were sleeping with her.” Alex had gone to a social function at Nick’s firm and was immediately suspicious of the young intern who fawned all over him the entire evening like some love-sick puppy.

Nick looked away, and she knew it was only because he was trying to keep his cool and not explode at her. She forced herself onto me. What a crock. Nick always had a way of turning everything around when he was in trouble, making out that he was the victim, not the perpetrator.

He turned back. “Where are my neckties? I couldn’t find them.”

Alex smiled, then made a scissor motion with two fingers. Nick had a penchant for luxury Italian suits and neckties.

He looked down at the banker’s box, then glared back up at her, the muscles in his neck corded and bulging, fire-and-brimstone in his eyes. “You fucking bitch! They were Armani. Three hundred dollars each.”

“Well, don’t you look stupid. Three hundred dollars for a piece of fabric.”

Nick waggled his jaw side to side, disbelief in his eyes, as though he’d just been hit by an unsuspecting punch and was wondering whether he should retaliate.

The volcano finally exploded. “Enough!” he roared, raising his fist and stepping forward. “I’m going to⁠—”

Alex swiftly placed her hand on the butt of her gun but didn’t draw it. “You’re going to do what, Nick? Hit me? Kill me? What exactly?”

His eyes darted to the gun sitting snug in Alex’s holster, her hand gripped around the butt.

“You’re a lawyer, Nick,” Alex said, keeping her eyes on him. “Another step forward, and I will use lethal force.”

He seemed to hold his breath for a few seconds, his eyes bulging, his cheeks flared red. “But… but I’m⁠—”

“Doesn’t matter if you’re unarmed,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m in immediate mortal danger. You could easily kill me with your bare hands. Judge and jury—when they see you naked on a slab with a single, but fatal, bullet wound in your chest—will conclude you were much bigger and stronger than me. That my use of lethal force was justified.”

Nick’s eyes raged for a few seconds longer before he lowered his fist. A gush of air billowed out of his nostrils. “Bitch,” he whispered.

“Now, get the hell out of here.”

He took a few deep breaths, then held up a finger at her. “I’m warning you, Alex. Don’t mess with me. DEA or not.” Something resembling a putrefied corpse floated beneath the muddy surface of his brown eyes. “This isn’t over.” He gave a manic laugh as though privileged to something sick and twisted that she didn’t know about. “You better watch out.” He licked his lips. “When you least expect it….”

Keeping her hand on her gun, she stepped aside and gestured to the door. “Take your box of shit and get out of my place.” After berating the super for letting Nick in, she would get the locks changed. She didn’t trust that he hadn’t made a copy of the key before he had given it back to her.

He picked up the box and then pushed past her.

Removing her hand from her gun, she followed him out, contemplating whether to open the door for him, then thought otherwise.

He shifted the box awkwardly to one hand, almost dropping it, then opened the door. On the threshold, he turned back to her. “Fucking you was like fucking a mannequin,” he sneered. “With that creepy leg of yours.” He laughed again. “You know, I felt sorry for you. Thought I’d do my bit for the disabled in the community, given that you probably don’t get many offers for sex.”

Her jaw tightened, and she could feel a vein pulsating at the side of her temple.

When Nick was gone, Alex locked the door and went back into the living room, tears in her eyes. Her breaths suddenly became short and shallow, as though all the air had been sucked out of her lungs. She felt her chest constrict like she was having a seizure. She closed her eyes and swallowed, then forced herself to slow her breathing. After a few minutes, her galloping heart slowed down, and her breathing returned to normal.

She went to the bedroom, grabbed an overnight bag, and began packing it, unsure how long she would be away. There was already a large standard-issue medical kit in the Explorer. It contained everything a DEA agent could need in the field for treating gunshot wounds, deep lacerations, and even broken bones and severed limbs. Still, she packed her own portable pouch-style first aid kit as a precaution.

Twenty minutes later, she was done; the apartment was locked tight, and she headed down to the parking garage.

As she approached the Explorer and saw the front end slumped, her jaw tightened, and she began running. “No! No! No!”

“You low prick,” she whispered, reaching the SUV. Someone had slashed the front two tires. Alex looked around. “You bastard!” Dropping her overnight pack, she slipped out her cell phone and searched. It was late, but she hoped lady luck would deal her a break. The first two auto shops she called in Arlington were closed, and her call went straight to voicemail. The third just rang out. “Damn!” She dialed a twenty-four-hour mobile tire service, and someone picked up the call on the second ring.

“What size tires you got, luv?” the man said in a cockney British accent.

Alex read off the size from one of the rear tires.

“Sorry, luv. Ain’t got that size in my van. I can pick them up first thing from the distributor and bring them out to you, say around eight?”

Alex thanked him and gave him the address.

With no other choice, she trudged back to her apartment, went into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of Don Julio and a shot glass, poured herself a shot, and downed it. She took a deep breath. When it came to men, why did she always make such shitty choices? “That’s because you’re not as tough as you make out,” she said to the reflection in the oven door before toasting herself with another shot. “Sympathy sex?” she murmured, pouring another glass, then downing it. He’d overstepped the line when he said that. She deserved better, a lot better than Nick.

Taking the bottle and glass, she went back into the living room, poured herself another glass, slumped down on the sofa, and then spent the next hour contemplating her life.

That night, Alex slept with her gun on the nightstand next to her bed and dreamed of a horned demon wearing half an Armani silk tie breaking down her front door with an ax—and shooting it stone-cold dead.

11

SANCTUARY

Shaw stumbled on through the darkness, riddled not just with the pain of his throbbing arm but with the guilt of the young woman and her unborn child.

The smell of burning plastic, rubber, and human flesh had long been left behind, yet he couldn’t shake the image of the woman’s twisted, puppet-like body hanging inside the wreckage of the SUV. They would still be alive if he had not flagged her down on the highway. He may not have killed them, but he had their blood on his hands. It was a burden he would carry for the rest of his life, a burden that grew heavier with each step he took through the dark, empty landscape.

Cradling his arm, every stumble, every trip on a rock sent raw, fresh claws of pain deep into the bone of his ruined forearm. Watery blood wept from tender welts across the skin.

The pain was impossible to ignore, but he pushed it aside and stumbled on, his mind telling him he needed to keep going, to get away from civilization, from all people. It was the only way to keep others safe. The woman had mentioned a gas station farther along the highway, but there would be people there unnecessarily put in harm’s way.

He knew Sam was following him, even though, when he glanced occasionally behind him and saw nothing in the darkness, he knew he was there—a prowling beast lurking in the shadows. Shaw could feel him, could sense a tangible evilness pressing up against his back. He was following Shaw. Not quickly—more like how a hunter would follow an injured animal. Taking his time. Savoring everything the hunt could be, delaying the kill, the gratification for as long as possible.

With the moon's orb high in the night sky, reality dissolved into a surreal, translucent glow, and he had no clue about direction. In his head, he was trying to follow a straight line away from the wreckage.

He had caught his foot on small, sharp rocks or jammed it in a crevice a few times, sending shudders of pain up his arm. The only signs of life were the pinpricks of moving light in the velvety darkness above.

He paused for a moment, rested on a boulder, then checked behind him.

Nothing. No light, no sign of movement. But he was there, wrapped in the darkness, following a few yards behind.

He eased off the boulder and moved off again into the murkiness. Moments later, a faint glow appeared in the distance. How far, he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was an illusion conjured up by the waves of delirious pain that now swept his body. Puss was oozing, thick and yellow, from the broken skin of his arm, and despite the cold, he was sweating and swinging between bouts of stifling heat and teeth-chattering chills.

He rubbed his eyes and squinted off into the darkness ahead. The glow shimmered and moved. Then he realized he was swaying slightly. A gentle breeze buffeted his face, and he caught a scent of something that chilled him even more to the bone. Smoke. It was faint, but it was there. It reminded him of cooked flesh and what had happened. But this was wood smoke, not human flesh burning.

He shook uncontrollably, the infection gripping him harder.

He stumbled onward drunkenly toward the light, fearing that he might pass out at any moment, only to awaken in the daylight and discover that some nocturnal animal had gnawed off his arm during the night.

Thirst tormented him, and his skin, soaked in sweat, burned like a furnace.

The light bobbed and weaved in front of him, not because it was moving but because he was swaying more erratically.

The shimmering outline of a structure appeared. A homestead made of thick logs, with a tin roof and a stone chimney that ran up one side. Wooden steps led up to a small wraparound porch at the front, and the windows were lit by a cozy, warm glow. An old pickup truck sat under a sagging wooden carport.

He gave an unhinged laugh as he teetered in front of the obvious mirage.

Yeah, right. Out here, in the middle of nowhere. He was definitely hallucinating. What was going to happen next? Were Hansel and Gretel going to suddenly emerge and pull him inside for an impromptu threesome? Was the house made of gingerbread, and were they going to force-feed it to him?

No. None of it was real. He was going to die here, alone in the dark, in a wide-open expanse of nothingness. Maybe in the weeks to come or even months, some poor soul would find his bones bleached white by the sun and picked dry by critters.

Beads of sweat spun off the tips of his sodden hair as he vigorously shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the foolery. When he looked up, there were three cabins now, oscillating over each other.

A rectangle of light flashed out of the darkness between the two front windows—a doorway to the afterlife. Then, a dark shape seeped from within the rectangle of light and floated down the steps toward him.

His guide had arrived. An angel. Perhaps the Devil himself.

The smell of sweet roses and orange jasmine engulfed him. Yes, he was indeed dying, and his spiritual companion would guide him through the doorway and into the garden of Heaven and lay him down among the lush, fragrant flowers.

He sank to his knees and let the pain and delirium carry him away.

“You’re safe,” came a soft and reassuring woman’s voice. The floral bouquet of sweet roses and orange jasmine wrapped itself protectively around him. He leaned into the voice, expecting to fall. Instead, strong but gentle hands held him upright and kept him from falling into the swirling heat of the fever.

“I’ve got you. You’re safe. You don’t have to worry about anything anymore.”

He closed his eyes, and the world closed in over him.

12

LONG SHOT

By mid-morning, Alex was standing in front of the phone booth at the abandoned gas station. Her Ford Explorer, with two new front tires, waited next to the gasoline pumps as though ready to be filled.

The handset was dangling from its metal cable. The glass on one side was intact, and a ring of spidery cracks surrounded the single, neat bullet hole, piercing it. The opposite glass panel was gone, reduced to a sparkling carpet of shards on the ground. And there was blood—not much, just a few smudges. Ben had cut his hands crawling out and certainly hadn’t taken a bullet. If he had, there would have been a lot more blood.

Her hiking boots crunched in the glass as she stepped inside, then bent slightly down to peer through the hole.

It was like looking through a keyhole. She angled her head, her one eye searching the desolate landscape in the distance as she tried to guess the trajectory of the bullet to where it had originated.

Her swiveling eye returned to a slight rise, maybe half a mile away, where a plot of thin trees and scrub bush sat with a small cluster of boulders. She stepped out of the phone booth, walked to the edge of the concrete apron, and peered into the distance.

Ten minutes later, she was standing at the cluster of boulders, having driven the Explorer off-road and up the small rise. Footprints patterned the dirt at the base of the boulders. Size thirteen, maybe. Big feet, a big guy, aggressive tread. Perhaps ex-military or from an army surplus store. The shooter was a lone wolf, an outdoors person. At home in the wilderness. Likely a hunter. Elk or deer. They had no qualms about turning their weapon on another human being.

Alex looked back to where she had come from—to where the phone booth stood at the gas station. A clear line of sight. Half a mile, or around nine hundred yards. It's an easy shot for a high-powered rifle with a half-decent scope. The shooter had used the cover of the rocks, half leaning, half standing, resting his elbows on the top of the boulder as he held the rifle. Steady aim, taking his time. Fading light was no problem. The scope would have several night vision settings—a red dot optic, most likely.

Crouching, she searched the ground at the base of the boulders, looking for the spent shell casing, but found nothing. After searching the surrounding area for another ten minutes, Alex concluded there was no spent shell casing. It wasn’t meant to be found. The shooter was too clever, too careful. But that meant nothing. He could’ve easily kept the shell inside the rifle chamber, not ejected it unless he was using an AR. She doubted it was an AR. He would have recovered the shell from the dirt and pocketed it if it was. Or it could’ve been ejected and slipped into a crack between the boulders, vanishing forever. But she doubted that, too.

Her instincts were telling her the shooter had been using a bolt-action, high-powered hunting rifle renowned for accuracy and long-distance shooting. No hunter takes a shot without cycling a fresh round into the chamber by manipulating the rifle’s bolt. He ejected the shell and gathered it up for safekeeping.

One shot. That’s all he had taken because that’s all he needed to scare Ben. Not kill him or injure him. There was no significant blood inside the phone booth, and judging from the distance and the position where that shooter was, he could’ve easily taken Ben’s head off. But he didn’t. The hole in the glass wasn’t in the center. It was deliberately off to one side.

The wind picked up and ruffled her hair. Somewhere within the cluster of boulders, a hollow, ghostly moan drifted out, the wind swirling through the cracks and crevices.

He was hunting Ben, stalking him like it was a game.

Ben had obviously run—fled, but where did he run to? The location was desolate and flat, with nowhere to hide. And how had he arrived here? Perhaps Ben was driving a vehicle; maybe he wasn’t. She guessed that he wasn’t, that he was on foot. Maybe he flagged down a passing motorist and convinced them he needed a ride, but he wouldn’t panic them. Otherwise, they would take off, leaving him stranded again.

But in which direction? Alex had a fifty-fifty chance of getting it right. Human nature would be to run from danger, to flee, to put one’s own safety ahead of everyone else’s. It took a rare breed, other than those whose job was to serve and protect, to run toward danger, forsaking their own safety to save others.

Ben Shaw was one of those rare breeds. He was also part of an even smaller subset of people Alex Durant knew existed but had never met before—the avenger. Irrespective of whether he saved someone, he would seek those responsible and enact his own form of justice.

That was the paradox of Ben Shaw. He would be the first person to run toward danger, to save the lives of others, having no regard for his own. Then he would find a way, no matter how long it took, to inflict, not a proportionate response, but a hugely disproportionate response on the perps.

Alex climbed up onto the apex of the boulders and did a slow turn. In the distance, she could see a town. It must be Ravenwood. Maybe he made it there—hitched a ride or just hightailed it on foot. It wasn’t far. There was a possibility that the hunter had caught up with him after the phone booth and killed him. His body could be out there, rotting in the wilderness, being picked apart by predators and rodents. Only in the movies did carrion birds circle the warm thermals above something dead or soon-to-be. And yet she found herself drawn to the skies, looking for winged scavengers turning lazy circles in the pale blue.

Something else caught her eye: two dark shapes in the distance, farther along the highway. Maybe half a mile past the gas station. She hadn’t noticed the shapes before because the gas station buildings had been blocking the view of them when she was on the ground at the base of the boulders. Standing on the boulders now, she could just make out their shapes. They looked like two vehicles parked side by side on the shoulder.

13

ANNABEL

Just past the gas station, Alex parked on the shoulder and climbed out.

Walking to the yellow line, she then squatted down. She was right when she had seen it in the middle of the road; the side mirror of a vehicle in a plastic surround, the mounting arm cracked like it had been wrenched off. Standing, she walked farther along until she came to a set of dark rubber marks. They formed an arc, like the tight turn of a vehicle suddenly changing in the opposite direction it had been traveling in. An evasive maneuver that required a high level of driving skill. Something a Secret Service agent, especially one trained in protection work, could easily pull off.

Returning to her vehicle, Alex then drove slowly, continuing west toward Ravenwood and the two dark shapes she had seen. Through the bug-spattered windshield, the two dark shapes grew. The loose knot that had started in her gut when she first pulled up at the phone booth was now tightening into a hangman’s noose as her eyes slid away from the two police cruisers parked on the shoulder of the highway and down to a blackened ball of twisted metal that lay a hundred yards away from the base of the embankment.

Alex parked behind the two cruisers, their sides emblazoned with Ravenwood Police Department decals. Two police officers stood on top of the embankment, looking down toward what was obviously the wreckage of a car crash. Near the wreckage, a woman was standing next to an SUV.

One of the police officers turned to Alex as she climbed out of the Explorer, a scowl on his face. “Keep going, ma’am. There’s nothing to see here.” He began walking toward her, one hand resting on the butt of his handgun.

At first, Alex thought against it, then changed her mind. She slipped out her badge and held it up. “I was driving by, that’s all,” she said. “What have you got?” She wanted to push her luck and see if the local cops were friendly or not.

“What business has the DEA got here?” he asked, squinting at the badge, almost like he was deciding if it was real or fake.

“Nothing. Like I said, I was just driving by. Thought I’d stop as a professional courtesy. That’s all.”

The second police officer joined his partner and gave Alex a smirk, looking her up and down, his eyes lingering just a tad too long on her chest. “Is that so?” he said.

Being a DEA Special Agent meant she outranked them. She knew it, and so did they. Pocketing her badge, and without saying another word, she stepped past them and descended the slope down toward where the car wreck lay.

“Hey! You can’t go down there,” one officer called out after her.

Alex ignored him and kept working her way down the slope until she reached the bottom. There were three large indents that progressively got smaller in the dirt and led to where the wreckage was, a comet tail of glass, metal, and plastic in its wake.

The woman standing next to the SUV turned and looked at Alex as she approached. She was in her mid-forties, with pale skin, intense blue eyes, and honey-blonde, shoulder-length hair.

“Sorry,” Alex said. “I don’t mean to intrude. I was just driving by and thought I could help.”

The woman held Alex with a watchful gaze that was friendlier than the two patrol officers. “You DEA?”

The woman must have overheard Alex’s conversation with the two police officers. “Yeah. But this is your turf, not mine. Just curious, that’s all.” Alex didn’t want to get off on the wrong footing with her. She wanted to take a closer look at the car wreckage to see if Ben was involved somehow.

The woman nodded. “I’m Annabel,” she said. “Annabel Chandler. I’m a county forensics investigator.”

“From OCME in Baltimore?” Alex asked, referring to the Office of Chief Medical Examiner.

“Correct,” she replied, extending her hand with a smile.

Her handshake was firm but friendly. An unspoken code of understanding passed between the two of them.

“What have you got?” Alex said, looking at the charred wreck. The tires had completely burned away, and the vehicle was on its roof. Alex caught sight of a distinct dark shape inside the wreck. At first, she thought it was entwined lengths of metal, blackened and warped by the heat. Now, she knew it was a human body reduced to a dark husk of charred bone.

“Looks like a simple car crash,” Chandler replied, following Alex’s gaze. “One vehicle involved. One female occupant.”

Alex edged closer, her eyes transfixed by the body. “How can you tell?”

“The skull. The margins of the orbits are sharper, the shape is more rounded, and the socket is larger relative to the overall size of the face compared to males. In males, the margins are more rounded and the shape more square.”

“Wow, you really know your stuff.”

“I’ll need dental records to confirm it, though.” Chandler continued. “Looks like she wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, either. The front license plate is clear enough. We’ll trace it to the registered owner.”

“No foul play?” Alex asked, wondering if the driver had given him a ride.

“It’s too early to tell,” Chandler said, stepping up next to Alex. “Could be road rage. Like she was driven off the highway. I’ll leave it to the police to investigate that.”

“Do you know when it happened?” Alex asked, her eyes searching for another body inside the wreckage despite what Chandler had just said.

“Maybe twelve hours ago. It was called in by a truck driver early this morning. There’s still some heat in there. For whatever reason, she left the road and ended up down here. The fuel tank then erupted. Toxicology is going to be practically impossible to determine.” She gave Alex a questioning look. “Do you know the driver?”

“God, no. I was driving past when I saw the two police cruisers up there. Then I saw the wreckage. Do you know which direction she was traveling when she left the road?”

Chandler shrugged. “There are tire marks up on the shoulder, but I’m no crash investigation expert. But I’d say she was heading west. Toward town.”

So, she was driving toward Ravenwood. Alex wondered if they would find a bullet in the charred remains of the female driver during the autopsy. Maybe the game had continued after the phone booth. Maybe Ben had flagged the woman down, and in a cruel, taunting way, the shooter shot her, causing her to crash.

“Are you a local?” Alex asked. “Do you live in Ravenwood?”

Annabel nodded. “I’ve only been in Ravenwood for two weeks, so don’t ask me anything about the place or the local area. I don’t have a clue.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Oh, nothing,” Alex said. “I was just wondering if there’s a decent motel in town.”

“Well, like I said, I’m new,” Chandler replied, “but there’s the Ravenwood Inn in town.” She smirked. “Creative name.”

Alex smiled. “Practically a revelation.”

“You’re looking for someone, aren’t you?” Chandler asked.

The question took Alex by surprise. The woman was clever and observant. “What makes you think that?” Alex said, showing her best poker face.

“Just intuition.”

Alex stared off into the distance, past the wreckage. The terrain was flat, with no obvious landmarks or structures as far as she could tell. If the crash had involved Ben, he must have crawled out. Was he injured? He wouldn’t have bothered trying to flag down another unsuspecting driver. He would have fled again, but where?

Alex turned back to Annabel. “Thanks for the advice about the motel.”

“No problem.”

Alex turned and started trudging back up the slope to where her SUV was parked and the two sour-faced police officers were watching her.

Chandler called out after her. “I hope you find the person you’re looking for.”

14

KIND WOMAN

Shaw opened his eyes and found himself in a small room on a brass four-poster bed.

A dark antique dresser hunkered against one wall with a ceramic basin and water pitcher in matching floral design. Next to the basin and pitcher sat a small, yellowed glass vase filled with headless brittle stems and brown petals wreathed around the vase’s base. Maroon wallpaper with a swirling velvet pattern layered the walls, and heavy drapes hung partially open. A thin knife of sunlight sliced across a faded red rug, stopping a few inches from the foot of the bed.

Shaw tried to remember what had happened—the burning car wreck and trying to escape. Stumbling through the night, his arm feeling like it was on fire, darkness smothering him while the flames of pain continued to burn raw and bright across his skin.

There was something else. A sweet smell—his flesh melting, maybe.

A log cabin like something out of a nursery rhyme? No, a homestead made of thick logs oscillating in his watery and jittery vision. At first, he thought it was a mirage, his fevered mind playing tricks. Then, the dark fabric of night eased apart to reveal a passageway of light—the afterlife calling him—a shape floating toward him, a spiritual guide sent to show him the way.

The thickening scent of rose and jasmine, luscious and fragrant, pawing at his senses. Shaw, on his knees, praying for forgiveness, the pain in his heart too much. Mother and child dead. His fault.

“You’re safe.” A woman’s soft voice. Sweet roses and jasmine wrapping around him. Shaw leaning in, giving up… the road he traveled had finally run out. Life’s journey had come to an abrupt, fiery end of burning flesh, blackened bone, and ash.

Strong hands holding him, stroking his sweat-sodden hair. “Hush now. I’ve found you. You’re safe.”

Shaw blinked away the last tendrils of a restless, haunting sleep. His eyes found a small wooden chair against a wall, his boots placed neatly beneath, toes facing outward. He didn’t need to lift the bedcover to know he was completely naked beneath the sheet under him, warm and damp. The bedroom door was made from heavy wood, with an old brass faceplate and a big keyhole.

Footsteps approached, then the rattle of a key in the lock, and the door opened.

A woman stepped into the room, carefully balancing a tray. Tall, willowy, and in her late thirties by Shaw’s estimate, she was clad in a heavy wool dress. The sleeves ran all the way to her wrists, the skirt down to her stocking-covered shins and vintage lace-up shoes. A tight plait of blonde hair tied with a dark ribbon snaked over one shoulder and down the outer curve of a breast.

“Oh, you’re awake.”

She set the tray down on a small table with two chairs on the opposite wall, the cloying scent of rose and jasmine swirling in front of her as she approached. “My goodness,” the woman said, moving toward the drapes. She pulled them apart, and sunlight poured into the room. “That’s better.” She turned back to Shaw, shaking her head. “My, my. What a sight you were to behold, stumbling out of the darkness like that.” She patted her chest with one hand, her eyelids fluttering. “You gave me such a fright. I didn’t know what to think.” Her drab governess clothing added twenty years to her.

For the first time, Shaw noticed the bandage on his forearm. There was no pain, and the bandage was wrapped like a second skin.

The woman sat down on the edge of the bed, her thigh touching his hip. Blue eyes set among alabaster skin above high cheekbones regarded him.

“You have a terrible burn. I treated it last night and dressed it as best I could. Good thing I had some burn ointment. You’ve got an infection, too. I’ve given you some painkillers and antibiotics as well. Good thing I had some of them. You probably won’t remember any of that.”

“Thank you.” Shaw’s lips were dry and gummy. “I’m Ben, Ben Shaw.”

“Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Ben.” She leaned in as though there were others in the room eavesdropping on their conversation. “Even though it would’ve been nice to meet under better circumstances. I’m Audrey. Audrey Mason. Like I said, you came out of the darkness last night. I thought you were a ghost.” Her eyes did a sweep of Shaw’s body hidden under the covers, and delicate but firm fingers found Shaw’s knee and stayed there. “Sorry about your clothes. They were filthy, so I washed them except for your leather jacket. I just gave that a wipe-down. It’s hanging up in the laundry, and the rest of your clothes should be dry by this afternoon.”

“Thanks.” Shaw didn’t know what to make of this woman. She rambled on like she was having a conversation with herself.

“My brother Dean, you could have borrowed his clothes. But they would be too small for you.”

“Your brother?” Shaw said.

“Yes. It’s just the two of us. Both our parents died in a car crash when I was sixteen and Dean was eighteen.”

Shaw looked around the room again. The velvet fabric wallpaper, old dresser, brass bed, pitcher and washbasin. The clothes Audrey was wearing. Had he stumbled into the set of Little House on the Prairie?

“We inherited the place,” Audrey continued. “Been looking after each other ever since.”

“So, it’s just the two of you living here?” Shaw went to lift himself.

“That’s right. Here, let me help you up.” Audrey rose, bent down, and wrapped her arms around Shaw’s back, then slid him into a seated position effortlessly. She plumped the pillows behind him. “That’s better.”

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Just gone ten,” she replied, “you sleepyhead.”

The bedcovers had slid down to Shaw’s waist. Her eyes dropped to his naked torso. Her lips parted and gave a slight inhale. “My, aren’t you all skin and bone and… muscle.” She licked her bottom lip, a hungry yearning in her lingering gaze. She blinked out of her trance, grabbed the tray off the table, and set it on Shaw’s lap.

A bowl of hot soup sat on the tray, next to a spoon and a carefully folded, red cloth napkin edged with a tassel.

She sat down again and lifted the bowl and spoon, her cheeks pinkish. “We’ll soon get you on the mend.” She scooped up the soup and steered the spoon toward Shaw’s mouth. “Hot chicken soup. You missed breakfast, but this should keep you going until lunchtime.”

“I can do that,” Shaw said, holding up his hand, the smell of the soup making him ravenous.

“Don’t be silly. Let me help you.”

“But—”

The spoon slid into his open mouth, silencing any further protest. The soup slid down his throat. It was good, very good.

She ladled more soup into his mouth, and for a moment, Shaw felt like a baby being fed its dinner. But he was very grateful for the help this woman had provided. She had saved him. He had been delirious and could have staggered around in the darkness all night only to fall into a ravine or a hollow in the ground, never to be found.

She wiped his chin with a practiced hand between mouthfuls, seeming to enjoy mothering him. “You’ll be on the mend soon enough,” she said. “But it will take a while for the infection to go and the burn to heal.”

“Are you a nurse?”

“Gosh, no! Nothing like that. I am—was—an elementary school teacher.” She spooned him another mouthful. “Anyway, enough about me. Tell me what happened to you. How did you get burned like that? Were you in a house fire?”

Shaw wondered whether to tell her the full story. “There was a car crash near here. Just off the highway.”

“Gosh, a car crash.” Audrey’s eyes sprang wide with a delicious gleam. “Was anyone hurt?”

“The car caught fire. A woman. I tried to help her, but it was….”

She dropped the spoon in the bowl and brought a hand to her gaping mouth. “That’s… horrible.” The gleam was still in her eyes. “Were there any others killed or hurt?”

“No one else was involved.”

A shadow passed across her face, and she eyed him suspiciously. “So, where is your car?”

15

HE’S HOME

“I was hitchhiking on the side of the road, and she just veered off.”

Shaw felt bad, really bad for saying it, but what else could he say? He didn’t want to panic Audrey by revealing too much.

“I bet she was on her cell phone,” Audrey said, her mouth now twisted, “and she got distracted. I hate those things. So many people today spend their lives glued to them like they can’t live without them.”

“Did you hear about the crash? Was it on the news?” Shaw imagined that the police would have discovered the wreckage by now.

“My brother and I tend not to watch the news. It’s full of propaganda and misinformation. You don’t really know what the truth is anymore, and everything gets censored.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

Andrey licked her lips. “Well, at least you’re okay.” She edged closer to the bed. “What else can you tell me?”

“Well… I can’t really remember much. After I burned my arm, I got disoriented and began wandering around.” At least it was an excuse for why he hadn’t hung around for the police to arrive.

Audrey frowned. “You were drifting in and out of consciousness, you poor thing. The infection, I imagine.” She touched his forehead, her fingers cool. “It has given you a fever. I kept checking on you last night.” She removed her hand. “Your temperature seems to be coming down.” She placed the soup bowl back on the tray and took it to the table. “I know nothing about a car crash nearby.” She came back and sat again. “You said it was a woman in the crash?”

“She was in an SUV. She was… pregnant.”

“Oh, my gosh!” Audrey’s eyes swelled in their sockets, and her lips twitched. “And… the child? What happened to the baby?”

He shook his head.

Audrey seemed to switch off. She sat motionless on the edge of the bed, her eyes unfocused, her head slightly tilted, and her hands folded neatly in her lap. A strip of cinematic film suddenly stuck on a single frame.

“Audrey? Are you okay?”

The corners of her mouth twitched, she blinked, and the movie film spooled forward again. She looked at Shaw. “That’s awful.”

Shaw wiped his mouth with the napkin. There was something not right about this woman. “What about the police? Has anyone been by asking questions?”

Audrey shook her head. “I can’t remember the last time I had a visitor. We’re five miles from the highway where you said the crash happened.”

“I walked five miles to get here?”

“I guess so.” Audrey picked at a thread on her dress. “That’s if you walked in a straight line.” She glanced at the watch she wore on the inside of her wrist. “It’s ten in the morning now, and you turned up close to midnight last night.” Her hand found his knee again under the covers, except this time, she squeezed it. “If you want me to call the police, I can. I’m sure if there was a car crash, they would have discovered it by now.”

“No. There’s no need to call the police. I’m sure they’ve got everything under control.”

Audrey seemed pleased with his response.

She cocked her head and glanced at the door. “Oh, dear.”

“What’s wrong?” Shaw looked at the door but couldn’t hear anything.

“He’s home.” She turned back to Shaw, her eyes skittish. “Dean is, and I haven’t finished all my chores.” She swallowed hard, then rose off the bed, her hands fidgety. “He doesn’t like it when strangers come by.”

“Strangers?” Shaw glanced again at the door. “He doesn’t know I’m here?”

Audrey gave an awkward smile. “No. You see, he was asleep last night when I found you. He got up at the crack of dawn and left before I could tell him. He gets insanely jealous of anyone who shows the slightest interest in me.”

Interest in me? Shaw was confused. He had shown no interest in her.

Audrey held up a ringless finger and gave a nervous laugh. “So, I guess I’ll be a spinster all my life.”

She was afraid of her brother. Petrified, more like it. “Look, I can tell him if you like. Explain what⁠—”

“No!” Audrey said, panic flaring in her eyes. “Let me deal with him.” She grabbed the tray. “He’s going to be so mad.”

At the door, she glanced back at Shaw. “I’ll check in on you later. I promise.”

There was the rattle of the key in the lock after she closed the door behind her, then light footsteps fading away.

Shaw listened.

Muffled voices came from the other side of the door, but he couldn’t make out the words.

One voice was high-pitched, strained. The other, deeper, louder, harsher, punctured with snippets of cursing.

Then something shattered on the floor. The soup bowl, Shaw guessed. Next came a woman’s cry, followed by footsteps running away.

Ignoring the fact that he was naked, Shaw eased the bedcovers off and tip-toed to the door, then placed his ear against the cold wood.

Not a sound, but he could feel someone there, standing on the other side. Stepping back, he looked at the gap under the door.

A shadow passed beneath before heavy footsteps plodded away.

16

RAVENWOOD

Alex slowed the SUV as the town sign came into view: white lettering painted on raw wood, the wood splinted around the edges. Ravenwood.

A black, glossy raven sat perched on the sign, beady, meddling eyes watching her like a sentinel when she pulled over and powered down the window.

A dense forest of pine trees lined both sides of the road, with their dark trunks filled with shadows and their bases covered in a low carpet of mist where the sun and warmth of the day had not yet reached.

Then she spotted something. A sliver of color danced between the trunks; a glimpse of blonde hair and a cornflower blue dress caught Alex’s eye, and for a moment, she thought it was a young girl skipping among the trees. Then the girl was gone, dissolving like smoke.

Alex blinked hard. Maybe it was her imagination. She hit the accelerator, and a few minutes later, she was driving down the main street of Ravenwood. Cute stores lined both sides of the street, and practical establishments offered practical goods and services. Nothing touristy. A good mix of low-key eating establishments offering affordable comfort food to high-end restaurants with craft beers on tap. There was a sprinkle of cafes, a hardware store, a farm produce store, and various grocery stores with brightly colored fruit and green leafy vegetables piled high in wooden crates on the sidewalk. Flags hung proudly over doorways, and fairy lights draped around windows.

Alex pulled into a parking space outside the town hall and climbed out. When she wanted to orientate herself in an unfamiliar place, she found it best to ditch the transport and go on foot.

People acknowledged her as she walked. A friendly smile, a polite greeting, a welcoming nod, small-town politeness that felt genuine, as though she was one of the locals.

Yet, as she continued walking, an unsettling feeling grew in her. Something felt odd, not right about the place. It was as though a brackish undercurrent flowed between the façade of quaint stores, rustic cafés, and restaurants before spilling into the steel ribbed mouths of the gutters along the sidewalks.

After twenty minutes, Alex needed coffee. Past a closed bar called McGinty’s, she spotted a sign on a store across the street.

Ravenwood Books & Café. Thrilling books and sinister coffee!

That would do.

Inside, the store was warm and cozy, with polished wooden floors and exposed brickwork. Piano black floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the walls and held a variety of hardcovers and paperbacks.

A round table sat in the middle of the store with a miniature spiral staircase of books corkscrewing upward at its center. The book display was ringed with various gifts for the avid reader. Another table housed a display of e-readers perched on small plastic stands.

On the counter next to the cash register, a woman poked her head out from behind a gleaming stainless steel expresso machine, her face partially obscured by a fog of rising steam.

“Hi, there,” she said cheerfully.

“Hello,” Alex replied. “You serve coffee?”

“That’s what the sign says. Did you make a reservation?”

Alex looked around at the empty tables and chairs, then back at the woman.

The woman waved a dishcloth at Alex. “Just joshing with you. Tell me what you’d like, then grab a seat.” She came around the counter. She was petite, with dark hair fashioned in a short bob, dark brown eyes, pretty, mid-forties, and the physique of a twenty-year-old that left Alex instantly jealous. The woman had a nice, patient smile and bright, attentive eyes.

“Your coffee will not kill me?” Alex asked.

“I can make it do that if you want me to.” She thumbed behind her. “Got some rat poison under the counter. We aim to please.”

Alex did a double-take, unsure if the woman was still joking. “The sign outside says your coffee is sinister.”

The woman laughed. “It’s sinisterly good, that’s all. What’s your poison?”

“An Americano, thanks.”

“Coming right up.” The woman hovered for a moment. “I’m Jenny, by the way.”

“Alex.”

“You just passing through, Alex?”

“You could say that. Are you the owner?”

“Sure am. I’ve had the place for a few years.” Jenny gave Alex a curious look. “What brings you to Ravenwood?”

“I’m looking for someone. A friend of mine.”

“And they live here?”

“No, not really. But they may have been in town recently.” Alex took the gamble to see what this woman knew. “Nothing bad has happened here lately?”

Jenny frowned. “Just the Eden Killer a few months back. That came as a real shock to everyone.” She shook her head. “Who would have thought, a serial killer hiding right here in Ravenwood? Nothing that bad has ever happened around here before. It’s usually a peaceful town.”

“What about someone getting injured in the last twenty-four hours? Shot even.”

Jenny’s eyes went wide. “Shot? Around here?” She shook her head.

There was an uncomfortable moment before Jenny asked. “You think your friend was shot here?”

“I’m not sure,” Alex said. “They are missing, and they last called me from a phone booth a mile out of town.”

“You mean at that old Texaco out on the highway?”

“Yeah, they called me from there late yesterday.”

“Well, let me tell you,” Jenny said, placing a hand on her hip. “I know pretty much everything that goes on around here, and nothing like that has happened. No one has been shot.”

“Oh, well,” Alex said. “Maybe I got it wrong about my friend.” She hadn’t got it wrong. Ben may have stumbled into town seeking help or sanctuary after being shot a mile away from here.

“I’ll get you your coffee,” Jenny said, then headed back behind the counter.

“Thanks.”

Alex sat at a table by the front window. It had a clear view of the street and the sidewalk on both sides. The sound of the coffee maker hissing and spattering and beans grinding floated in the background.

“Where are you, Ben?” she said, looking out. “Where have you gone?”

Jenny came with Alex’s coffee and a huge muffin on a plate. “This is one of our infamous Dark and Sinister muffins.” Jenny placed both down on the table. “On the house.”

Glancing down, Alex noticed the bright, blood-red quilted sneakers Jenny was wearing. “Dark and sinister. Hence, the name of the bookstore?”

Jenny smirked. “It’s a theme I came up with. We only sell crime, mystery, suspense, and thriller books, so I thought I’d go with the same theme for the coffee and food.”

“The muffin won’t kill me, will it?”

Jenny gave a dismissive wave. “They’re just dark chocolate muffins with a raspberry sauce center, like dripping blood when you bite into it. I baked them myself this morning, and they’re damn good if I do say so!”

Alex liked Jenny’s sense of humor. “In that case, thanks.”

“Enjoy.” Jenny moved to a nearby bookcase and began filling it with paperbacks from an open cardboard box.

Alex took a sip of her coffee, then took a bite of the muffin. “The muffin tastes great. And it’s the best coffee I’ve had in ages.”

Jenny beamed at her. “I knew you’d like it,” she said, pulling books out of the box and slotting them neatly into the bookcase.

17

MUCH WORSE

The leg rested against the bed, but it wasn’t flesh and bone.

Sleek and futuristic, it had tiny built-in hydraulics where normal knee and ankle joints and cartilage would have been.

Courtesy of an IED in Helmand Province, Afghanistan, Alex had lost her lower leg from the right knee down. She had done two six-month tours as a female engagement team member after taking a leave of absence from the DEA. It was something she had always wanted to do: to serve her country.

FET members, who were highly trained, served side by side with the Marines, going on patrol, gathering intelligence, and playing a vital role as an interface with female elements of foreign countries, crossing cultural divides that males couldn’t.

Her leg was the latest in innovative mobility technology. She could run, swim, lift weights, ski, anything. Not quite the Bionic Woman, but damn near close enough, she had told Ben. He couldn’t believe how she had kept up with him as they ran through the cornfield away from the bus crash that fateful night when fate, blood, and death had thrown them together.

“It’s so old school,” she had told him when he called it a prosthetic leg. She hated it when people referred to it like that. “It’s a fully integrated limb,” she had said. It had digital hydraulics, integrated motion sensors, dynamic stability control, and an onboard CPU, all wrapped in a lightweight alloy, Kevlar composite bio-skeletal shell. Unfortunately, it wasn’t bulletproof, as she had learned that night when she’d taken a bullet just below the knee. A few inches higher, and the sniper’s round would have hit flesh and bone.

Alex was happy to sit on the floor in her room at the Ravenwood Inn, her back resting against the bed, the leg next to her. After leaving the bookstore café, Alex spent the rest of the afternoon on foot, walking the streets of Ravenwood and checking a few old empty houses and empty business sites. It was all to no avail.

The French doors were open, and a cool evening breeze was wafting in from the small balcony. In her lap was the takeout she had picked up from The Broad Ax, a place Jenny from the bookstore had recommended in Hagerstown’s downtown district. The famous firehouse burger with a side of slaw was certainly worth the trip.

While she ate, Alex thought about what Annabel Chandler had said: that only one body was in the burned-out wreckage. A woman. The poor soul, whoever it was. Alex had already called around to the local hospitals, of which there was only one within a ten-mile radius of Ravenwood. No one had presented with a gunshot wound. Ben was still out there, possibly injured, slowly bleeding to death, or dead in some ditch if the shooter had caught up with him.

She wiped her mouth on a napkin, pushed the takeout container aside, and slid her finger across the mouse pad on her laptop, zeroing in on the old gas station and then the estimated location of the wreckage using Google Maps.

“Come on, Ben,” she said to an empty room. “Where are you? What would you do? You were in that phone booth, I know. You called me; then someone took a shot at you. No blood. So, you ran, but where? Toward Ravenwood?”

Alex thought for a moment. She liked to play scenarios out and say them aloud to herself whenever she was alone. It was like having a colleague, someone to bounce ideas off, no matter how crazy those ideas sounded.

Despite being part of a team in the DEA, she was a loner, preferring to problem-solve a situation herself. Her conscience, or her alter ego, sometimes supported her theories. But more often than not, they shot them down with a counterargument of sound logic. Yet, there was nothing logical about the puzzle she was now trying to solve.

She stared at the map on the computer screen, playing back in her head what she had seen today, which wasn’t much. Assuming that Ben had been involved in the SUV crash, he had flagged down the woman after fleeing the phone booth, and she had pulled over and given him a lift. Then, somehow, it all had gone horribly wrong. The SUV had come off the highway at speed and rolled down the embankment several times before the gas tank exploded. The woman may have been dead before the SUV crashed, shot and killed by the same person who had shot at Ben.

Or she had died in the crash. Either way, Alex knew Ben would have done his darndest to save her, even if it meant ignoring his own injuries or getting burned himself. Ben was that kind of guy. The one who runs into a burning building and the consequences be damned.

In her head, Alex began building what she considered to be a likely scenario. Ben was now hurt, with burns and possibly a broken limb, but not a leg. Maybe an arm, a hand, some ribs even. He would be mad as all hell, given that he couldn’t save the woman or even believed he had caused her death. So, what would he be thinking?

“Revenge.” Alex smiled. The word escaped her lips before she realized it. In a way, they were very much alike, she and Ben. “So, what would I do?”

If the injuries weren’t too extensive, Alex would’ve gone to ground; she wouldn’t want to put others in harm’s way. “I would get off the highway, not flag down another motorist.”

She expanded the map until Ravenwood came into view. “Stay clear of the town and well away from innocent bystanders.”

Alex thought about the body of the woman in the wreckage again. The shooter had no qualms about killing innocent people, men or women. So why hadn’t he killed Ben in the phone booth? It wasn’t a difficult shot. Hell, a kid with an air rifle at a county fair shooting gallery could have done it—if you gave them a proper hunting rifle and dialed in scope. Just line up the crosshairs and pull the trigger.

“Because it’s a game. That’s why.” She had reasoned that before. But now it was making even more sense.

The cornfield in Utah came back to Alex’s mind. Despite knowing Ben for only a few hours during that time, she had gotten the impression he preferred to stay away from cities and large towns. Suburbia wasn’t his thing either, she imagined. He would prefer the outdoors, where he could even up the odds, especially when revenge was on his mind. And Ben had done precisely that in that cornfield against several heavily armed men with mil-spec night vision scopes, goggles, and communications. If her memory served her correctly, they even had a drone at their disposal. Despite the huge odds stacked against Ben and Alex, they survived and won the fight.

However, in this situation, it was just one person hunting Ben.

Alex rubbed her eyes. Another likelihood she added to her scenario was that Ben would run perpendicular to the highway, not toward town, and not back along the highway in the opposite direction.

Alex slid her finger up the mouse pad, and the map on the screen moved north, perpendicular to the highway. There were a few homesteads attached to farms scattered to the east, and to the west, just a few miles from the crash site, but nothing north of it.

She moved her finger again, and the map on the screen slowly trudged farther north. Her finger stopped, and she leaned forward. There was something, maybe four or five miles in a straight line away from the highway: a house, perhaps a large cabin. The nearest sealed road she could see swung north of the property, and a smaller road, perhaps a dirt road, cut down to it. The property sat in a clearing amid the surrounding forest. If Ben had headed due north, away from the SUV crash, then he would have reached the house.

She tapped her fingers on the side of the laptop, then made a mental note of the location, deciding to return to it later if need be.

After wrapping up her take-out container and tossing it into the trash, Alex returned and settled back on the floor again with her back pressed against the bed. For the next half hour, she searched for nearby abandoned buildings, barns, or sheds in and around the town where Ben could be holed up—an injured animal licking its wounds.

Maybe there was nothing to worry about. Maybe Ben was fine. But she quickly pushed that stupid thought aside. She had heard the gunshot and the shattering glass. She had stood in the footsteps of the shooter up on that cluster of boulders. Pictured him lying in wait as Ben Shaw strayed into the sights of his hunting rifle and had then taken a shot, not a kill shot—more like a warning shot. I see you, and I can kill you. But it will be at a time and place of my choosing. Until then, I’m going to have some fun with you.

Ben was still out there somewhere and still in trouble. Maybe he didn’t know he was still being hunted. Maybe he thought the danger had passed, unaware that something much worse awaited him.

18

BOTTOMS UP

Around midday, as promised, Audrey had checked in on Shaw.

She had brought a tray of sandwiches and some iced tea and gave him another dose of painkillers and antibiotics. She also checked his dressing and told him the injury was healing nicely. Then she apologized for rushing off earlier to finish her chores and said his clothes were still slightly damp in the laundry but should be dry by tomorrow.

She didn’t loiter to talk. She seemed flustered and preoccupied.

During the afternoon, feeling the pull of the painkillers, Shaw drifted in and out of sleep, only getting up to use the small bathroom. Towels, fresh and neatly folded, sat in a wicker basket. He searched the cupboards and found them empty. Except for a new bar of soap in the shower, a wrapped toothbrush, and an unopened tube of toothpaste on the sink, the bathroom contained little else.

It was now early evening, and he woke again to see that the drapes had been closed and the lamp on the side table switched on, casting a warm glow about the room.

The lock on the bedroom door rattled with the key, and then Audrey entered, carrying a tray. “Beef stew,” she said cheerfully.

He pushed himself up with one hand and rested his back against the headboard, determined to do it on his own.

The tray this time was different. It had folded out legs, and Audrey placed it over his lap.

“I hope you like it. Made it myself.”

A steaming bowl of stew sat on the tray, together with cutlery on a neatly folded napkin and a glazed pottery mug filled with what looked like the weakest coffee he had ever seen.

“What’s this in the mug?”

“It will help you sleep. Herbal tea. My special brew. I grow the herbs in my kitchen garden.” She folded her arms. “I don’t want you getting addicted to the painkillers I’ve been giving you.”

He didn’t want to get addicted to them, either. He could manage the pain now. It was getting less with every passing hour, and he didn’t really need the pills anymore. But at lunchtime, she had insisted that he keep taking them until at least tomorrow.

He picked up the cutlery and began eating.

Audrey sat down on the edge of the bed and watched him. The stew was rich and flavorsome. However, the meat was a little chewy. “This is wonderful, Audrey.” He swallowed a lump of gristle.

She beamed. “I’m glad you like it. I put a lot of love into my cooking.” Her eyes drifted down past his chest and seemed to hover around his waist. Her lips parted, and the tip of her tongue slid across her bottom lip. “It’ll give you strength and stamina.”

She placed a cool palm on his forehead. “Your temperature is almost back to normal. I’ll take you off the antibiotics tomorrow.”

Audrey turned her head, and he saw three dime-sized blotches on the side of her neck. He’d seen dark marks like that before on other women.

Audrey turned back. “What’s wrong?”

His eyes shifted away from her neck. “Nothing.” He took another spoonful of stew.

Audrey smiled. “Come on, I can tell. What are you thinking about?”

He picked up a napkin and wiped his mouth. Then he reached out and touched her arm. “Are you okay?”

She had a bemused look. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?” One hand drifted up to the side of her throat and touched where the three bruises were. “I’m fine, honestly.” She gave an awkward laugh before her hand dropped back into her lap.

He could ask her how she got the bruises on her neck, but he had a fair idea.

Audrey rolled her eyes, then nodded. “Oh, you mean like before?” She shook her head as though there had been some misunderstanding. “Like I said at lunchtime, I was sorry about this morning. Dean got home from the night shift, and I had to finish my chores. Sorry for rushing off like that.”

“Does he make you do the chores?” Shaw couldn’t imagine there was much to do around the place. It was just the two of them, after all. And chores sounded so old-fashioned, like boarding school, boot camp, or a child cleaning up their room.

“I enjoy doing them. Keeps me busy.” She leaned in, again assuming the posture of someone not wanting their words to be overheard. “Look, Ben, I appreciate your concern. I really do. But everything is fine.” She raised her hand again and touched the marks on the side of her neck. “There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

Shaw wasn’t convinced.

She stood. “Your clothes will be dry by the morning. I promise. Then we’ll get you into the shower and give you a wash.”

Give you a wash. He didn’t want her, nor anyone else, to give him a wash.

“Finished?”

Shaw looked down at the bowl on the tray. “Yes. Thanks, Audrey.”

She gathered up the tray and placed it on the side table, then came back and sat down on the bed again. “You haven’t told me what you do, Ben. For a living.”

“I travel. From town to town.”

Audrey’s eyes went wide. “What, like a tourist? Don’t you need to work?”

“You could say I am a tourist, but in my country. I worked a few years back.” He would not tell her he used to work for the U.S. Secret Service and got fired for punching the vice president in the mouth on the campaign trail while he was in the VP’s protective detail.

“Gosh, how exciting. I wish I could travel.” Her eyes took on a dreamy, faraway look with a smile that belied the sadness in her voice. “There are so many things I want to do—places I want to see. But… I can’t.”

She turned back. “I envy you, Ben. I really do.” Her face brightened. “So, tell me about your travels. Where are you going next?” She edged closer, eager like a child expecting a thrilling bedtime story.

“I have no actual plans. I just get up in the morning and see where the day takes me.”

“What about money? Surely you need money.” She raised an eyebrow. “Unless you’re rich.”

Shaw laughed. “I’m certainly not rich, and I do odd jobs now and then if I need money. I’m good with my hands and have no problem finding work. I travel light, so I need little money.” He thought back to Daisy McAlister in Kansas. He had stayed there while working on her ranch. He slept in the bunkhouse, fixed her cattle fence, and did odd jobs around the property. While the memories of her and their time together were still fresh in his mind, it seemed like it had been eons ago. Maybe he would go back and see her. He liked the wide-open spaces of Kansas. And he liked her. Now, if anyone was rich, it was certainly her—thanks to him.

“You said it was just the two of you, just you and your brother. Do you go out into town, go shopping, see other people, have friends?” He couldn’t help thinking that Audrey was a prisoner here—a prisoner to her brother.

“Of course. It’s not like that. Dean and I depend on each other. And yes, to answer your questions, I go out and see friends.”

Her words seemed genuine enough, but something in her eyes made it sound like she was trying more to convince herself than him. He decided not to press the point despite the marks on her throat. He had to remind himself not to pry into other people’s personal lives. He needed to respect her answers, even if they sounded slightly false. After all, she had taken him in, a total stranger when she didn’t have to, and had treated him like a guest—fed him and took care of him.

“Still no news on the car crash I mentioned?”

She shook her head. Then her face became pinched, and her eyebrows closed into a tight furrow. “Now, what did I tell you, Ben? Remember, I said I don’t watch the news.” Her nostrils flared, and her cheeks turned dark red. “It’s all full of fucking lies!”

“You did. Sorry. It’s just that⁠—”

“You can’t stop thinking about that poor woman!” she snarled. “And her unborn child.” She huffed out a breath. “Well, that bitch should have taken more care on the road. Shouldn’t have gotten distracted and all.” The tendons on the inside of her wrist bulged as she grabbed the bedcover and twisted it into a tight fist.

“Audrey, I was only asking if⁠—”

“Some people don’t deserve children,” she whispered, turning away, her mouth downturned.

Audrey sprang to her feet, strode to the side table, and returned with the pottery mug of herbal tea. “You forgot to drink this.” She held out the mug. Some of the liquid sloshed out over the rim and onto the bedcover, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her other hand tapped her leg as she stood looking down at Shaw, her other arm thrust out at Shaw, holding the mug. “It’s for your own good, and, like I said, it will help you sleep.”

He hoped she wouldn’t notice when she took the tray away, along with the tea.

She extended her arm, and the thick pottery coffee mug loomed closer to his mouth. “Come on, Ben. Drink up.”

He took the mug. The liquid, pale and green, stank like pond water poaching on a hot summer’s day. Bits of what looked like grass clippings floated on the oily surface.

She crossed her arms. “Bottoms up.”

He took a sip. It tasted like boiled leaves mixed with river silt.

“All of it. It will help you recover.”

Under her watchful gaze, he gulped down all the herbal tea, swallowing it quickly like medicine.

Audrey’s expression softened. “There you go. Wasn’t that bad, was it? Believe me, these herbs work wonders.” She took the mug from him, placed it on the tray, and carried it to the door.

“Audrey,” he called out after her.

She turned. “Yes?” she said, bright and cheerful again.

“You told me you were a schoolteacher. But you didn’t mention what your brother did?” Apart from ruling over you like a tyrant. He wondered when he was going to meet this brother of hers. They could have a little chat, man-to-man, and Shaw would teach him a lesson or two about how to treat a woman. Maybe grab him by the throat and see how he likes it.

“Oh, sorry, Ben. I should’ve said something. Dean’s a police officer.”

19

BAD BROTHER

The lock gave a harsh rattle, then the door flung open and slammed against the wall.

Shaw opened his eyes and raised himself onto one elbow, his mind groggy.

Standing in the doorway was a dark shape, a man with broad shoulders and short hair, his face cloaked in shadow.

“Once you’re fit enough, I want you gone,” the man said, his voice a low, menacing rasp. “You hear me? Outta here. Gone. And I don’t want you coming back.”

Shaw rubbed his eyes. It must be after midnight.

“I don’t take kindly to strangers, and it was my sister, Audrey, who found you. You can’t hardly blame her. She’s a kind soul but a little too trusting. She doesn’t understand what we’re like, us men. No, sir. She’s too trusting, but I’m not. You hear me?”

Shaw squinted. “I’ll leave now if you want. I don’t want any⁠—”

“I know exactly what you want,” the man sneered. “You’ve seen her up close. Smelled her sweet flesh. She’s a woman, after all, but I won’t have you deflowering her. She’s blood. My blood, and I won’t have no stranger under this roof laying down with my sister. You hear me?”

“I have no intention of⁠—”

“Shut the fuck up when I’m talking! She belongs to me, and I have to protect her. Protect her from the likes of men like you. You hear me?”

“I hear you.”

“Good. So, we understand each other. When you’re well enough, you’re gone. Out of my sight, and don’t you ever dare come back. If you do, I’ll kill you slow and quiet like, then bury you where no one will ever find you.”

The man backed away, slammed the door, then locked it.

The room plunged again into darkness, and Shaw, still sleepy, lay back down and listened as heavy footsteps faded away.

20

SWEET DREAMS

The desolate highway ran straight and narrow beneath the dark sky.

A huge orb hung from above, its surface waxy-white, like the ruined eye of a dead man. And he was dead.

A graveyard of burning car wrecks lined either side of the highway, lighting the way. He passed a Buick, its roof caved in, flames lashing out of smashed windows, smoke billowing thick and acrid into the night sky.

Then a pickup truck sunk into the blacktop, its tires melted and bubbling, the blackened metal chassis creaking and hissing. Hunched behind the wheel, a dark shape sat smothered in flames, the bare bones of each hand curled around the steering wheel.

He walked on—a journeyman whose journey had ended.

An upside-down SUV appeared out of the darkness. A crumpled, smoldering mess of twisted metal, the surrounding air distorted with heat. He heard a baby’s cry, then a mother’s dying scream. He ran toward it, then recoiled as it erupted into a fiery ball. Arms raised, he pressed forward, but a rippling hot wall repelled him. It was a barrier he couldn’t cross, no matter how hard he tried.

The baby’s cries dwindled, but the mother’s screams kept going, piercing the night—the shrill of a wild animal caught in a trap.

He sank to his knees, the woman’s screams echoing in his ears, sinking deep into his mind, carving out a deep wound in the skin of his memory. Never to close over and heal or forget.

He watched as the wreckage burned down to nothing but cinders. He fell forward onto his hands, his fingers clawing at powdery soot. Tears flowed from his eyes, tears of pain, helplessness, and immense sadness. They watered the soot. Something grew through the damp patches. Twisting up from its subterranean slumber, a vine of sweet roses sprouted and entwined around each of his arms. Next came a climbing orange jasmine. Its thick, woody stem unfurling and curling around his ankles, up his thighs, then around his waist.

Lifting one hand, he drew a fist full of the powdery soot up and opened his fingers. It streamed out like black sand. Now, he knew what it was. Not soot, but bone ash mixed with slivers of charred skin and burned flesh.

Horrified, he tried to stand, but the creeping vines tightened, holding him in place. The earth beneath him split, and the vines pulled him down into the fiery chasm.

Now, he lay on his bed in a dreamlike state. There was a rattle of the key in the lock, and then a woman emerged from the shadows.

Daisy McAlister.

Sunflower blonde hair spilled around her shoulders, and a few loose strands teased her face. She wore a red checked riding shirt with a few undone buttons at the front. Skin-tight riding breeches hugged her supple legs.

Shaw couldn’t move. He was naked and lashed to the bed. The same vines, sweet roses, and jasmine encircled his wrists and ankles, extending his limbs wide to each of the four bedposts.

“Ben,” she whispered, “everything is fine. I’m here for you. You are safe.” Her voice had that twang to it, he remembered. Why was she here, in his bedroom?

Daisy floated forward, her feet not touching the ground. At his bedside, she looked down. “Oh, Ben. I’ve waited so long for this moment. You have no idea.”

Her hand reached down and grasped him, strong fingers wrapping around him, then began stroking back and forth.

“It’s not a toy,” he said and gave a slight wince. “Be gentle.”

“Shut up, I’m the boss.” The strokes became harder, longer, and faster. “I need to get the old seed out of you first. It has been festering inside you for too long. Like spoiled milk, I need it gone. Only then can I take the fresh seed, the new seed, the good seed from you.”

“No!” He moaned and began pulling at the vines. But they tightened like snakes, coiling and crushing.

He tried to hold back, but her hard, determined strokes were too much.

“I must bleed you, Ben. Rid you of the past.” Her skilled hands moved even faster.

Shaw squirmed and felt the building intensity with each stroke.

“Hold still,” she snapped. Her hand was now a blur, shunting back and forth like a steam train piston.

“Nearly there,” Daisy said with a twisted smile and a feverish gleam in her eyes.

Shaw moaned and twisted. His fingers clawed at the sodden bed sheets, bunching them into tight fists. “No!” he snarled, his flesh melting in the heat of his arousal. Daisy went faster and harder with her hand, her breath coming in short, guttural pants.

Shaw arched his spine and threw his head back, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, the climax building. His mind stretched, and then his body exploded into a series of jerky spasms.

“I want every last drop out of you,” she said, her jerks unrelenting.

Finally, Daisy’s hand slowed, then stopped. “That’s better.” She went to the bathroom, and Shaw could hear running water. She emerged moments later, wiping her hands on a washcloth.

“Why?” he said, his voice hoarse. “Why did you…?”

Daisy smiled, seeming to enjoy her dominance over him. She was in control, not him. “Because I love you, Ben. And now I need you to love me back.”

Shaw felt drowsy, his mind trapped between reality and a dream. “Untie me,” he moaned. “Please.”

Daisy looked down at him, a puzzled look on her face. “But you’re not tied up, Ben.”

Shaw blinked, tilted his head, and stared at his hands and feet. The vines were gone. He moved his limbs. They felt sluggish as if they were filled with sand instead of flesh and bone.

“Now, it’s my turn,” Daisy said.

Shaw went to sit up, but Daisy pushed him back down into the mattress. Her clothing fell to the ground, and she straddled him, her powerful hands keeping him pressed down. “Yes,” she said, her voice a haunting whisper. “Fill me with your seed. Fill me with every precious drop.”

Her hips began gyrating. She threw her head back. “Yes,” she moaned. “Seed me. Propagate me. You must.”

Shaw tried to twist away, but she countered using only the slightest movement of her hips to keep him in place. Her core continued grinding down deep into his own—a coupling of two bodies.

Daisy flung her head forward, and a tight plait of blonde hair whipped over her shoulder and down between her bouncing breasts. The cloying scent of sweet roses and orange jasmine enveloped her. Claw-like hands racked across his bare chest.

“Fill me, Ben. Fill me with your seed.”

As Shaw watched, the end of her ponytail, which looked like a bushel of white wheat, began to change shape. It morphed into a flat, diamond-shaped head with a scaled face with tiny nostrils. The twin vertical pupils of the eyes regarded him.

The long plait of hair suddenly reared up, and a forked tongue quivered out from the yawning mouth.

Shaw stared hypnotically at the snake.

“Impregnate me, Ben. Fill my womb with your essence.”

“Daisy?”

“Yes, I’m Daisy. I’m here for you, Ben.”

Shaw blinked and watched in silent horror as Daisy’s face split from the top of her forehead down to the tip of her chin. The skin peeled back on either side to reveal another face beneath. Gray eyes, pale skin, high cheekbones. A tight plait of blonde hair tied with a dark ribbon snaked over the woman’s shoulder and down between her bare breasts.

“Audrey?”

Shaw felt himself falling through the mattress, then the floor, and into a dark fissure in the earth.

21

HANGOVER

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

Audrey opened the heavy drapes, flooding the bedroom with bright sunshine. She turned back to Shaw, who held his hand up, shielding his eyes. He felt lethargic, and his head ached. His nose was stuffy, like he had a cold. But his injured arm was feeling a lot better.

He pushed himself up with one arm and looked around the room. The dresser, the side table, the door, everything was edged in a blue iridescent tint, and the sunlight seemed unusually bright.

Audrey stood over him. “Here, let me help you.” She eased him into an upright position and beat the pillows behind him, fussing like a mother hen. “That’s better.”

He rubbed his nose on the back of his hand. Despite the sleep, he felt groggy and weak. Maybe the infection had taken more out of him than he had first thought.

Audrey set the tray table over his lap. “There you go.”

He looked down at the bowl of steaming oatmeal, a small jar of honey, a milk jug, and a dish of blueberries. “Thanks.”

Audrey was humming a tune. She seemed overly cheerful this morning. She sat down on the edge of the bed and slowly peeled back the dressing on his forearm, then inspected the wound. “It’s healing nicely.” She carefully wrapped it up again.

She pressed her hand against his forehead. “The fever has gone. The antibiotics have worked. But I still want to keep you on them for a couple more days, just to make certain.”

Shaw looked at her and nodded. Why was he feeling so strange, like he had a hangover?

Audrey’s plait was gone, and her hair was up in a bun, secured in place by two chopsticks crossed like swords.

“You seem happy this morning,” he said, lifting a spoon and nudging the oatmeal.

“I’m just in a good mood, Ben. Did you sleep well?”

His memory was patchy, but there had been a dream. Daisy McAlister was in it. He was in the bunkhouse with her, back on her ranch in Kansas. They were in the shower together, and somehow, they ended up in bed.

“I slept fine.” He wiped his nose on the napkin. Someone else was also in his dream. Audrey? He blinked hard, trying to clear his head, but he couldn’t remember. It would be weird if she was. There was definitely another woman there. Two of them, but not at the same time. He searched his mind, playing back in his head what little snatches of memory he could. Something about seeding?

Then, he realized. In the dream, Daisy McAlister became Audrey. She had transformed into her. Why was Audrey in his dream? Did he want to sleep with her? Was it a subliminal desire he had? He didn’t even find her attractive. And yet she was there, and she had replaced Daisy.

“You’re not hungry?” Audrey placed a hand on his leg. “I made it especially for you.”

He smiled, then took a mouthful of oatmeal. It was chewy and undercooked. He had no appetite, yet he wanted to please her. He took another spoonful, just going through the motions.

She watched him closely. “That’s better. You need to eat. Regain your strength.”

“The bedroom door,” Shaw said. “Why do you lock it?”

Audrey raised an eyebrow. “For your own good, silly.” She let out a sigh. “The first night you were here, I found you in the hallway staring at the wall like you were sleepwalking. You were delirious with fever. I don’t want you falling and hurting yourself or going outside and wandering off.”

It made sense. Had he really been sleepwalking? Between his legs felt clammy. Maybe it was sweat from last night when he was in the final throes of beating the fever. Maybe it was the dream. The thought worried him.

“You look a bit flushed, Ben. Let me get a cool washcloth for you.” Audrey went to the bathroom, and he used the opportunity to lift the covers and look between his legs. On his upper thighs, a dry residue of something clumped together his leg hair. He felt confused. Had the dream been so lifelike that it made him⁠—?

Audrey came back, and he dropped the covers.

“Once you’re finished with breakfast, I’ll get you up and into the shower.” She placed a damp washcloth on his forehead, then sat back on the bed and patted his knee. “Your clothes are dry, and I folded them and put them in the bathroom along with your leather jacket.”

“Thank you, Audrey. You’ve been really kind to me.” He wanted to take the washcloth off and throw it aside.

“I enjoy taking care of you.” It was a strange thing to say. Was she really a schoolteacher, or perhaps she had been a nurse?

Audrey looked at him seriously. “I just want to say I’m sorry, Ben.”

“Sorry for what?” He laid down the spoon. He couldn’t stomach another mouthful. It was so undercooked that it left a dry, pasty taste in his mouth.

Audrey sighed. “Dean told me he spoke to you last night.” She squeezed his knee under the covers harder. “I’m so sorry. Please understand, he’s very protective of me.” She gave a strained laugh. “He can be a little abrupt, and sometimes he goes too far. I just hope he wasn’t rude or anything like that.”

Shaw thought about the door slamming open last night and the threatening man standing in the doorway.

“Not at all.” It was time to leave. He was feeling better and didn’t want to cause any problems between brother and sister. He still wanted to have a talk with Dean about Audrey and didn’t care if he was a police officer or not. The marks on Audrey’s neck were almost gone.

“Maybe it would be for the best that I leave today.”

Her eyes narrowed, and the smile slipped from her face. “Leave? N… no… you can’t… leave.”

“But I’m a lot better. The fever is gone, and my arm is⁠—”

“No… Maybe… Give it a few more days. You’re not fully recovered.”

He didn’t want to spend a few more days here. He wanted to leave. Yet he felt compelled to stay. Her brother was obviously abusing her, and that did not sit well with him. The abuse would just continue. That was the thing with bullies he had learned over the years. Most bullies were cowards and preyed on those much weaker than them. It was how they operated, with the odds—size and strength—stacked in their favor.

“I think I’ve imposed enough on you and your brother. I don’t want to cause any problems for you.”

Audrey’s face tightened, and she began grinding her teeth. An iciness rippled in her eyes.

“He just loves me, Ben. And sometimes, love can be especially cruel.” Her voice sounded vacant. “Love makes you do things or makes others do things to you. Bad things.” She gave a hollow laugh.

It was as if Audrey had opened a dark door in her mind and was showing Shaw something disturbing on the other side. She seemed both unhinged and frightened at the same time.

“Audrey, has Dean ever⁠—”

Audrey blinked, then clapped her hands together, her face suddenly radiant. “Sorry, where was I?”

He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It was like a switch inside her had flipped, and she went to a dark place with sadness. Then the switch flipped back, and it was all sunshine and rainbows again.

“You said Dean is a police officer?”

“Yes. He’s at work now. He’ll be back this evening. I’ll speak to him.” She leaned forward. “Leave him to me.”

Audrey stood. “I’ll leave you for a bit. I’ve got chores to do.”

There it was again, Audrey and her chores, which were obviously at Dean’s insistence. They were like a married couple from the fifties; the husband went to work to earn money while the wife stayed at home making sure the house was spic and span and waiting by the front door with a cocktail in hand for him when he returned in the evening.

Audrey gathered up the tray and then left.

Shaw ripped off the bedcovers and went to the bathroom. Sitting on a side shelf were his clothes, neatly folded and smelling of soap. His jacket hung on the back of the door.

After a quick shower, keeping his arm out of the water, he dressed and then returned to the bedroom. The throbbing headache was receding, and the blue tint in his vision was almost gone. The painkillers numbed whatever pain there was in his arm.

As expected, she had locked the bedroom door, so he went to the window. He didn’t want to spend another night in this place. He was getting the distinct feeling of being a prisoner here rather than a patient. When Audrey came back, he would thank her for everything she had done for him and tell her he was leaving.

Outside, he could see a barn and Audrey. She was bending over a faucet, holding an ax, washing it under the clear stream of water.

The water washing off the ax had a pink hue to it.

22

THE MASONS

“Still looking for that friend of yours?” Jenny asked Alex when she entered Ravenwood Books & Café at around noon.

“Yes, I am.” Alex looked around. “I thought it would be busy in here?”

Jenny shrugged. “It’s been a quiet day. Americano?”

“Thanks, Jenny.” Alex looked at the display board behind the counter. “And a breakfast burrito.”

“Sure thing.”

Alex sat in the same window seat as yesterday; she slipped out her laptop and powered it up. Up at dawn, she had packed, dropped her room key in the express checkout slot, and hit the road. Her fruitless morning had been spent searching the outskirts of Ravenwood, checking vacant buildings, old barns, and disused sheds. She even returned to the crash site. The wreckage had been towed, a scorched patch of earth in its place.

She called up the map again on her laptop and the property five miles north of the site. The sealed road leading to the property cut through dense farmland and wooded forests. A dirt road branched off south of the sealed road and seemed to lead directly to the secluded property. Alex had driven back and forth along the sealed road but couldn’t, for the life of her, find the dirt road. She was close to calling it quits and heading back to Washington.

Jenny came with Alex’s Americano and breakfast burrito. Alex had skipped breakfast to start her search this morning.

“Thanks, Jenny, you’re a godsend.”

Jenny smiled and placed a hand on her hip. “I wouldn’t quite say that.” She looked at the map on the computer screen. “Boy, you’re really determined to find this friend of yours. Are they in some kind of trouble?”

“I don’t know. I hope not. To tell you the truth, I’ve looked everywhere this morning. I’m about to give up.”

Truth be told, Alex also had an ulterior motive for driving back into Ravenwood when her stomach grumbled. She could’ve easily picked up a bite to eat at any of the gas station diners she had driven past out of town during the morning. But Jenny was a local and knew more about the surrounding area and places where Ben could be.

Alex zoomed in and pointed at the location on the screen. “Jenny, can you tell who lives there? I drove that main road like a dozen times this morning and couldn’t find the access road to the place.”

Jenny pulled up a chair, sat down, then leaned in. “That’s the old Mason homestead. Audrey and Dean Mason, brother and sister, live there. The parents, Bill and Barbara Mason died a while ago, and the kids inherited the place.”

Alex looked at the screen. Brother and sister? Alex took a sip of coffee. “What can you tell me about them?”

“I don’t really know them that much. Sometimes, Audrey drops in here for a takeout coffee, but that’s rare. And when she does, she doesn’t hang around to talk anymore. She’s a bit of a recluse these days.”

Alex looked up. “These days?”

Jenny gave a sigh. “She was a primary school teacher, and she used to come in here all the time after school. She was really chatty. She loves children and was a brilliant schoolteacher. The parents of the kids told me that. Then, a few years back, she suddenly left the school. Just between you and me, rumors were flying around town back then that she got fired, and she left under a cloud of suspicion.”

Alex’s shoulders slumped. It was a dead end. Just small-town gossip. She took a bite of her burrito.

Jenny sat back in her chair. “Since then, she doesn’t come into town that much, and if she does, I don’t really see her. Local school parents really didn’t know why she left her job. It was all very hush-hush.” Jenny gave Alex a wink.

In her head, Alex crossed off the last of the places to search on her mental list. It was a wild goose chase. She needed to get back to Washington. There’s no point in wasting any more time at some schoolteacher’s home. “What about her brother, Dean?” she asked, just to keep the conversation going while she finished her food.

Jenny’s eyes clouded over, and her lips twisted. “Dean Mason,” she said in one long, drawn-out breath. “He’s a real nasty piece.”

Alex stopped chewing.

“Dean is a police officer. Arrogant as hell, very controlling.” Jenny blew her cheeks out. “Oh, he’s good-looking and charming and all lovely when he wants to be. Full of charisma and witty jokes. A lot of the school mothers practically swoon wherever they see him.” Jenny tapped the table hard. “But I saw right through that charade. He’s manipulative, cunning, and….”

Alex wiped her mouth with a napkin, wondering if Dean Mason owned a hunting rifle and if it was he who had taken a shot at Ben. “And what, Jenny?”

Jenny rubbed her arms like it had suddenly grown cold inside the bookstore. “A predator. That’s it. His eyes, the way he looks at women. I caught him more than once looking at me like he wanted to… hurt me.”

“Hurt you?”

“Yep. He had that look. A hungry beast needing to be fed.”

“And he’s a police officer?”

Jenny nodded. “He’d write you up for jaywalking on a sunny Sunday during an apocalypse with no cars on the road if he could.” She glared at Alex. “Who the hell does that?” She gave a dismissive wave. “Anyway, I haven’t seen him around town in ages, thank God. I think he got transferred to another department, perhaps Hagerstown. I don’t know. But he lives with his sister on that property off Drescher Road. I don’t know how she puts up with him.”

Alex looked at the map again.

“It’s a pity,” Jenny went on. “Audrey was fantastic at her job, and excellent teachers are in short supply, especially around here.” She let out a sigh. “And she’s a good Samaritan, too.”

Alex’s ears pricked up. Good Samaritan. “What do you mean?” She pushed the plate away and turned to face Jenny.

“Well, a few months back, a guy came in here—not a local. He said he’d been hitchhiking on the highway a few miles out of Ravenwood when this woman pulled up and gave him a ride into town. She told him her name was Audrey. While I made him a coffee, he kept babbling about how nice and friendly she was toward him. Then, a few weeks later, another young guy came in, but he wasn’t a hitchhiker. He was a traveling salesman heading to Baltimore from Pittsburgh. He said his car had broken down on the highway just out of town, and his cell phone battery was dead. Audrey had also given him a ride, but to the nearest gas station so he could organize a tow truck. He had to stay a few days here in Ravenwood until a part came to fix his car.” Jenny smiled and shook her head. “He tried to sell me some kind of timeshare scheme.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“Nothing other than that Audrey Mason was a good Samaritan.”

Hitchhiker. Good Samaritan. Alex’s gut tingled. She looked at the computer screen again… at the location of the Mason property. She pointed at the dirt track that led from Drescher Road south to the property.

“Jenny, I drove Drescher Road today, maybe six times, and for the life of me, I couldn’t find this dirt road that comes off it and leads to the Mason place.”

Jenny leaned in and stared at the screen. She shook her head. “That satellite map from Google is old. It hasn’t been updated in the last five years. That old dirt road is gone. Ray Turner plowed it out as part of his crop field.” She pointed to another spot on the screen. “The new road is farther east. The entrance is almost hidden from the main road by a billboard for Reese Farm Equipment. You drove right by it and didn’t know.”

Alex had driven past the billboard several times.

The door opened, and a woman entered.

“Best get back to work,” Jenny said, standing up.

Alex shoved her laptop into her bag and downed the rest of her coffee. “Thanks, Jenny. You’ve been a great help.” She hugged Jenny.

“What was that for?” Jenny said, a mix of surprise and delight on her face. Alex shouldered the laptop bag. “In case I don’t see you again.”

23

HE BEATS ME

“He beats me sometimes. When I’m not good, or when the chores aren’t finished by the time he gets home.”

It was midday, and Shaw sat on the end of the bed looking at Audrey’s black eye as she stood in front of him. “That doesn’t make it right,” he said. “There is no reason to hit a woman.”

Audrey avoided his eyes out of shame. She toyed with a piece of loose thread that had frayed from her dress, the same dress she wore yesterday.

“I know, and I also know that he doesn’t really mean it.” She looked up. “He always says he’s sorry.”

Shaw stood. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. “They always say that. Don’t you get it? They always say they’re sorry after the fact, but it means nothing.” He stepped forward. “I saw the marks on your neck. I bet he said sorry about them, too, after he grabbed you by the throat.”

Tears filled her eyes, and she ripped the loose thread and twisted it around her fingers. “I sometimes just want to run away—leave this place. To get as far away as I can.” She rubbed away her tears on the back of her hand. “So many bad memories here.”

“So, why don’t you leave?”

She shrugged, and in an instant, he knew the reason. Like most women trapped in the same situation, she was afraid. She didn’t have the courage. Or, like some women, believed that things would improve. That the abuse would stop, and everything would return to normal. It rarely did. The more likely outcome was that the victim ended up seriously injured or dead.

Audrey shook head. “We had a fight after I left you this morning, after breakfast.”

He wondered about the ax he had seen Audrey cleaning out by the barn. He had sat down on the bed after he changed into his clothes, waiting for Audrey to return so he could tell her he was leaving. Before he knew it, he had dozed off on the bed, and it was noon.

Maybe she had killed Dean in a fit of rage? It was unlikely, though.

“And he hit you?”

Audrey nodded. “He came home mid-morning. He often does that without warning.”

“To check up on you, I bet.”

“I was trying to tell him you were no trouble at all. That I was looking after you and that he didn’t need to do a thing. He still didn’t like it, and then… and then I said something I shouldn’t have. I told him I don’t belong to him, that I’m not his prisoner. I told him he might be my brother, but he can’t be the only person in my life.” Tears welled in her eyes again.

“Is he here now?” He wanted to hit Dean. Find him and bash the shit out of him, even if he was a cop. Shaw was willing to do time in jail for it.

“No. He’s gone back to work.” She threw up her hands and started pacing the room. “You don’t understand. I can’t go to the police because he is the damn police.” She whirled around, her hands bunched into fists. “He’s protected. They all love him at work. Think he’s the bee’s knees.” She tossed her head back and laughed. “Mr. Popularity.”

“Isn’t there anyone in the police force you can tell? What about in another town or the sheriff’s department?”

“Yeah, right. They’re really going to believe me. It’ll be his word against mine.” She gave Shaw a bitter look. “It’s a brotherhood, you know. They look after their own, even if it means lying for each other.”

He knew exactly what she meant.

“No one will ever believe me.”

He could see the distress in her eyes and the anger as well. “What about other family?”

Audrey’s face turned cold and hard. “I told you, it’s just the two of us.” She turned away and folded her arms. “I’m trapped,” she whispered.

He went to her, reached out, and touched her shoulder. She pulled away.

“Audrey, I don’t know you that well, and I certainly don’t know your brother. But you can’t keep letting him abuse you. I don’t care if you are brother and sister. You’re both adults. It’s no excuse.”

Her mouth twisted. “Then what would you have me do? Kill him, then bury his body in the backyard?”

The image of Audrey washing the blade of the ax came back to him.

Her shoulders slumped, and it was as though she had shrunk a little. When her next words came, he almost didn’t hear them. “Please stay, just one more night.”

“I can’t. I need to go. Look, you’ve been wonderful and helped me with my injuries, and I’ll never forget that. But… it’s causing problems between you and your brother. If it wasn’t for me being here, none of this would have happened.” Shaw didn’t believe that for a second. If it wasn’t for Shaw, it would be something else Dean would blame for abusing his sister. A cup out of place in the cupboard. Dirty dishes in the sink. Supper not ready and waiting on the table when he got home. There would always be an excuse, a tiny insignificant glitch that would trigger abusers like Dean.

“If I stay, at some point, I’m going to step in, Audrey, and it will not be pretty.”

The corners of her mouth lifted a fraction, and her eyes brightened. “You would do that for me?”

He would do that for any woman and suffer the consequences later. He nodded. “If I have to. But I don’t want it to come to that. You need to tell someone. Get help.”

She touched his good arm, her fingers digging in like she was clinging onto him, not wanting him to walk out the door. “Please stay. Just one more night.”

Shaw sighed. One more night would not make a difference. He was the problem, and he needed to leave. “Is he home now? Do you want me to talk to him?”

Audrey’s eyes flared. “Oh… home now? Oh… no… no… he’s… he’s gone away for a few days on some police assignment. It’s just the two of us. It’s no bother, really. Please.”

She reached up and touched his cheek. The intoxicating aroma of sweet roses and orange jasmine whirled around him. “Please. Stay. Then tomorrow you can go. I promise. I won’t try to talk you out of it.”

As he stared into her eyes, he felt trapped, too—but not as trapped as she was. His code was telling him to stay, but not here. He should stay close by in Ravenwood, then find Dean, her brother. Wait for the right moment. A dark street. A hidden alleyway. Then beat the crap out of him. The time for reasoning with him was over.

Another part of him, however, was telling him to get the hell away from this place and find Sam. Track the old man down and kill him.

Audrey brought her other hand up and cupped his face, and for a second, he thought she was going to kiss him. “One more night. Please.”

He let out a breath. “Okay. But just one more night.”

Audrey’s face burst into a wide smile. “Oh, Ben! You don’t know how happy that makes me.” She threw her arms around him and squeezed him tight. “Ben, thank you,” she whispered hot breath into his ear.

He just stood there, his arms by his side. “That’s… fine.” She didn’t let go, and he had to almost peel her off him.

“Well, that’s settled.” She clapped her hands. “I’ll get your lunch.” She went to the door.

“Audrey,” he called after her.

She turned. “Yes, Ben?”

“There’s one condition.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“You don’t lock the bedroom door anymore.”

Her face went still, as though all the muscles behind her skin had suddenly seized up.

“No locking the door, okay?”

Her mouth moved, while the rest of her face remained a lifeless portrait. “Okay.” She blinked, then gave a beaming smile. “Please sit down at the table. There’s no need to eat in your bed anymore.” She clapped her hands again. “I’ve made you something special.”

He sat at the small table with two chairs, and while Audrey was gone, he wondered if it was a mistake, agreeing to stay another night.

Audrey returned carrying a tray and placed it down on the table in front of him. A big white plate with a metal domed lid was on the tray, and Audrey slipped one finger through the small handle at the top. “I hope you like it.” She had a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

He looked at the domed lid, wondering if beneath it was Dean’s severed head sitting on a bed of garden salad, white marble eyes staring back up at him, with a big red apple shoved into his gaping mouth.

With a theatrical flourish, Audrey whipped away the domed lid to reveal what was on the plate.

“Roast chicken!” she squealed, looking eagerly at Shaw for approval. “Farm fresh too. I killed and plucked it this morning.”

24

RUDE PRICK

How was she going to play this?

Walk up the front steps, stand on the porch, knock on the door, then when someone answers, say to them, Hey, my name’s Alex Durant. I’m a special agent with the DEA and was wondering if you’ve seen a young man, mid-to-late twenties, lean, with dark hair, hypnotic, brooding eyes, wearing boots, jeans, a T-shirt, and a leather jacket? Oh, BTW, I think he’s being hunted by some crazy shooter who knows how to handle a high-powered hunting rifle. He might have injuries, possibly a gunshot wound. I also think he was involved in a car crash yesterday a few miles out of town, and I guess he somehow survived and made his way on foot here to your property, five miles away.

Sorry? What was that? Why didn’t he just call the police or go to the ER? Eh… well… that’s not his style. He’s stubborn, hates authority—even though he worked for the U.S. Secret Service—and doesn’t like to impose.

Through the windshield, Alex could see the rustic homestead, made of hewn wood and stone, with a tin roof. A large barn sat off to one side. Apart from the old pickup truck under a sagging wooden carport, the place looked quiet.

While she had walked up to plenty of front doors, an army of heavily armed and heavily armored testosterone-filled men usually accompanied her. She had also kicked in plenty of doors, been shot at, spat at, punched, bitten, kicked, and even had human feces thrown at her, giving new meaning to the term a real shitshow.

Alex had once surprised a junkie teen mother (the one who had started the shitshow) while she was squatting on the toilet, shooting up with heroin. The mother’s two-month-old baby girl had been lying dead in her cot from neglect and malnutrition for nearly three days. The farmhouse where the mother was staying with her boyfriend and a gang of his buddies was a meth lab.

When Alex came crashing through the bathroom door, the young mother made the mistake of kicking Alex in the leg—the one made from composite alloy and Kevlar—much to her detriment. One broken foot later, and after Alex saw the dead child, it took three burly DEA Special Response Team members to pull Alex off the woman. The final DEA report conveniently excluded the fact that Alex had shoved the barrel of her Glock into the woman’s mouth and was threatening to blow her head off.

But this was different. This was personal. She was here unofficially—and alone. However, being alone made no difference to her. She was packing enough firepower in the trunk of the Explorer to take out a Taliban bunker.

It was early afternoon, and the directions Jenny had given her had proven correct. A wide dirt road had meandered through the forest for about half a mile before opening into the clearing where the homestead and barn sat.

Alex had parked at a safe distance, closer to the barn, and was now watching the homestead. The drapes on the front windows were closed, and there were no signs of life. A massive overgrown garden with high trees and dense scrub hid the back of the homestead, making it impossible to see any exit points at the rear of the property.

While keeping her eyes firmly focused on the front door, Alex climbed out, lifted the tailgate of the Explorer, and, using it as cover, checked her weapon and spare magazines.

All good.

She closed the tailgate and made her way to the front stairs, glancing at the barn to make sure no one would come running out of there with a gun and start shooting at her. She wore a plain outdoor jacket, which hid her gun in its holster.

Reaching the foot of the stairs, she paused. Somewhere in the forest, a bird cried, making the hairs on the back of her neck bristle. The hairs on her neck always bristled when something wasn’t right. She looked up at the front of the homestead. Behind the closed drapes, she pictured someone there, holding an assault rifle. On the other side of the front door, she imagined another person holding a 12-gauge shotgun, the barrel leveled at the door, ready to punch a fist-sized hole through it and into her. That’s how she visualized every walk-up.

Angling away from the center of the front door, she began climbing the stairs and got no farther than the second to the top tread when the front door opened. Alex drew her gun hand close to the holster beneath her jacket.

“Can I help you?” a man said. He was standing behind a screen door, his face covered in a crosshatch of gray shadow, his body a dark outline. “This is private property.”

“Sorry to intrude.” Alex kept her distance, acutely aware of where her hand was relative to the gun under the flap of the jacket. “I’m looking for someone, a friend of mine. He might be in the area and in need of medical attention.”

The man shifted slightly. He was broad-shouldered with dark hair. It must be Dean Mason. Alex could easily pull out her ID, but she preferred not to in case it got back to her boss Nancy Chase in D.C., that she was flouting her authority during private leave.

And Dean Mason seemed like one of those small-town cops who didn’t like other law enforcement trampling on their patch of turf. He would make the call to Nancy.

“Ain’t seen no-one around here,” he said gruffly. “I don’t take kindly to strangers either, you hear me?”

So much for local hospitality. “You’ve seen no one around here in the last few days?”

The man said nothing for a few seconds. Alex could feel his eyes on her. Predator eyes, just like Jenny had described.

Then he spoke. “You deaf or something? What’d I just tell you?”

Rude prick. Alex felt sorry for Audrey, his sister. “Well, like I said, sorry for the intrusion.” Alex backed away, and the door slammed.

At the bottom of the stairs, she turned back. The drapes in the window next to the front door parted a few inches, and she glimpsed a woman’s fearful face.

Then, the drapes were wrenched shut.

25

GET OUT

Shaw woke up with a start and sat upright on the bed.

The drapes were open, and it was dark outside, the moonlight cutting a wedge of pale gray across the floor. The lamp on the nightstand cast a feeble glow, barely enough to keep the shadows at bay in the corners of the room.

What happened?

He glanced over at the table and two chairs where they had eaten lunch.

How long ago had that been?

Audrey had made roast chicken, cornbread, and mashed potatoes. He could still taste it, along with something else. She was telling him about her parents, how they were so cruel to her, how Dean was their favorite, their shining star. During her childhood, they ignored Audrey and showered all their attention, dreams, and aspirations into their son.

With no other choice, she had lived a lonely existence cocooned inside her bedroom, writing all the things she hated about her life in her secret journal. During the conversation, her eyes grew dark, like the optic nerves had clocked off. Her body went still, and in a robotic voice, she hinted about going to an especially dark place inside her head as a child.

She had a few friends at school and college, but her parents didn’t allow her to go out and socialize with them at night. Whereas Dean did whatever he wanted with his friends because he was a man, and men can do as they please.

Shaw looked around the room. His head ached, and his nose was congested, just like when he woke up this morning. And like before, a blue tinge edged everything. The table was bare, except for a drinking glass and not the weird pottery mug Audrey had served her stinking herbal tea in that she had made him drink the previous evening.

He tried to remember everything that had happened after lunch but couldn’t. A portion of his memory was gone. There was a sudsy mush of grayness in its place with little snippets that bobbed to the surface. He remembered waking in the bed, but not fully, though. There were sounds and voices. A man’s disapproving tone had come from outside the window. The man was talking to someone in the same rough tone Dean Mason had used when he barged in while Shaw was sleeping the night before. He was arguing with someone outside on the porch—Audrey, most likely. Then she came in and applied more ointment to his arm and changed the dressing.

Audrey. Christ. He had foolishly promised her to stay another night. She practically begged him. Then she reminded him again of his promise after she cleared away the plates.

He stood up, and the room tilted. Sitting back down, he took a few deep breaths and waited for the dizziness to pass. His eyes felt incandescent and throbbed inside their sockets. He swallowed. His mouth was dry.

Roast chicken, cornbread, and mashed potatoes… and something else.

Cautiously, he stood again and made it across the room to the table and chairs. He picked up the glass and examined it. What had she given him to drink?

Lemonade. Yes, that’s what Audrey had served him. Home-made lemonade. She told him she had made it herself. Freshly squeezed from a lemon tree growing in her kitchen garden.

Another bout of dizziness gripped him, but not as strong this time. The floor shifted slightly under his feet, and then the dizziness passed.

He studied the glass again. A milky film coated the inside, and a gritty white sediment clung to the bottom. Sugar, perhaps, to sweeten the lemonade. He tasted it with his finger. Bitter, not sweet.

He looked back at the bed, uncertain how he got there after lunch. He must have wanted to lie down, then dozed off. Now, it was evening.

And where was Audrey? Probably somewhere in the house making him dinner and that putrid herbal tea of hers. He put the glass down and went to the bedroom door. Had she kept her promise?

His arm was healing nicely, and he was fully dressed and ready to go. He looked at the closed door.

Yes, go. Get the hell out of here.

He twisted the doorknob, heard a click of the lock, then the door opened.

26

THE TRUTH

Outside the bedroom, Shaw found himself in a dimly lit hallway with the same velvet wallpaper as the bedroom.

Small bracket lamps with tasseled shades lined each side of the hallway, and a pair of heavy boots sat against the wall next to the bedroom door.

A sudden wave of dizziness rolled from one side of his head to the other, and the hallway suddenly corkscrewed in and out. He placed his hand on the wall to steady himself and took a few deep breaths. The wave passed, and he moved on, heading toward a dull rectangle of light in the distance.

A shape formed as he got closer. Then, the dark outline of a man appeared at the end of the hallway.

Dean Mason.

Shaw bunched his right hand into a tight fist and swayed toward him.

Dean didn’t move. He just stood there, his face hidden in shadow. “Not so mouthy now, are you?” Shaw called out.

Shaw stopped a few feet from Dean and brought his fist up. “Like hitting your sister, do you?” Shaw swayed and reached out to the wall to steady himself again. When he looked up, something had changed. Dean had no arms or legs. His body floated in the middle of the hallway.

Shaw stepped forward and then lowered his fist, realizing his foolish mistake. What he thought was Audrey’s brother was nothing more than a dressmaker’s mannequin, an armless, legless torso fixed to a wooden tripod on casters. A heavy jacket with padded shoulders hung from the mannequin, and a short black-haired wig crowned the headless neck. He touched the jacket and felt the material. It was thick, well-kept, and old-fashioned. The sickly scent of sweet roses and orange jasmine clung to the fabric.

Shaw moved on, then came to an alcove lined with shelves and fitted with a bench top. Small glass preserving jars with metal clip-top lids and rubber seals sat in perfect rows on one shelf. Tiny blue jelly babies filled the jars. Selecting a jar, he held it up.

They weren’t jelly babies but bean-shaped pills. Each pill featured a slight crosscut and had letters etched into the surface. Pfizer. Ten jars, hundreds of blue pills.

Setting the jar down, he next picked up a white plastic pill bottle with a child-resistant screw lid. Six bottles sat on a plastic tray. He read the label—eszopiclone 5 mg. The white bottles were neatly lined up, and all looked full. A small electric kettle sat on the counter next to three pottery mugs. The butt-ugly kind he imagined kids made at school for Father’s Day gifts. The same mug Audrey had brought her special herbal tea in for him to drink.

A stone pestle and mortar sat next to the mugs, a pale blue and white chalky powder residue coated the inside of the stone bowl. On another shelf was a box of tea bags, and he picked it up. Celestial Seasonings Sleepy Time. Caffeine-free herbal tea. Audrey’s words came floating back to him. “It will help you sleep. Herbal tea—it’s my special brew. I grow the herbs in my kitchen garden, not store-bought.”

He turned the box over. Packed in Colorado.

Three drinking glasses sat on a tray with a water jug and a yellow canister. He read the label on the canister. Country Time Lemonade Naturally Flavored Powdered Drink Mix, 23.9 oz.

The hallway ended at a heavy wooden door.

He pressed his ear against it.

Nothing.

Everything was silent except for a clock ticking somewhere else inside the house.

Audrey was here. The scent of sweet roses and orange jasmine hung in the air, and he could feel her lurking in the shadows. She was a very different Audrey than he had been led to believe.

He opened the door and entered a country-style kitchen with worn wooden cabinets, varnished wooden counters, and a dark slate floor. A coffee maker sat with its cord neatly wrapped. There were jars on the counter in perfect rows. A knife block, five slots out of six occupied. He stared at the empty knife slot, and the seconds stretched, his doughy brain trying to process what he was seeing. The drugs he had been given over the last few days were still dragging him down, keeping him below the surface of reality, distorting his judgment, and delaying his reaction time.

A scream like a banshee erupted behind him, bringing him out of his stupor.

He turned and caught the glint of a knife—and Audrey. She rushed toward him with hair flying out behind her like a lion’s mane, teeth bared, and crazed eyes.

The blade slashed down and slit an opening along the top of his shoulder. The padded leather provided some protection, but the blood still came—a hot crimson river.

“You can’t leave!”

He shunted back, hit the edge of the counter with his hip, and brought his forearm up.

The blade withdrew, hovered above her head for a few seconds, then came hammering down in short, fast blows aimed at his face.

“You… can’t… leave.” She screamed out each word with each blow that was deflected off Shaw’s forearm. “You must give me a baby! I want my baby, you filthy cun⁠—”

Don’t hit women, my ass! Shaw pivoted and swung his left arm up, then horizontal. The knuckles of his tight fist clipped Audrey on the right side of her jaw. Lights out. The knife clattered to the floor, and she collapsed limbless seconds later—a puppet with its strings suddenly cut.

He kicked the knife, and it scuttled across the slate floor.

Audrey was still breathing—unconscious, not dead.

The back door was locked, and he looked around for the keys, then saw a bunch hooked on the wall. Grabbing them, he fumbled through the keys, his right hand red and slick. The sleeve of his jacket glistened as blood oozed up through the rent in the leather from the skin beneath.

His shoulder burned, yet he was grateful for the pain. It cut through the fogginess and gave him clarity of purpose. Get out of this nightmare of a place.

His vision spiraled in and out, and he grabbed the counter to steady himself. How many drugs had she given him? And those blue pills? Now, he knew why. You must give me a baby!

Something scraped on the tiled floor behind him. Then, another scream, and Audrey landed on his back. She coiled her legs around his waist and hooked her forearm around his neck from behind. Then her spare hand went to work on his face. Clawed fingers raked at his nose and mouth and across his cheeks.

“Give me a baby,” she screeched.

27

BAD FEELING

She had made it as far as Germantown, taken the I-270 South, and driven thirty miles away from Ravenwood.

That was the promise she had made to herself when she headed back to D.C. If she had gone as far as Germantown and the hair-raising feeling at the nape of her neck was still there, she would pull over and reassess.

Alex had exited the interstate, driven down Germantown Road, past the Chick-fil-A because chicken wasn’t her thing, and kept driving. She wanted something unhealthy and greasy to abate the depressed feeling that had been eating away at her since she left Ravenwood after cutting her losses and starting for home.

She had then pulled into a Roy Rodgers off Wisteria Drive while the bristling at the nape continued. The time it took her to consume a double bacon cheeseburger with fries was how long she had given herself to decide whether to turn back or keep going.

Now, she sat in a corner booth away from everyone else, sipping unsweetened iced tea between mouthfuls of cheeseburger. In her mind, she kept seeing the ruffle of the window drapes near the front door and the glimpse of a woman’s face. Was it fear or infinite sadness she had seen in that face? Alex had replayed the footage repeatedly in her head during the drive south. It must have been Audrey Mason, the sister.

She balled up the wrapper and sat for a few more minutes. The niggling feeling was still there at the base of her neck. If anything, it had grown stronger and was the same feeling she had trusted so many times before in both her career and her personal life. It was the same feeling she had at the social function at Nick’s firm when she had seen Alicia fawning all over him.

Why would Ben be there with the brother and sister? Was he being held against his will? She couldn’t imagine anyone capable of holding someone like Ben Shaw against his will.

She checked her watch. It was getting late, and in an hour, she could be in D.C., back home—or she could turn around, drive back to the property, and take a closer look. Either way, she knew that the bristling hairs on the back of her neck wouldn’t quit until she had satisfied her instincts.

An hour later, Alex stood in the dark among the trees on the east side of the Mason property. She had driven back along the dirt track as before, but this time, two hundred yards before the dirt road opened into the clearing where the barn and homestead were, she had come off the track and driven slowly through the forest, steering carefully between tree trunks and over the undulating ground as far as she could to the edge of the tree line. She wanted the SUV close by but well hidden off the dirt track in case someone—especially Dean Mason—were to happen along the track in their own vehicle and see her SUV. He had already warned her once to stay away, and she had a feeling he wasn’t the type of guy to warn someone twice. Her Explorer sat twenty yards behind her and was out of sight.

Although the homestead lights were on, the drawn drapes still only allowed a sliver of light around the edges of the windows. Thankfully, it was a cloudless night with a huge waxing moon.

Alex rubbed the back of her neck as she watched for any signs of life from the property. On the drive back to Ravenwood, the bristling sensation had intensified so much that it now felt like she had a Geiger counter embedded in the back of her neck, and she was standing in front of Chernobyl.

28

HE’S WAITING

Dropping the keys, Shaw whirled around—a she-devil on his back—and propelled himself backward into the back door. Glass shattered and wood splintered, but Audrey clung tight, her hair teased out like a halo of tumbleweed, the fingers of one hand snapping at Shaw’s face like the jaws of a Venus flytrap rimmed with razor nails.

Around the kitchen they went, a ballroom dance to the orchestral sounds of smashing wood and manic screams. “My baby… I need your seed!”

Reaching his hand behind his head, he grabbed a fist full of her hair, then dropped his hips, bent forward, and wrenched her head over the back of his.

Audrey somersaulted through the air and hit the tiles, her head making a wet, smacking sound on the slate.

Shaw stood over her as she lay sprawled out on the floor, his chest heaving, his face tiger-striped in blood.

With her eyes clenched tight and one hand groping the back of her head, she sat up. “Ben… please… you don’t understand.”

“I understand plenty.” He wiped the blood from his chin. “There is no Dean.”

Audrey opened her eyes and blinked hard; her eyes were glassy. “Oh, he exists. He is real.”

“Only in your imagination.” Shaw reached down and picked up the bunch of keys.

“He abused me,” Audrey said, her eyes coming back into focus. “He raped me countless times.”

He wondered if she was telling the truth or, just like everything else, it was all lies. One big, intricate and disturbing stage play for her benefit and his misfortune.

“Did you know I became pregnant? By my brother. Countless times, he put his filthy demon seed into me.” She looked up at Shaw with a defiant glare. “And then it spawned a child. His child. My womb. My brother’s seed.”

Red-tongued, she spat out a globule of blood spit. “I wasn’t going to have it. I wasn’t going to have it at all. So, I….”

“So, you did what?” Shaw felt a pang of guilt in his chest. If what she was saying was true, it was horrible. But was it true?

She wept, her shoulders quivering. “All I ever wanted was a child of my own and not from my brother.”

“Where is Dean? I saw the boots outside the bedroom door, Audrey. The wig, the coat. I heard his footsteps, the two of you arguing. When he stormed into my room, I thought it was him, that the two of you are living here. But there aren’t two of you, are there? It’s all just a sick, twisted charade.”

Audrey looked away, her mouth trembling.

“There is no Dean, Audrey. He doesn’t exist. You drugged me, then….”

Her head swiveled back to him, a manic heretic’s gaze in her eyes. “What, Ben? What did I do to you?” She gave a hysterical laugh.

“You know exactly what you did to me.” It wasn’t some erotic dream he had experienced last night. It had started with Daisy McAlister. A piece of fractured memory that had come into his unconscious thoughts when he had fallen asleep. But then Audrey’s deceit had pierced the veil of his dream, and she inserted her own sick reality into it. In his drug-induced state, Audrey had fooled him into thinking it was all an erotic dream, not the nightmare she had conjured up. When he woke the next day with the residue between his thighs, he was truly embarrassed, believing it was something he hadn’t experienced since he was a teenager. It wasn’t him having a dream. It was her, Audrey. The residue was the aftermath of her forced copulation on him. She was a succubus. A female demon, who appears in dreams and seduces men, lies with them without them knowing.

“You made up your brother and the abuse,” he said. A sickening thought entered his head. The black eye. She had even stooped that low to self-harm just to fool him. To earn his pity.

“You do not know what I’ve been through,” she said, her voice barely audible. Then she gave a childish giggle.

She was insane. There was no other explanation for it.

“He’s waiting for you,” she said, licking her lips.

“More lies, Audrey.”

“It’s not a lie. He is waiting for you.” Her eyes darted to the kitchen’s back door.

“Who is waiting for me?” Shaw looked at the back door—freedom on the other side.

She cackled like a demented witch and curled a strand of hair around one finger. “Why, Dean is waiting for you. Who else?” She nodded toward the back door. “Out there. That’s where you’ll find him; that’s where the truth is. All of it.”

He looked at the keys in his hand.

“Open the door, Ben. See for yourself. All the answers are out there.”

He moved toward the door, then stopped.

“It’s the big brass key,” Audrey called out after him as if sensing his hesitation.

He found the big brass key, held it away from the rest, and guided it toward the keyhole.

“Don’t keep Dean waiting, Ben.” Audrey gave another demented cackle.

He inserted the key and turned it. The lock clicked, and he pulled the door open to reveal a wall of darkness. He stepped onto a small porch, then down a short flight of steps.

Audrey’s words floated out behind him. “He’s waiting for you, Ben. So are the others.”

29

THE OTHERS

He thought he was standing in the middle of some thick rainforest deep in Maine with a clear night sky above his head.

A rambling wall of huge plants with broad leaves piled high was in front of him, their dark leaves shimmering. Drooping vines twisted around tree trunks, and Shaw could hear the soft grate of crickets somewhere deep within the foliage. It was a sanctuary, a botanical forest—like he had crossed the threshold into another world. A small dirt path, watery in the moonlight, stretched away before disappearing into the dense undergrowth.

Looking back over his shoulder, he saw the yellow rectangle of light, the open kitchen door. The choice was simple: find a way out through the backyard rather than go back inside, confront Audrey again, and exit through the front door.

Looking back at the dirt path, Shaw was reminded of Judy Garland. But unlike Dorothy, poised at the start of the yellow brick road in The Wizard of Oz, he felt none of the mystical excitement she had. The air smelled earthy and dank, like a tomb.

Every plant, vine, leaf, flower, stalk, and stem seemed healthy, vigorously stretching, curling, and twisting in all directions, thriving and vibrant, but deliberately planted to act like a natural fence, an impenetrable barrier that enclosed the rear of the house, even cutting off access to the sides.

He’s waiting for you, Ben. So are the others.

Dean Mason didn’t exist and probably never had. He was just a figment of Audrey’s demented imagination. But the second part of Audrey’s cryptic statement concerned him.

So are the others.

Which others? Who were these others?

Shaw stepped onto the dirt path, then stopped. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled. It was like he was being watched, and at any moment, tiny, bright nocturnal eyes would blink open from the darkness. He had been in all manner of forests before. But the plant life around him now felt different somehow. A cold malevolence hung thick in the air. He’d also walked through a few graveyards in his time, in the dead of night, and it was the same sensation he now felt.

Throwing the uneasy feeling aside, he struck out along the path, determined even more to get out of this place.

The dirt path twisted and turned through a narrow corridor of foliage until it finally led to a clearing. The dirt path fanned out to form a meticulously shaped and perfectly round circle ringed by small rocks of identical size. Looking closer, he realized the clearing was ribbed with mounds of dirt shaped and carefully patted down smoothly. He came off the path and stepped into the circular clearing—a soupy white layer of mist, only ankle height, meandered between the mounds of dirt. The soil here was darker, not dirt like the path he had been on. It was proper soil, rich and fragrant.

Shaw counted six mounds of similar size. His eyes spotted a small mound off to one side, set away from the others. He knelt next to it and touched the soil.

His eyes narrowed. The mound was perhaps eighteen inches long, small compared to the others. More of Audrey’s words came back to him, and his stomach coiled. Then it spawned a child. His child. My womb. My brother’s seed.

Reaching out, he rested his hand on the top of the small mound. I wasn’t going to have it. I wasn’t going to have it at all. So, I….

Standing, he went to one of the larger mounds and pictured larger human limbs, flesh, and bones buried beneath—six mounds, roughly six feet long.

His mind began replaying snippets of memory from the last few days. Audrey bent over the faucet, the ax in her hand, clear water streaming out, bloody water washing away. Fresh towels neatly folded in the wicker basket in the bathroom. A new bar of soap in the shower. A wrapped toothbrush and a tube of unopened toothpaste next to it on the sink.

The small glass jars filled with blue pills sitting on the shelf in the alcove, Pfizer etched into each pill. Six jars in total—way too many for one person. The white plastic pill bottles with the child-resistant screw lids. The electric kettle. The ugly clay coffee mugs. The stone pestle and mortar with chalky blue and white residue on the bottom. How many times had Audrey ground up the blue pills with the white pills, then slipped the powdery mix into a freshly made cup of herbal tea? How many times had she done so for… others?

Shaw glanced across the clearing at the other six mounds and the smaller one.

He tilted his foot and scraped a layer of soil away with the edge of his boot. A white twig poked up from beneath—a bony white twig knotted with… finger joints.

He squatted down and scraped away more soil using his hands. A glint of silver caught his eye. Reaching down, he brushed away the moist soil, picked up the object, held it up, and tilted it in the moonlight. It was metal, a shield. Police Officer Ravenwood.

Out there. That’s where you’ll find him; that’s where the truth is. All of it. Audrey’s words. The truth?

Shaw stood up in the middle of the truth—a graveyard of six adults and one child.

“Audrey, what have you done?” he whispered.

Then, a sound came from behind him—the whoosh of something cutting through the air.

Shaw turned as the blade of an ax hurtled toward his face.

30

I’LL BE GOOD

With a scream of desperation, Audrey, after missing with the first blow to Shaw’s head, swung the ax back, but not before she stepped in closer.

At the last moment, Shaw twisted his head away, but the back of the ax caught him on the side of the temple. It was a feeble blow but acutely aimed, whether by luck or deliberately.

Blinding light exploded behind his eyes, and he staggered sideways.

Audrey crowded closer, eyes wild with bloodlust. “You’re just like the rest of them.” She hefted the ax so the blade end pointed at his head. “Now you can join th⁠—”

He lashed out with a fist, aiming for her head as best he could, and drove it straight and hard into the center of her face just as she was bringing the ax up again for what would’ve been a fatal blow.

Audrey’s face imploded, cratered inward in a spray of blood, mucus, and shattered cartilage as her nose flattened like a pancake under his knuckles.

She went down in a rag doll heap, the ax still clutched in one hand.

Shaw staggered off and plunged headlong into the foliage, dizzy on his feet, not caring which direction he was heading. He just needed to get away from this mad, murderous witch. He pushed his way through like a drunken maniac. Branches raked his face, and vines wrapped around his feet, trying to pull him down. Relentless, he pushed forward, forcing his way through the thick greenery. There had to be a way out of this garden of Hell.

A curdling scream came from behind, spurring him on. Then he heard the slashing, hacking sound of an ax chopping through the undergrowth.

She was coming for him.

Dazed and in pain, he wrestled through the thick undergrowth like he was swimming through a river of molasses, stringy vines, and bony branches pulling at his limbs.

Finally, he broke through and almost fell into the clearing. He saw the barn nearby. He needed to get to it and find a weapon inside.

The slashing, hacking sound behind him grew closer. “Ben!” Audrey shrieked. “You can’t leave. I won’t hurt you. I promise. I’ll be good.”

He took off toward the barn in a stumbling jog, his vision still blurry from the blow to the head. His foot caught on a rock, and he fell to his knees. Spikes of pain shot up both legs. He rose and limped onward.

The barn loomed close. Almost there. Just a few more yards, and he’d be⁠—

His foot snagged on something, an upturned piece of thin metal that stuck out of the dirt. His next footfall struck the ground with a metallic hollowness. The ground flexed inward a few inches, then gave way completely, and he plunged below the surface.

There was a bone-shattering crunch as he landed on his back at the bottom of the muddy pit, two pieces of rusty corrugated metal sheet thudding next to him. Like a hoard of beggars, fleshless fingers quivered over him as he lay dazed. They clawed at his neck, arms, and shoulders. Nodding heads, blank-faced, bone white, and hollow-eyed, pressed up all around him, their rictus grins taunting.

A bone bed of arms, legs, and rib cages rattled and grated beneath him.

He pushed the bodies away and staggered to his feet; he looked up and saw the crude square of watery moonlit sky.

Walls of rough, broken earth rose maybe twelve feet around him. Tree roots twisted in and out of the walls. Bones snapped beneath his feet as he moved to the nearest wall and grabbed a tree root with his good arm. Leaning his weight into the side of the pit and balancing himself on tree roots that stuck out like footholds on a climbing wall, he began hauling himself up and out of the pit.

Reaching the surface, he flopped up over the edge, then rolled onto his back, exhausted.

Instead of the moon, Audrey’s face floated out into the night sky above him. A demented blood moon, a huge crater where her nose had once been. Her mouth opened in a bloody, gnashing snarl. “Look what you fucking did to my face!” Both rows of teeth bowed inward, making it look like she was wearing crooked dentures.

Shaw offered a smile, then grimaced. If it didn’t hurt so much, he would have laughed in her ruined face.

She stood over him, the ax in one hand. “You won’t be smiling in a few minutes.”

“You killed them all,” he said. His smile twisted into a snarl, his eyes cold with hatred for this woman. “Including a baby. A helpless baby.”

Audrey bent down and cocked her head like she was examining a specimen. “I did what I had to do. The child was a demon spawned from the filthy loins of my filthy brother.”

“You killed him too.”

Blood streamed from the twisted appendage that was once her nose and onto her bent teeth. “He deserved to die for what he did to me.”

“And the others? You lured them here, then killed them too, and threw them into that pit.”

“Not all of them. Some came of their own free will, looking for sex. Others like you happened upon this place. And those who weren’t willing,” she gave a wet, gurgling laugh, “I gave them some encouragement.”

“You drugged them the same way you drugged me. Then you raped me.”

Andrey placed the point of the ax blade against his throat. “Your type has been raping and pillaging humanity for centuries. Mankind is the largest rapist in history. You just got a taste of your own medicine for once.”

“You killed a child.”

“Offspring that was never God’s plan.”

Audrey stood up and gripped the ax in both hands. “It’s convenient where you now lie, Ben. I just have to throw the pieces of you into the hole when I’m done.”

She brought the ax up above her head. “We could’ve been lovers, you and I.”

Shaw pushed himself onto one elbow. “Love has nothing to do with it.”

Audrey’s feet were just a few inches from his. He knew he could sweep them out from under her. Then, he would kill her and throw her body into the pit of bones. He tensed his thighs and tilted his hips.

“Goodbye, Ben.” Audrey stepped back, and he knew immediately she was now out of range—that he couldn’t sweep her legs out. Panic flared inside him.

“Let’s start with your feet first, shall we?” she said.

The ax swung down.

31

FIFTY YARDS

A woman’s scream from the rear of the house cut through the night air, and Alex’s hand went instinctively to her gun.

Someone burst through the dense foliage that choked the rear of the homestead. They stumbled into the clearing, then stopped. A man, but she didn’t know for certain from where she was standing among the trees on the opposite side of the clearing.

Alex watched as he began running with a wobbly, drunken gait toward the barn. He fell to his knees, got up, and kept going. Was he injured? Had he been shot? Was it Ben? Questions tumbled into her head as she watched.

It couldn’t be Dean Mason, Alex knew. The size and shape were all wrong. The person was lean, not bulky.

Then, the nape of her neck went crazy at the sight of the stumbling stranger.

Ben?

She didn’t want to break cover until she knew with absolute certainty that it was him. She still had Dean Mason to contend with, and he could be anywhere. His cold, abrasive demeanor when he came to the front door earlier left no doubt in Alex’s mind that he would shoot her without hesitation for trespassing and worry about the consequences later.

Alex was watching the stumbling man when he suddenly vanished. One minute he was there; the next, he was gone.

A woman burst from the thick foliage at the rear of the house—from the same spot the man had. She was carrying something in her hand. A flashlight. No—something else with a long handle. She paused, and her head swiveled around. Then, she set off again toward the barn, following the same path the man had followed just moments before he disappeared.

Then, to her horror, Alex watched something emerge out of the ground. Like a corpse crawling out of a grave, a dark shape rose in front of the woman, forcing her to stop.

Alex’s fingers closed around the butt of her handgun, and she drew it out of its holster. She brought it up two-handed and aimed at the woman.

The man who had crawled out of the ground rolled onto his back. He must have fallen into a pit, some kind of hole, and had climbed out.

Alex stepped out of the trees, the gun up and in front, still aiming at the shape of the woman, and began closing the distance.

The woman was now standing over the man, talking to him. Alex couldn’t make out what she was saying. They were arguing, though. She could tell. The woman’s posture was threatening, and she hadn’t offered to help the man up. The man had been running from her, and now she had caught him.

Alex slowed her breathing and began adding pressure to her trigger finger. It was a tough shot. Fifty yards, she estimated, and at night.

The woman switched to a two-handed grip and raised the object above her head. Moonlight glinted off the tip of the object.

Alex’s heart beat faster when she saw the ax clearly in the woman’s hands.

Her aim wavered, the gun's front sight moving in and out of the woman’s silhouette shape. She would only get one shot.

The woman spoke two words louder, and they floated across the clearing to where Alex was standing.

“Goodbye, Ben.”

Alex settled her aim, then squeezed the trigger.

32

MAYHEM

Oh, Christ! It was too late.

Shaw scurried back along the dirt, but Audrey followed, the ax raised high in her blood-slimed hands.

“Cut your feet off first,” she snarled. “Then your hands.” Her shattered nose, blood-inked face, and the fish-flesh white sclera of her eyes all blended into a grotesque mask of hatred that filled his vision.

She was looking down, tilting her head so she could see his face better, her pale lips stretched back across blood-stained teeth. Making sure her heartless grin was the last thing he saw of this world before the cold steel of the ax hacked into his flesh, then chopped his body to pieces like on a butcher’s block.

I just have to throw the pieces of you into the hole when I’m done. The words echoed in his head. And at that exact moment, he gave up. He had no fight left to give. It was over.

He waited for the searing pain across his ankles. Her heartless grin burned in his mind.

Drops of rain, warm, soft, and meaty, speckled his face. Then a sound, a loud crack, a gunshot, floated across the clearing to where he lay.

Audrey’s head kicked back violently, and the ax fell from her grasp before the blade sunk into the dirt, with the handle sticking up between Shaw’s splayed legs.

Wide-eyed and with her mouth gaping, Audrey sank to her knees in front of him, a dark, weeping hole in the middle of her forehead. Her body teetered, then toppled sideways into the dirt, the side of her head thudding once before settling. One dead eye stared back at him with a look of shock and disbelief.

The shot boomed out across the clearing, and Alex watched the woman sink to her knees and then collapse into the dirt. What the hell? Alex tilted the gun in her hand. No recoil. No earsplitting bang. No round ejected. Her mind tried to comprehend what had just happened.

The sound?

Instinctively, she whirled around and hurled herself behind the nearest tree. The shot had not come from her. She hadn’t fired her gun. Looking up, she saw Ben still lying on the ground, exposed, out in the open. Getting to her feet, Alex sprinted back to the Explorer, threw herself behind the wheel, keyed the ignition, and hit the gas.

The SUV lurched forward and smashed through the scrub. Low branches bounced off the sides as Alex swerved around the tree trunks, then careened into the clearing. Free from the forest, she floored the gas pedal, her eyes locked on Ben. The rear end of the Explorer fishtailed, and the chunky tires spewed up rock and dirt as it raced across the clearing.

A tree stump, wide and gnarly, bobbed into the twin funnels of the SUV’s headlights. She flipped the wheel without thinking, her mind on autopilot, years of driver training blending with her determination to save him.

The SUV slewed sideways, missing the stump by inches, then straightened as she brought it back on course, aiming the middle of the hood at where Ben was. Through the windshield, she could see him clearly now. She couldn’t believe it. He was getting to his feet? “Get down, you dumb sh⁠—”

A bullet thudded into the tailgate of the Explorer. Then another.

Fuck!

Peering in the rear-view mirror, her eyes searched the darkness behind her.

Then, a twinkle of light. A muzzle flashed to the right, maybe a hundred yards from where she had been hiding. She jerked the steering wheel, trying to avoid the next shot, but it slammed into the side rear fender a split second later.

He’d been there all along—the shooter, watching and waiting in the trees just like her, but for an entirely different reason.

She pressed the accelerator some more, trying to coax more power out of the engine. It gave a sluggish surge as it jostled across the lumpy ground.

Reaching Ben, Alex hit the brakes and slid sideways to a stop, shielding him from the direction the shots were coming from. She powered down the passenger side window and then screamed. “Get the fuc—” Her side mirror exploded off its mount, and Alex ducked down. She crawled across the seat and tugged the passenger side handle, then kicked open the side door.

Shaw threw himself in and landed on top of her.

“Get the hell off me,” she yelled, then squirmed out from under him and crawled back into her own seat, keeping her head low. She grabbed the steering wheel and glanced over at Shaw. “Uber for some dumbass who doesn’t know when to duck his big head when he’s getting shot at?”

Shaw did a double-take. “You’re kidding me,” he said, his eyes swimming over her face.

“I kid you not,” Alex said, putting the SUV into gear. “And you are a dumbass. I guess in the Secret Service, they teach you how to take a bullet, not how to fucking avoid one.”

Another round slammed into the rear of the SUV, and Shaw ducked down. “Go! Go! Go!” 

Turning the wheel, she hit the gas and aimed for the homestead. She sped around the front, then onto the dirt road. She glanced in the rear-view mirror, wishing she had her AR on the seat next to her instead of in the back.

The SUV tore along the dirt road before plunging into the forest, tall trees sprouting up on either side. Alex let out a breath and eased off the gas. They were safe. She glanced at Shaw. “The chick with the ax back there? An ex-girlfriend of yours?”

Shaw touched the back of his head. “I only have eyes for you, Alex. You should know that.” His fingertips came away red.

“You hit?” Alex asked, feeling slightly alarmed.

“Flesh wound. Nothing.” He turned to her. “How the hell did you find me?”

She smiled. “Long story. And the guy shooting at you?”

Shaw rubbed blood on his jeans. “An even longer story.”

“And the woman with the ax?” Alex shook her head and smiled. “Boy, you must have really pissed her off big time.” She let out a breath. “Seriously, who was she? Audrey Mason?”

Shaw looked at her. “How the hell did you know that?”

“All in the fullness of time.” There was plenty to explain from both of them. But for now, Alex wanted to get as much distance as she could between them and whoever was shooting at them.

The track narrowed, and she saw the lights of the billboard through the trees up ahead.

Shaw laid his head back on the headrest and closed his eyes.

She glanced at him. He looked out of it, disoriented. “She drugged you, didn’t she?”

He nodded, his eyes still closed.

At the billboard, she slowed to a stop and stared through the rearview, looking for headlights behind them. Where was he? Was he chasing after them? The shooter was cunning and extremely patient. For all she knew, he could be following them right now. It was a good thing she had parked so close to the edge of the clearing. Otherwise, Ben would be dead, and so would she trying to save him.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Away from here.” Alex turned back onto the sealed road and floored the accelerator.

“Thanks,” he said.

“For what?” She knew exactly for what, but just wanted to hear him say it.

“For saving my life.”

There you go. The bristling feeling at the nape of her neck had vanished, replaced by a much better sensation: a warm tingling in the pit of her stomach.

“I guess we’re even now, Ben.”

He cocked open one eye. “We’ll never be even, Alex. You are better than me, always will be.”

The warm tingling inside her glowed a little warmer. He sounded drowsy. What had that bitch given him? And what about Dean Mason? Where was he?

Shaw’s head lolled against the headrest, his voice almost a whisper now. “And you’re always one step ahead of me, too.”

33

THE GRAY MAN

With dirt spewing from under its tires and headlight beams swaying wildly in the dark, he watched the SUV speed along the dirt track and away from the homestead before taking the bend and vanishing behind the trees.

He panned his rifle across the open ground between the homestead and the barn to where the body of the woman lay on her side. Dead eyes, empty and magnified, stared back at him through the scope as though the woman was within arm’s reach.

Beware the fury of a patient man. It was one of his favorite quotes. It had taken him a lot of patience to track down the man since he fled from the gravesite—the man he had underestimated. A man who had choked him unconscious and could easily have killed him. But unlike Samuel Pritchard, the young man possessed that unfortunate disease, empathy.

After Pritchard had regained consciousness, he crawled to the edge of the grave and saw the young man straddling the woman, wholly preoccupied with trying to revive her.

Witnessing such selfless courage made Pritchard all the more intrigued. He couldn’t care less about the woman. He had picked her up as a hitchhiker, only to discover what a pathetic, sniveling whore she was. All she did was moan and groan about her ex-boyfriend and how he cheated on her. Worthless piece of shit she was. An insect that he toyed with until he got bored and buried deep in the earth.

And yet the young man chose to save her over killing him. She was a nobody to him.

A good Samaritan, he must be, and Pritchard had killed a few of them over the years. Those unfortunate strangers who interrupted him while digging a grave, carrying a body, or rendering a young woman unconscious with chloroform, his preferred choice of all things unconscious.

He scanned the area again with the night vision scope attached to his rifle. Satisfied that there was no one else, he stepped from behind the tree, shouldered his rifle, and began the trek back to where the truck was hidden.

He had given the young man many chances while toying with him. He didn’t plan to shoot him dead in that phone booth that he had used as bait. He knew he would head toward the old gas station. So he had set himself up on a cluster of rocks half a mile away and waited.

A patient man.

It was all just a game. Then, when the young man ran, Pritchard watched as an SUV came out of the dying light and offered him a ride. Then, the game had gotten interesting. It was another delicious opportunity for Pritchard. It was an easy shot to take out the woman. The distance the young man had driven the SUV before eventually running it off the highway and crashing surprised him.

Then he watched as the man crawled out of the wreckage just before it exploded into a ball of fire. Pritchard watched for a few moments more as the man got to his feet and stumbled away, cradling his arm. He was injured, but not by a bullet.

Pritchard then retreated to a large truck stop a few miles away, parked his truck alongside the others to blend in, took a shower, and got a hot meal in the diner there. After eating, he retired to the sleeping pod in his truck, pulled out a map, and began to strategize where the young man would run next. Certainly not the police, unless he wanted to implicate himself in the murder of an innocent woman.

The next morning, after decoupling the truck unit from the trailer, he searched the area north of the crash site and stumbled across the homestead. He figured it was worth taking a closer look at. But first, he needed to find a proper place big enough to hide himself and his truck. Consulting the map again, he found the perfect location: a massive, abandoned industrial building a few miles north of Ravenwood.

With ample food and water stashed in the truck, he returned to the homestead, and parked the truck nearby, but well hidden. Then he waited and watched the property from the trees, his rifle within easy reach. Before noon, he had seen the woman emerge and head to the barn carrying a chicken, its neck broken. If he was wrong, and the man wasn’t there, the woman would have been a worthy prize. As he watched her wash the bloody ax after cutting the chicken’s head off, he had fantasized about burying the ax in her face.

After dark, he finally reaped the rewards of his patience. The young man emerged from the thick wall of foliage at the rear of the homestead, and Pritchard’s hunting instincts had paid off.

Game over. He was going to end the man’s life there and then. No one escaped Pritchard.

Then, to his amazement, he saw the woman emerge, carrying an ax. Who was she to spoil his plans? Pritchard thought as he watched her through his rifle scope.

After putting a bullet in the woman’s head, Pritchard was about to kill the man when the SUV tore across the clearing and blocked his shot. He was tempted to kill the woman driving, but he hesitated. The mystery woman had piqued his interest. She certainly seemed to have more fight in her than the one he had buried.

He didn’t know who she was or where she had come from.

From the darkness, the truck unit appeared behind a cluster of trees. Opening the cab door, he placed his rifle inside, climbed in, and started up the truck.

This truck was better than the tanker truck he used to drive before the FBI raided his property in Utah and seized it. He had been lucky to escape that night, but he was always prepared to leave at a moment’s notice, to walk out the door and never return.

That’s the life he lived.

No doubt the FBI had also found his treasure chest, a collection of memorabilia taken from all his past victims. He wasn’t happy about losing it, but he intended to build a bigger and much better one.

He used his GMC pickup truck to escape the Feds in Utah. But he had to get rid of it soon after. It now lay at the bottom of a lake with a body inside.

He had driven up to Maine and then spent some time in Canada. There, he met Raymond Casey, another nomadic truck driver just like him, who was hauling lumber as a contractor in the forests of Québec and Ontario. Pritchard befriended him and learned as much as he could about him.

Pritchard had always prided himself on being a lone wolf, being completely independent. However, Casey had taken it to another level. He introduced Pritchard to the concept of being a Gray Man. Like Pritchard, Casey had no family, ties, or commitments. It was the fact that he was also of a similar age, build, and looked like Pritchard that first made the outline of a devious plot form inside Pritchard’s head.

Casey lived a nomadic life as a truck driver. He lived in his cab, showered at truck stops, and ate in diners, always paying with cash, leaving no electronic trail. Casey’s employers even paid him in cash. Pritchard reasoned that if you don’t exist, then people won’t miss you.

The real Raymond Casey was now strapped to the passenger seat of Pritchard’s GMC pickup truck at the bottom of some lake somewhere between Québec and Ontario.

First, he changed Casey’s DMV records with a quick phone call on Casey’s prepaid cell phone, giving the operator some anonymous address in the middle of nowhere. Next, he went to New Brunswick, Canada, and began hauling lumber between Ontario and Québec, using companies Casey hadn’t worked for. They looked alike but weren’t identical, and Pritchard couldn’t risk a supervisor spotting the difference.

Pritchard insisted on being paid in cash. Given the driver shortage, there were no questions asked and no problems being paid in cash.

After a few years, the FBI's interest in him died down, and Pritchard crossed back into the United States on another haulage contract, but this time, he was working for a U.S. freight company.

That’s when he had been driving through New England, near White Mountain, and made the dumb mistake of picking up a young man hitchhiking on the roadside.

34

THREE-LEGGED PIG

“Are you crazy?” Alex was behind the wheel.

In the passenger seat, Shaw was fully awake now.

She glanced quickly at Shaw. “Look, we need to call the State Police. Get them involved in looking for this crazy truck driver.”

Shaw had spent the last twenty minutes recounting to her everything from the moment he was abducted in New Hampshire to Audrey Mason almost turning him into human sushi. Alex had sat patiently, her eyes focused on the road, occasionally glancing in the rearview to see if they were being followed.

“No,” Shaw replied. “I’m not crazy.”

“No? No?” she said incredulously. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She had just saved him from one crazy ax-wielding woman, then being shot at by some psychopathic truck driver called Sam, who had buried alive a woman and killed a pregnant one who had given Shaw a ride.

“Look, Alex, I really appreciate what you did back there, but⁠—”

“No buts, Ben. We’re not going back to find this guy. Leave it to the authorities. He’s probably miles away by now.”

“You don’t understand. He killed three women.”

“Two,” Alex corrected him. “I wouldn’t be counting ax-wielding Audrey in that body count. She drugged you, pretended to be her dead brother, who she had killed anyway, then… then….”

“I know what she did,” Shaw said softly.

“Killed a baby and six other unsuspecting men just like you. You could have been the eighth grave in that backyard or ended up in that bone pit of hers. If you ask me, she’s a black widow who got what she deserved. I was about to shoot her myself.” Alex let out a sigh. “Look, Ben, we need to tell the right people. They need to go back to that homestead and exhume those bodies. Families are now involved, and people need to know what happened to those missing men.”

Shaw shook his head. “You call the cops, and you’ll implicate yourself. And if you do, I can guarantee that when you get back to D.C., the FBI will be waiting to interrogate you about everything. You’ll be writing up paperwork for the next six months.”

“So, we tell no one?”

Shaw said nothing, just stared out the window.

“Ben?”

Shaw nodded. “Well, first, we’re going to find a quiet place to pull over. Then you’re going to tell me everything that happened to you today. Everything. I want to know how you found me, from the moment you arrived at that phone booth to now. There may be some clues.”

“Clues? What the hell are you talking about?” The last few minutes had been a blur for Alex. Her mind was still processing what had happened back at the homestead.

“What weapons do you have?” he asked.

“I’m not going on some vigilante crusade with you, Ben. So, get that idea right out of your head.”

“What are you carrying?”

Alex sighed. “A Glock 9mm semi-automatic handgun with two spare full magazines on me. In the trunk are a hundred rounds of 9mm, a Remington 12-gauge shotgun, two boxes of shotgun shells, and an LAR-15 semi-automatic carbine with two hundred rounds of 5.56 ammunition.”

Shaw whistled. “What did you think you were going to run into?”

“I just like to be prepared,” she said in a haughty tone. Despite the firepower, she found herself unprepared for what had unfolded in a matter of seconds. The guy was hiding in the forest, maybe a few feet from her, and she did not know he was there.

“Sam, that’s the only name you have?” Alex asked.

“That’s what he said when he first gave me a ride.”

“No truck license plate either?”

“The name might be false, and someone could have taken the plates from another truck, even if I saw them.”

A few miles later, a glow appeared on the horizon directly ahead. Then, the darkness lit up almost like daylight. On the left, another gas station with a large twenty-four-hour restaurant came into view. It was an oasis of bright lights and neon colors.

“Slow down, but don’t stop,” Shaw said.

The speed limit dropped, and Alex eased up on the gas. A few cars of various sizes were parked, and she could see people eating through the restaurant windows. On the left, across the highway from the gas station, an orange neon sign glowed in the darkness.

“Pull in there,” Shaw said, pointing at the small motel across the road.

The flashing neon sign read Hound Dog Motel beneath a bright blue neon dog with a wagging tail. The neon legs of the dog flashed intermittently, intending to give the impression the dog was walking. However, some of the neon tubes had broken, making it look like a three-legged pig.

“We’re going straight to D.C.” Alex gripped the wheel harder. “We’re not hanging around here.”

Shaw turned to her and touched her knee. “Please, Alex. Pull over. We need to talk.”

Against her better judgment, Alex made a tight turn and drove into the entrance.

The motel was stuck in a time warp: a tired, faded version of its former self. The main building resembled a prison block. It was a long, squat affair of cinderblock that had been last painted back in the nineteen-sixties, maybe yellow, she guessed. Heat, windblown grit, and a layer of neglect gave it a smudgy charcoal finish. There was an office at the front and an uneven spread of crumbling blacktop on the right with faded yellow parking lines.

There were ten rooms with their own assigned parking space out front. Each room had an ancient air conditioner cut into the front window and a standard brown door that she knew her now-deceased grandmother could take off the hinges with one modest kick. Threadbare lime-green curtains completed the vintage look. At one time, there had been garden beds, but any form of vegetation they now contained looked like a nuclear blast had rolled through the area, reducing anything green to a brown, brittle husk.

Two rooms near the office appeared to be in use. A slit of light shone between the curtains of both rooms.

Shaw made Alex drive to the end of the row and park outside the farthest room. He told her to back into the parking space, then kill the engine and the lights.

They sat in silence in the shadows and watched. All that was needed to complete the creepy scene was for Norman Bates to come out of the front office to offer them a room for the night.

The rooms seemed to be allocated in sequence, starting with the one closest to the office. That made sense to Alex. Less distance for the maid to travel with her cleaning cart. She doubted the rooms were cleaned daily, only when the tenants checked out.

Alex turned to Shaw. Most of his face was in shadow. “What now?”

“Just stay here.”

She grabbed his hand as he was about to open the door. “Ben, let’s keep driving. Get to my place in D.C. Then we can discuss it there.”

Shaw’s expression softened as he looked at her.

Maybe she had been too harsh with him, considering all he had been through. “Look, Ben, I’m sorry about what happened to you. It must have been awful. But this has blown into something well above my pay grade.”

He held her gaze for a few seconds, and she saw a flicker of pain in his eyes—and something else. Anger. Pure suppressed anger, the need for revenge.

She let go of his hand. “Okay,” she whispered, unsure why a warm feeling was seeping through her. “I understand. You want justice.”

Shaw said nothing. He climbed out and walked to the front office.

35

SLAUGHTERHOUSE

Sam Pritchard had a talent for finding places to hide himself and his truck properly if the need arose.

Cullen’s Slaughterhouse was a disused abattoir and hide tannery owned by the Cullen Family, a land-rich cattle and farming family, built in the eighteenth century.

It was closed down in the nineteen fifties when chemicals were discovered leaching into the soil and ending up in the local creeks. Situated five miles north of Ravenwood, the nearest landmark to it was Martha’s End Elementary School, two miles to the south. It was rumored that during the time of the Civil War, certain members of the Cullen family would use the slaughterhouse to torture and then kill slaves by hanging them from meat hooks.

Pritchard could just make out some of the building features in the gloom. The old tannery was ringed by a fence. At the front was a large set of gates padlocked with a chain and the front yard was scattered with machinery, piles of scrap metal, and what looked like the shape of a delivery truck that sagged to one side. The place was dark and desolate.

He skirted around the edge of the forest, keeping a few rows back, hidden within the tree line, watching the dark, ominous shape of the building as he circled the perimeter and along the side. Pritchard watched for any sign of movement, the flare of a light, or the slightest twinkle of metal. The place looked cold and dead, an edifice to industrial decline and abandonment.

The perimeter fence had jagged gaps where thieves had torn out the wire. Over the decades, the place would have been ransacked, stripped of anything remotely valuable. Machinery left abandoned, metal wiring, copper pipe, electrical conduit, all pulled, wrenched, stripped and stolen. What was left was the decaying carcass of a business long since closed or shipped offshore. There were thousands of places just like this one scattered across the country, usually at the end of some back road or buried deep in the scrub off the main highway or on the edge of a once populous and thriving town. Once proud factories, serving the community, providing jobs, and sustaining families, are now gone, with just a desolate, barren wasteland in their place.

He paused in the shadows of the tree line and watched the building for five more minutes just to make sure there had been no intruders since he was last here. Then he retraced his steps back through the forest to where he had parked the truck unit. The ground was hard and cold, brittle, with a layer of frost. The clouds had cleared and the sky above was dark, cold and clear with a smudge of stars. He climbed into the truck unit and started the engine. The road cut through flat scrub, the stars fading and the sky turning to a purple smudge. He pulled up in front of the gates, climbed down, undid the padlock and chain he had installed, then drove through before locking the gate behind him. The broken blacktop gave way to a flat road of crushed road base that churned under the truck’s tires.

A hundred yards later, the truck rolled onto the outside loading dock, then into the cavernous interior of the abandoned building. Pritchard eased the truck next to a concrete column, killed the lights, and turned off the engine. The truck hissed and hunkered down.

The air inside the old abattoir was dank and dusty. Pritchard climbed down and went to the side of the truck where the hidden compartment was. It wasn’t as big as the hidden compartment on his previous tanker truck, which Pritchard had modified. A secret release button was underneath the main chassis, a large steel sliding tray on steel arms with rollers protruding from underneath the truck. It was nicely padded, too, with enough space for an adult-sized person to fit inside. This similar system was half the size, allowing him only to store his rifle, ammunition, and tools he used, including several shovels, knives, bottles of chloroform, face acid, several choke leashes, handcuffs, cable ties, and spray bottles of alcohol and bleach to remove his prints and DNA. Pritchard’s new truck was still a meticulously outfitted mobile abduction and body disposal vehicle. His workplace, where he could still fulfill his passion for picking up, subduing, and then disposing of his carefully chosen victims.

Circumstances had caused some changes, though. All abductees were now lured into the truck cab with the promise of a ride somewhere. Once they had taken a drink from his special concoction and began feeling drowsy, he encouraged them to crawl back into the sleeping pod behind the seats and take a nap. Once they were there, he would then pull over and administer a much stronger sedative via a hypodermic needle that would knock them out for at least twelve hours, more than enough time for him to find a secluded location where he would take them to be enjoyed at his leisure.

When they woke, they would find themselves right in the middle of a nightmare they would never wake up from.

The drawer slid out, and he did a quick inventory, ensuring he had everything he needed. The plan had changed. He didn’t want the young man anymore. Sure, he would kill him when he found them. But it was the woman who had rescued him that Pritchard now wanted. He needed to get everything ready and just perfect for her.

Like before, the voices had returned, restless, goading. “Kill her. Torture her good, then kill her,” they whispered in his ear. Evil little tongues twisted his brain, taunting him and driving him insane. He wanted to eat her, sink his sharpened teeth deep into her skin, and taste the sweet flesh that throbbed and glistened beneath. Consume her spirit, then release her soul. And like all the other women whose souls he had freed—and there had been plenty—salvation was coming for her, too.

She was going to make up for all the frustration, anger, and disappointment he had endured over the last few days. He had a special kind of hell planned, all just for her.

36

PLANS

The room, small and musty but surprisingly clean, made Shaw doubt it had been occupied for a while since it was at the end of the property.

Fake dark wood veneer covered the walls surrounding two beds covered in brown bedspreads. Between the beds was a set of drawers and a cheap lamp that cast a dull wedge of yellow against the dark wall when Shaw flicked on the light switch next to the door.

An old television sat on a low chest of drawers against the opposite wall. Next to it was a telephone and, in the corner, a small refrigerator with a microwave on top, the white enamel chipped and rusted. The bathroom had a small shower stall, a heavy ceramic sink, and a toilet. There was a small sliding window above the toilet, and the glass was filmed with grime and cobwebs on the outside.

“I need to treat your wounds,” Alex said, coming to him, concern in her eyes as she looked him over. She touched his shoulder gently where Audrey’s knife had slit into him. “What did that bitch do to you?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just a shallow knife wound.”

“And your face?”

“Just a few scratches. Most of the blood belongs to her from when she was shot in the head. She was standing over me.”

“Yeah, about to chop you in half. I saw. How about your arm that was burned?”

“It stings, but I’ll manage.”

“Well, I want to look at that, too. Get you all patched up. I’ve got a proper medical kit in the car.”

“I need to take a shower first. Clean myself up,” Shaw replied as he continued to look around the room. Mud, blood, dirt, and the stench of old bones clung to him from the charnel pit he had crawled out of, and he still felt a little woozy from the sedatives Audrey had given him. A long hot shower should bring his senses back fully—and coffee. Plenty of coffee.

Alex gave him a puzzling look. “Then what?”

“Then we’re going to sit down, and I’m going to explain to you again everything I know,” he replied. “And you’re going to tell me what you know. But first,” he spotted the ancient Bakelite kettle on the sideboard with packets of instant coffee and tea bags. “I need coffee. Plenty of it, but not that instant garbage.”

“And food,” Alex added. “Go take a shower, Ben, and I’ll grab some supplies.”

“Thank you—for everything.”

She touched his face. “I’m just glad I found you alive, even though you look like you’ve fought off an army of vampires.”

“That makes two of us. Go back to the car and get your things. Bring what you need.”

Alex returned with her overnight bag and medical kit and gave Shaw some toiletries. “Freshen up while I get us coffee and something to eat.”

Shaw closed the bathroom door.

She drew the curtains, then went outside and closed the door behind her.

At the rear of the property, she found a bare patch of dirt wide enough to take the SUV. She moved the vehicle onto the dirt, so it was out of sight from the street but still close. Despite the bristling sensation at the nape of her neck being gone, something was still troubling her. Sam, or whoever the hell he was, didn’t seem like the type of person just to give up and walk away. He was patient, meticulous, and utterly ruthless. He would not give up that easily.

Walking past the dirt patch, the ground gently sloped away to a low wire fence that seemed to run the entire length of the property. Beyond the fence, a pale vista opened under the moonlight, a flat barren expanse scattered with a few rocks and the brooding shapes of trees. The fence was low, and the posts were crudely buried in the dirt with no concrete footing. She shook several of them, and they were loose. The Explorer could easily ram through the fence and get across the land beyond with little trouble.

Pleased that she had found a secondary escape route if needed, she climbed back up to the rear of the property. There was no movement in the parking lot; everything looked quiet. She opened the rear of the Explorer and checked the weapons she had, not worried about how she was going to explain the damage to the vehicle to her boss.

She’d think of something.

Shaw was sitting on the bed wearing only a bath towel around his waist when she returned with the food from the gas station diner across the highway.

Except for his jacket, he had washed everything in the shower with soap and left them to dry on the rail. To Alex, he looked almost human again, refreshed and more alert than he had looked before.

She sat on the opposite bed and carefully laid out the food. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I got burgers and fries.” She handed him a large takeout cup of coffee.

“Burgers and fries are good,” he said, taking the coffee, then taking a gulp.

Opening the first aid kit, she began organizing what she needed. “Ben, I want you to tell me again exactly what happened, from the moment you climbed into that man’s truck back in New Hampshire. Leave no detail out, no matter how insignificant you may think it is.”

Shaw nodded, then gulped down more coffee. During the next hour, she cleaned and applied antiseptic to every cut and graze; then, she applied burn cream to his forearm before changing the dressing. For the knife wound on his shoulder, she used a butterfly bandage to close it. While she worked, he recounted what he knew in more detail than he had covered during the drive there. His words were slow and deliberate. All the while, she could see a loathing behind his eyes, and his lips were twisted, not in disgust, but in the simmering revenge he wanted to inflict on the man called Sam. And while she listened, Alex felt her own emotions change. She could hardly blame him for wanting revenge.

Shaw laid out a description of what Sam looked like, a Willie Nelson fatherly figure. Late sixties. Gray hair and beard, ponytail, with kind eyes. The kind eyes made her skin crawl. Mean, cruel, demented eyes, she expected and could understand. But kind eyes somehow made Sam infinitely creepier—and more dangerous.

Things were happening rapidly, and her mind was struggling to comprehend the fact that if this man weren’t stopped, he would continue to murder countless more women. God knows how many graves of his littered the countryside, from the east coast to the west coast. But they had to face reality.

“All done,” Alex said, admiring her first aid handiwork before packing up the medical supplies. “He’s probably long gone by now unless he wanted to be hunted by every law enforcement agency in the country. It wouldn’t make sense for him to hang around.”

Shaw got off the bed, paced the room, and then turned back to Alex. “He’s a murdering psychopath. Sense doesn’t play a part in how he thinks.”

Alex flicked the TV remote and got the local news channel. There was no mention of police arriving at the Mason property or some crazed truck driver shooting up the highway with a high-powered rifle. What did she expect? The man’s face plastered all over the screen? She flicked through the channels, searching for any snippet of relevant news.

“Turn it off,” he said brusquely. “He’s too clever.”

Alex flicked off the TV. “Then let’s go to the police. Tell them everything. Give them the description you just gave me. Let them find him.”

Shaw shook his head. “They won’t find him. He’s not new to this, Alex. He’s got all contingencies covered—escape routes planned well in advance, and nothing left to chance.”

“But you escaped.”

Shaw gave a cold, ruthless smile, and for a moment, the bristling sensation returned to the base of Alex’s neck. “He just underestimated me. He won’t make the same mistake when we meet again.”

37

REVENGE

“And you’re certain you can recognize him again?” More than anything, Alex could see that he wanted to find Sam, and if she wasn’t willing to help, then she knew without a doubt he would go it alone.

“I’ll recognize him,” Shaw replied. “And you forget my training. I’m good at recognizing faces, committing them to memory, and retrieving them months, maybe years later, all in exquisite detail from just a glimpse. I can allow for aging, a few more wrinkles, changes in a person’s weight, even plastic surgery.”

“I know, Ben. But he drugged you. You were semiconscious at best when you woke up and saw him digging those graves.”

“Makes no difference. Will you help me?”

It was a blunt, direct question she knew was coming. He needed her. He needed her trust because right now, for all she knew, the local police could soon be hunting them as well. Someone could have seen her SUV leaving the Mason property and called it in.

“You work for the government, Alex,” Shaw said, not waiting for her answer. “You know how this will go down if you contact your superiors. He’ll just slip through while all the bureaucratic red tape gets rolled out. You told me you were fighting a losing war on drugs. Too much political interference. We need to act now, not wait for some FBI stooge to hold a committee meeting and decide what to do.”

He wasn’t exactly wrong, but not exactly right either. “You want to kill him yourself, don’t you?” It was a valid question. She had seen firsthand what Ben had done in that cornfield in Utah. However, this sudden, unbridled thirst for revenge was something else. It was quickly becoming his obsession. He had been pacing the motel room like a caged animal waiting to be released into the wild to hunt down and kill its prey.

“You don’t want me to?” he replied, disbelief in his eyes. “After everything I’ve told you?”

Alex swallowed hard. Now, he was getting angry with her for not seeing the world—his world—as he did. As much as she liked Clint Eastwood westerns, this wasn’t the Wild West nor Hollywood. Sure, she fist pumped the air when old Clint, vastly outnumbered and outgunned, casually picked off the bad guys in a frontier mining town or vigilante motorcycle cops in San Francisco executing local mobsters, but this wasn’t the same. He was backing her into a corner. Of course, she wanted justice for Sam to be caught and thrown in jail to rot. Ben, however, had a different interpretation of justice.

“I want him caught, Ben. You know that. I want him to pay for what he did to you and all the others.”

“Caught?” Shaw stifled a laugh. “He won’t get caught. Don’t you get it?”

“So let’s just find him and execute him?” Alex could feel her own anger rising. “So now you’re judge, jury, and executioner? Fuck the police and the courts, is that it? Will the world be a better place if we do?” Christ, forget about Clint Eastwood. He wants to be Judge Dredd.

“I can’t say. But people like him don’t deserve to be in prison.”

“I need your word, Ben.”

“That I’m one of the good guys? That I need to convince you?”

“I want your word that you won’t just execute him on sight if we find him.”

“So, you’ll help me?”

“Your word.”

For a moment, Shaw said nothing.

“Otherwise, we need to tell the police. Let them deal with it.”

Shaw gave a thin smile. “That would be the commonsense thing to do. But⁠—”

“But what?” Alex stood up. “A man’s got to know his limitations.” It was her favorite quote.

“I prefer my approach.”

“Like what? Are you crazy? I don’t do things like this.” Alex raised her voice. “There are procedures to be⁠—”

He rounded on her, fire in his eyes. “To hell with the procedures! What procedures did he follow when he buried that young woman alive?” Shaw looked away. “If we go to the police, they may arrest us, throw us in jail too, or at least me.”

Alex let out a slow breath. “I want to help you.” She went to touch his shoulder, but he shrugged her off. “Just promise me.”

He turned his back on her. “All I can promise you is that I’ll give you a chance to arrest him when we find him. But if he resists, or it comes down to us or him, we must be prepared to kill or be killed.”

“Then all bets are off,” Alex conceded. She touched his shoulder, and this time, he let her and pivoted to face her. “I’m in, Ben. I will help you. Even though I doubt we’ll find him. Like I said, he’s probably long gone by now.”

Shaw shook his head. “You’re not thinking like him. He’s close. Real close.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

He shrugged. “Gut feel.”

Alex rubbed the back of her neck. The slightly bristling sensation she had felt before was still there, shimmering beneath her skin. Not stronger, not weaker. Just there.

“Isn’t that how you found me?” Shaw asked. “Gut feel? You said you were halfway to D.C. when you turned around and came back to Ravenwood.”

Alex let his words sink in. Then, a reluctant smile spread across her face. Maybe things weren’t as straightforward as just going to the police and telling them.

“So, what do we do?” Alex asked. “My gut feel isn’t telling me anything at the moment.”

“This guy doesn’t like losing. He said it was a mistake—him taking me.” Shaw frowned as if trying to remember the exact words of his conversation with Sam. “That it was impulsive when he saw me on the side of the road and thought, why not?”

He gave a labored exhale; then, his voice seemed to age like he was dropping into character. “I don’t take men,” he said, his voice cold and creepy, “Never have. I wouldn’t know what to do with them. Women are different. They give me enjoyment.” The way he now looked at her made her shiver.

“But men,” he shrugged, “I find nothing in them. Hollow. Empty. Unchallenging.”

Reaching out, he touched Alex’s hair. “I live only for women, and they only live so they can die for me.”

To Alex, it felt like someone had sucked all the air out of the small, dingy room. Shaw kept looking deep into her eyes. Then he blinked and let go of the loose strands of her hair he was holding.

Now it made sense, Ben’s plan. “You’re going to use me as bait?”

His silence was his answer.

“I want to help you, and you want to dangle me on a hook for him as bait?”

“You’re more than capable of handling yourself, Alex,” he said in his own voice, “in any situation. You’ve demonstrated that already.”

Alex rolled her eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“Look, you need to trust me on this.” He looked her in the eyes again, but not like he had before, and Alex remembered the kiss she had unashamedly planted on him the last time she saw him. “I do trust you. But I still want to know exactly how you plan to find him.”

“He found me once; he’ll find me again. We just need to make it easier for him this time.”

38

BIRDCAGE

“There has to be a big truck stop somewhere around here,” Shaw said, looking out the window at the setting sun while Alex drove.

After getting some much-needed sleep, they had risen early, packed up, then left the motel and spent most of the day at various gas stations, roadside diners, and other likely rest stops, making themselves and their SUV as conspicuous as possible to draw out Sam.

“I don’t think I can eat any more fried food,” she said. “There must be one around here. I’ve seen so many trucks on the highway already.” She squinted through the windshield. “Another town coming up.”

In the distance, a small town came into view. A cluster of low buildings appeared on the darkening horizon, the black ribbon of highway heading straight toward them.

“Bingo,” Shaw said. “It’s not a town.”

Alex slowed the Explorer. A behemoth of glowing neon, concrete, steel, and glass, all wrapped in vivid corporate colors and topped with myriad brightly lit food franchise signs, came into view.

“Christ, every trucker west of Philly must pass through here,” Alex said.

“Exactly. Pull in.”

Alex pulled into the huge truck stop. It looked like a mini theme park. A large diner was connected to a huge convenience store that would rival a Walmart, ten food and beverage franchises, and even a small regional bank.

Past the eight rows of gas pumps and EV charging stations was a wide expanse of hardstands for long-haul trucks to park. Several trucks of varying sizes were parked, and their drivers were undoubtedly inside the diner or asleep in the rear cab.

“Go around to the other side, Alex. Away from the trucks, but park where any truck driver who pulls in off the highway can still see your SUV.”

They parked away from the main building but close to the entrance. No truck driver pulling in could help but walk past the Explorer.

“Let’s go,” Shaw said.

“What about security cameras?”

From where they parked, Shaw could see three cameras along the front of the diner and store and three more on high pylons near the pumps. “Makes no difference. No one really looks at the footage unless there’s a robbery or a gas theft. They will keep recording, and in four or five days, they will automatically overwrite themselves.”

“Speaking from experience, are you?” Alex asked, raising an eyebrow. “But, no, what I meant was, should we go inside and ask to see the footage for the last few days? He may have stopped here already.”

Shaw thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “We don’t have the time to wade through hours and hours of video. Plus, if you go flashing your DEA badge around asking questions, I’ll guarantee word will spread, and within ten minutes, there won’t be a single truck here. Some truckers will get on their radios and warn off others in the area to stay away, thinking that the DEA is here busting drivers for hauling drugs.”

Alex nodded. “You’re right. Sorry, I should have thought of that.”

They both got out and, with heads held high, acting normal like everyone else, headed to the diner.

“Anything look familiar?” Alex asked.

As they crossed the forecourt, and without being obvious, Shaw scanned the row of trucks that were parked. “Not that I can tell.” They must have visited a dozen sites since leaving the motel this morning, but this was the first serious truck stop they had encountered.

The convenience store was huge, and once inside, he scanned the customers’ faces as they made their way through a large arched passageway that connected the store to the diner.

In the diner, they deliberately found a booth in front of an expansive stretch of window glass that took in the entire forecourt, including the truck parking lot, the highway, and all entrances and exits. He could see everyone arriving and leaving the complex. And they could see them.

“I feel like a bird in a cage for all the world to see,” Alex said. “This place is massive.”

Shaw sat across from her, his attention on the nearest exits and the other patrons in the diner. “That’s the plan. He would have caught a good look at your SUV last night. Seen the plates as well.”

The waitress came over, and Alex said they just wanted coffee.

Shaw turned away from the window.

“Any luck?” Alex asked.

“No. I thought I saw something, but it wasn’t the truck he was driving.” The sky to the east was turning a deep indigo while the sun to the west was sinking into the earth.

“Tell me again what it looked like. Maybe you’ll think of something new—a minor detail even.”

Shaw sighed. “Eighteen-wheeler, white truck unit with blue fenders, twin stacks with a big chrome grille.”

“There were no markings on the side of his truck? No decals or brand names that stood out?”

They had already been through this. He was lucky to remember what scant details he could about the truck when Sam had pulled over and picked him up outside Bright Water. The trucks they had seen already today were all variations of color and the look of Sam’s truck. They all had twin exhaust stacks, blue fenders and white cabs, or white fenders and blue cabs. Faces and vehicle makes and models were easy for him. But trucks he had never paid much attention to.

There was something else, however. Something he hadn’t told Alex. A slither of memory, something specific about the truck that his eyes had seen but his mind hadn’t fully captured—or if it had, it was unwilling to reveal it to him now.

Alex reached across and took his hand. “Anything. Try again to remember.”

It was no good. He couldn’t remember. If he had been completely lucid, he would have even noted the tire size stamped on each truck tire. But now, everything was just a blur, shadows shifting, shapes appearing, then disappearing, his memory a washing machine load of semiconscious images, dreams, and nightmares.

“So, what do we do now?” Alex asked, still holding his hand.

“Just like we did at the other places. We wait.”

The place was starting to fill with evening diners, catching a meal before the peak-hour rush on food and gas. A few older men, tired-looking and disheveled, sat on their own. Truck drivers, by the look of them, taking a well-earned rest stop. None looked like Sam.

A large flat-panel television screen displayed a constant news scroll of car crashes, home invasions, spiraling gas and food prices, rampant inflation, the latest celebrity breakups, breakdowns, rehabs, and more billions in overseas aid. A male politician got caught sexting images of his genitalia to his teenage daughter’s best friend, while another politician seemed to get caught telling the truth.

He sipped his coffee and pulled his eyes away, happy he didn’t own a TV, cell phone, or computer. The more the world changed, the more everything stayed the same.

Then he heard a voice next to him across the aisle where a young couple in their mid-thirties were sitting. Their conversation drifted over to where Alex and he sat. Shaw had caught snippets of it: the usual trivialities of daily life that he never subscribed to.

The woman’s voice went up a notch louder, and Shaw couldn’t help but glance at her.

“Hey, babe,” she said to her male companion, who was busy shoving a burger into his mouth. “That guy on TV looks just like Willie Nelson.”

39

TEXAS

It was a DMV shot of a man in his late sixties with gray hair and a beard.

“That’s him?” Alex said, following Shaw’s gaze.

Shaw could feel something uncoil in his gut, a primitive urge to kill. His hands gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles bloodless white. Then he let go as he took a closer look at the man’s face. It wasn’t right. He looked similar, but there were certain nuances that differed from the face he had committed to memory. The facial geometry was slightly wrong. The mouth was too wide, the eyes too narrow. The nose was not as big. And it wasn’t because it was an old DMV photo up on the TV screen and the person had aged or gained weight.

Shaw looked away, his mind trying to think. Had he got the face wrong?

“Who the hell is Raymond Casey?” Alex asked.

Shaw looked up at the screen again. The sound was off, but a banner appeared at the bottom of the TV screen.

Raymond John Casey.

“I thought you said his name was Sam?” Alex thumbed her phone and began scrolling. “It’s finally hit the news cycle. The police have found the Mason place, found her and the graves like you said. Apparently, a neighbor hunting foxes nearby last night heard multiple gunshots and then saw a truck tearing along the road. They jotted down the license plate and called the police. It’s registered to a Raymond Casey, a truck driver from Canada.”

Shaw turned back to Alex. “It’s not him.”

Alex stopped scrolling. “What?”

He lowered his voice. “The DMV picture on the television screen. It’s not the man who kidnapped and drugged me. He looks like him, this Casey guy, but it’s not. I know what Sam looks like.”

“Are you certain?”

He found himself again kneeling in the cold earth of that grave—her skin cold, her lifeless head lolled to one side. He saw the shadows creep across the grave as he sat there, his skin cold but covered in sweat from trying to make her heart beat again.

Then, the smell of burning flesh and a baby’s screams pushed into Shaw’s head, and a red mist descended. He ground his teeth as he saw in his mind’s eye the burning wreckage of the SUV, crumpled and on its roof.

He grabbed Alex’s hand. “I’m positive. It’s not him. Either they’re looking for the wrong guy, or he’s stolen Casey’s identity.”

Alex went back to her phone. “They said he’s driving a truck with a white cab with blue front fenders.” She held up the phone to him.

Shaw waved it away. “Like I said, he’s too clever. Don’t you see? Casey is probably dead. I guarantee it. They’re going to be chasing a ghost. He’ll slip through and vanish again.”

“They also found the woman in the open grave east of Ravenwood, just like you said—and an empty grave.” Alex thumbed her phone again. “A passing motorist taking a leak on the side of the road saw a shovel sticking up in the ground in the distance and went to investigate.”

Shaw’s gut clenched, and a red haze clouded his vision. “Who was she?”

Alex read from the screen. “Ruth Ambrose, twenty-two. An undergrad studying multimedia journalism at the University of Maryland. They’re saying maybe this Raymond Casey had something to do with it. Looks like someone disturbed him before he could bury her completely.”

Shaw gave a thin smile, but there was no solace. He thought for a moment, drinking his coffee. Soon, the place will be crawling with local cops and State Police, all looking for a ghost.

Shaw finally spoke. “The plan has changed.”

“Good, I thought as much with this breaking news. Our plan is off. Leave it to the police.”

“I said there’s been a change in the plan, not that there’s no plan at all.”

“What do you mean?” She leaned forward. “Leave it to the proper authorities, Ben. It’s over. The cat’s out of the bag. We’re too late.”

Shaw clenched his teeth. “It’s not over. Not until….”

“Until what? Until you get yourself killed?” Alex set her phone down.

Shaw glared at the TV screen, but the evening news had moved on to another story. “Think about it.” He turned back to her. “His cover is blown. Someone who looks like him is now plastered on television.”

“Looks like him?” Alex let out a breath. “It’s him.”

“That was something he didn’t count on,” he continued, ignoring her remark. “He made a mistake in abducting me; he said so himself. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He also didn’t count on me escaping. Now, he’s exposed.”

Alex nodded. “Yeah, he definitely won’t be hanging around. He’s long gone.”

Shaw wasn’t convinced. “Maybe he is. Maybe he isn’t.” Sam didn’t seem like the kind of killer that liked loose ends. And Shaw was a very loose end.

“He went to a lot of effort to find me again at the Mason home,” Shaw said. “And he still didn’t shoot me. He easily could have. Instead, he shot Audrey Mason, who was trying to⁠—”

“Kill you.”

Suddenly feeling very conspicuous, he looked around the diner, but no one was watching them.

“You can go, Alex. Leave. Return to Washington.”

Alex’s eyes went wide. “So, this is it? Thanks for saving your life, and see you later?”

“That’s right. I’ll find him and kill him myself. I don’t need you. This is just between him and me.”

Alex stared at Shaw, a look of disbelief in her eyes. “You know what? You’re a fucking prick. You think you’re so high and mighty.”

A waitress carrying a coffee pot approached, took one look at Alex, and then promptly steered toward another table.

“You’re not fucking Liam Neeson, and your daughter hasn’t been fucking kidnapped. Get off that high horse of yours before you fucking fall off.”

Unfazed by Alex’s sudden outburst, Shaw sipped his coffee in silence.

She grabbed her phone and stood, tears in her eyes. “See you later, Ben. Call me in another few years when you need your ass saved again.”

Shaw kept drinking his coffee as Alex stormed off.

When she was gone, he smiled. Good. This was going to be too dangerous for her. He needed her gone. This wasn’t her fight; it was his.

It was just him alone again, the way he preferred it.

On the way out, he passed back through the convenience store. He needed to find a vehicle, steal one if he had to.

Outside, a young guy was walking toward him, wearing a jacket, jeans, and a snapback ball cap. Shaw stopped in his tracks and stared at the ball cap the guy was wearing. Then, it all came back to him in one almighty jolt.

Eighteen-wheeler, white truck unit with blue fenders, twin stacks with a big chrome grille.

The slither of memory that had eluded him so far burst bright and clear in his mind. Until now, his mind had been unwilling to reveal it to him. It just needed a trigger to dislodge it, and the ball cap had provided that trigger. The cap was burned orange, with a white longhorn skull emblazoned across the front—University of Texas Longhorns football.

Shaw could see it now, in his mind, a polished chrome longhorn skull on the front grille of Sam’s truck.

He glanced over to where Alex had parked the Explorer, away from where the big trucks were. It was still there—no sign of Alex.

She had left him ten, maybe fifteen minutes ago.

His words to her, slow and haunting, floated back to him—Park where any truck driver who pulls in off the highway can see your SUV.

Shaw began running.

40

SUCH A PITY

“Is this your truck, sir?”

Pritchard stood up and saw a female police officer walking toward him down the shadowy channel between his truck trailer and another that had parked next to him.

“I said, is this your truck, sir?” she repeated, this time more suspiciously.

He turned his face away and began checking the rachet straps along the trailer. “Yes, it is. Why?”

She stopped a few feet away. She was tall and lean, with blonde hair. One hand rested on the butt of her gun in its holster on her belt. “Can I see your driver’s license, please, sir?” It was a command, not a request. Her eyes floated over the cab section.

Pritchard shrugged. “No problem.” He kicked one of the big tires with his boot. “Just hitching the trailer back on and checking my tires, making sure they’re all good to go. Just give me a second. The paperwork’s in the cab.”

“Where have you driven from?” she asked. “And where are you heading to?” She moved closer to the side door, then bent forward.

“I was up in Pennsylvania. Now, I’m heading down to Charleston. Got to pick up a load first in Baltimore.” The part about hitching back up the trailer was true; the rest about hauling a load down to Charleston wasn’t.

Pritchard had pulled into the truck stop an hour ago to collect the trailer and drive it back to the abandoned building for safekeeping. He had spent the day trying to track down the woman and the man to no avail. He couldn’t believe his luck when he spied the Explorer SUV parked out front, with two busted side mirrors and all. The gods, indeed, had smiled on him, delivering into his lap what he had wished for the most.

The cop bent farther, took her hand off the butt of her gun, reached out, and touched the bottom of the driver’s side door. She brought her fingers back and looked at them. She frowned, then brought them to her nose. “What’s this blood doing here?” she asked.

“Just give me a second. I’m nearly done.” Pritchard moved sideways, closer to the chassis.

“There’s blood here, on the bottom of the door.” She was still looking at her fingers.

“I think I hit a deer a few miles back.” He stopped and rested his hand on the side rail just a few feet from where she was standing, her focus still on her bloody fingers. “Deer blood, I’d say. I don’t know. Something bounded across the road, and I thought I didn’t hit it. But I must have.”

“Don’t look like deer blood to me.”

“Oh, that’s right!” he said, slapping his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I cut myself last night changing a tire. Damn pry bar slipped in my hand and cut me. The darnedest thing.” He edged closer. “Didn’t see the blood on the door.”

“You must be blind if you couldn’t see this on the side of your rig.”

“Yeah, where?”

She looked up and noticed that he was closer. “Stay where you are, sir.” Her hand returned to the butt of her gun. “And step away from the truck, please. And keep your hands where I can see them.”

Then the voice came again. Low and slippery, it coiled serpent-like in his ear. Kill the bitch. No joy from her. Kill the bitch.

Pritchard felt his tongue thickening, and he kept his hands by his sides. He turned slightly left, shielding his right hand. He rested his hand on the edge of the chassis while his fingers felt underneath the steel frame behind the housing of one of the side running lights.

“Don’t you want to see my driver’s license?” he said. “Like I said, it’s in the cab.” Pritchard stepped toward her, his right hand now behind his back.

“Sir, keep both your⁠—”

He barreled forward, grabbed her arm, then twisted her around.

She tried to bring her handgun out of its holster but was thrown backward hard against the truck. Her head smacked the metal side with a wet smack.

A blur of bright steel flashed as Pritchard thrust the knife deep into her chest while a large, firm hand clamped down over her mouth to muffle her scream.

He glanced both ways, making sure no one had seen them, then stared into her bulging eyes and felt her warm breath flutter against his tight fingers. “Hush, my pretty one.” He twisted the knife. The scream behind his fingers intensified. He felt her body shudder and imagined her heart pumping frantically. Her blood, silky and hot, spilling out over his hand, was strangely comforting.

The warm tears that bled down her cheeks and into his fingers were an unexpected bonus. “It’s a pity.” He cocked his head, fascinated by her eyes, by how the light was slowly fading from them. “You are a ripe prize.” He licked the tears from one of her cheeks. “And you taste so good.” He sighed. “What fun I could have had with you.”

Without looking down, he withdrew the knife, shifted his hand up, and plunged it into her left breast, then twisted. It brought on another delicious shudder from her. “Such a pity.”

Her body gave a jittery brief spasm, the nerve endings taking one last gasp before she went limp in his arms. He snapped a glance down both lengths of the truck before placing her gently on the ground. She gave a last jitter, then stopped moving.

Stepping back, his hand gloved in red up to the wrist, the glistening blade sticky, he regarded her for a moment, drinking in the euphoria. It was like a transfusion, replenishing every muscle and every cell and providing much-needed nourishment for his black soul. He felt rejuvenated, as he always did when he killed someone up close and personal. Nothing could beat the feeling. His rifle was just a tool, like a cattle dog used to corral a stray calf. But this stray calf—no, she was a beautiful young fawn—had come to him—a gift. The gods today were truly favoring him.

This was what he craved, though. Another person’s blood on his own skin. But he couldn’t linger too long in the aftermath of the kill.

Now, a change of plan.

Taking the body by the shoulders, he dragged it under the chassis, making sure the head lay next to one of the large wheels.

With a cloth and spray bottle of bleach from the hidden slide tray, he cleaned the blood from his hands, then wiped the blood from the underside of the door.

After stowing everything, he climbed aboard.

41

DÉJÀ VU

Alex’s SUV was still locked, and there was still no sign of her.

Shaw looked across the apron and saw the line of parked trucks. His eyes searched each of their front grilles.

Eighteen-wheeler, white truck unit with blue fenders, twin stacks with a big chrome grille, and a polished longhorn skull.

A few new ones had arrived, and a few others had departed. None had blue fenders, and two had white cabs—no longhorn skull emblem on the grilles.

He cupped his hands to the glass of the SUV and saw nothing untoward inside. It made little sense. Where was she? Behind his back came a throaty roar, the sound of a big engine coming to life. He whirled around and tried to pinpoint the sound, but the line of trucks stood motionless.

A dirty smudge of black rose from behind the line of trucks, and his gut twisted. He’d made a mistake, a lethal one.

Sprinting across the concourse, he ducked between two trucks in the line, emerged at the rear, and skidded to a stop. A police cruiser was parked to one side, and three more trucks, hidden by the row at the front, stood parked behind them.

Then he saw it. An eighteen-wheeler, white cab with blue fenders, twin stacks with a big chrome grille, and a polished longhorn skull emblazoned across the front.

His mind folded in on itself, déjà vu all over again. Jessie Rae was a twenty-eight-year-old African American flight attendant who was kidnapped in Salt Lake City by a group of terrorists, freed by Shaw, only to be kidnapped by a mysterious truck driver who Shaw was powerless to stop.

He didn’t believe in fate or coincidence, but the thought that it was the same person now as it had been all those years ago defied all logic. Yet, as he stood here now, everything except logic told him it was the same person. Their wildly different orbits had straddled time and space only to intersect again, here, now.

Sam sat behind the windshield with his hands on the wheel. Their eyes met, and the red mist fell behind Shaw’s eyes, and all he could see was the Devil’s face behind the wheel. It was him; he had taken Jessie, and now he had taken Alex.

The big five-hundred horsepower engine settled into a throaty purr, and Shaw stepped forward. History could not be changed, but he was determined to prevent it from repeating itself.

The engine changed pitch, and the truck rocked slightly as it shifted into gear. There was a hiss of brakes being released. The earth vibrated under the soles of his boots. The big truck slid out between a row of parked trucks, its engine roaring, the crunching sound of rubber churning gravel and dirt, smoke billowing from its twin exhaust stacks.

The engine pitch changed again, shifted up a gear, and the truck sped up. The polished chrome longhorn skull came directly at Shaw, a charging bull—no red cape needed. It zeroed in on him, the unholy sound of the engine’s roar blocking out everything else. The polished longhorn skull filled his vision—the Devil’s horns. Satan himself, riding his chariot of steel, fire, and smoke.

How could he stop such a beast?

Something hit Shaw’s body hard. A breath-stealing, spine-bending thump that shunted him violently sideways. He hit the ground in a tangle of arms and legs, more than he owned. His teeth rattled as the truck lumbered past, huge rubber tires on bright chrome rims churning at the dirt only inches from his head. A funnel of hot air, dirt, and grit washed over him as he lay there, stunned and enraged, as the sound of the engine faded.

He had failed—again. Alex was gone, plucked from his grasp by the same psychopathic killer who had taken Jessie in almost the same manner.

“You dumbass!”

Shaw blinked and levered himself onto one elbow.

Alex’s chin was burrowed into his stomach, and her arms wrapped around his waist. “You nearly got us both killed.”

“Where the hell did you get to? I thought he’d taken you.”

Alex got to her feet, dusted herself off, and then hauled Shaw up. “Toilet stop. A number two. Is nothing sacred these days?”

They watched as Pritchard’s truck rounded the edge of the building and disappeared.

Without another word, they both took off, running back to Alex’s SUV.

Reaching it, Alex tossed Shaw the keys. “You’re a better driver than me, being Secret Service and all that crap.”

Shaw snatched the keys out of the air and slid behind the wheel while Alex opened the tailgate and grabbed something from the back.

Moments later, she slid into the passenger side carrying an assault rifle and spare magazines.

“Change of heart?” Shaw asked, starting the engine and slapping the SUV into gear.

Grim-faced, Alex glared through the windshield, then powered down her window and brought the barrel of the carbine up. “Did you see what was left of that cop who owned that cruiser back there?” Alex asked grimly.

Shaw frowned. He had been too caught up with coming face-to-face again with what he knew now was his arch nemesis to have noticed anything else.

“The bastard ran them over like roadkill,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’d say they recognized the truck, came over to look, and he killed them.”

The muscles in Shaw’s jaw bunched. “Then he put them under the tires before he took off.”

Alex nodded. “A sick little parting gift. Couldn’t tell if it was a male or female cop.”

Shaw hit the accelerator, and the SUV lurched, then sped toward the exit. “What about leaving it to the authorities like you said before?”

Alex twisted toward him, revealing a lethal coldness in her face he never knew she had in her. “Death is the only final justice for him.”

42

CHASE

Daylight was nearly gone when the Explorer tore across the highway overpass, Shaw swerving in and out of traffic, the truck in the distance gaining speed, spewing twin trails of black exhaust fumes in its wake.

The truck was moving fast with an empty flatbed and not pulling a cargo load.

“You’re losing him,” Alex yelled, the wind blowing her hair across her face.

“No, I’m not.” Shaw gunned the engine, then pressed his foot down more, taking the on-ramp bend almost on two wheels. The ramp curled down and fed into the artery of northbound traffic that was moving just as fast as him. The SUV flew down the ramp.

“Side mirrors would help,” he yelled, his head snapping back and forth as he tried to find a break in the oncoming traffic he could slip into without having to slow.

“We could always stop at the nearest AutoZone and get a new pair installed if you’d like,” Alex said. She had lost none of her sarcasm since tackling him to the ground back at the truck stop.

“I’m good.” Shaw’s eyes darted to the northbound lane of the interstate as it crept into his periphery over his shoulder. He found a gap between a black Cadillac SUV in front and a faded blue Volvo station wagon behind. He sped up slightly before slipping in between the two vehicles without slowing. The Volvo driver tooted his horn from behind.

“Asshole,” Alex muttered.

Trucks of all shapes and sizes dotted the traffic ahead, but Shaw had eyes on Sam’s truck. It was fifty yards in front and one lane over. What concerned him was the traffic cops. If they saw him driving erratically, they would pull them over, and then they would lose him.

“He knows we’re after him,” Alex said, gripping the rifle tightly, the barrel pointing down into the footwell.

“Can’t be helped,” Shaw said as the black Cadillac in front suddenly changed lanes. The boxy rear of an old Winnebago motorhome immediately loomed ahead. Shaw tapped on the brakes, bleeding some speed from the SUV.

“They should be in the slow lane,” Alex complained.

He glanced over his shoulder, then slid out and sped up past a slow-moving motorhome before tucking in behind a fast-moving eighteen-wheeler carrying a red Hamburg Süd shipping container.

“Still got eyes on him?” Alex asked.

“Yep.” The red shipping container provided some cover, allowing Shaw to creep closer.

“He can’t stay on here too long,” Alex said. “He’ll think we’ve called the cops on him. Where do you think he’s going?”

“No clue.” Shaw knew he wouldn’t lose him. Now, it was just a matter of keeping on his tail and being patient. The SUV had a full gas tank, but the truck would carry a lot more and had a longer range than them, especially without a load.

He glanced at the rifle in Alex’s hands. “You can’t open with that thing here. Too many people around, and if he crashes, it will be a disaster.”

“I’m not crazy, just prepared. If it all goes to hell in a handbasket fast, we won’t have the luxury of stopping for me to grab this from the back.”

They drove on for another ten minutes before the truck’s blinkers flashed.

“He’s getting off,” Shaw said.

Ahead, the truck took the next exit ramp. Shaw read the sign. “You’re kidding me.”

“What’s he playing at?” Alex said. “He’s going back?”

Shaw also took the exit, keeping a discreet distance, unsure why Sam was heading back toward Ravenwood.

“Just follow him,” Alex said.

In the distance, dark clouds rolled in. They seemed to have come from nowhere, and the truck in front was driving directly into them.

“Storm coming,” Shaw said.

“I can see it.”

The clouds, dark and heavy, boiled and frothed toward them with a threatening menace. Lightning shimmered through their underbellies. Shaw had his window down, and the wind in his face was cold, biting, and thick with the earthy smell of approaching rain. The atmosphere prickled and hissed as a dark blanket of clouds descended around them, turning dusk into midnight.

“This isn’t good,” Alex said, watching the clouds.

“It’s perfect,” Shaw said. “He’s towing a trailer. It’s less nimble. We’re in an all-wheel drive. He’s not.”

Alex nodded. “Sorry about before.”

“No need to be sorry.” He looked at her. “I was going to jump out of the way, you know. Before he ran over me.”

“Didn’t seem that way. Chalk another one up to me.”

“You keeping score?”

Alex shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a competitive person.”

“Did you miss me?” he asked with a hint of his own sarcasm. “Thought you would come back and say sorry for being such a potty mouth?”

“Fuck no. After the restroom stop, I was heading right back to the car. Then, I thought I’d take a brief detour and get a closer look at those parked trucks. That’s when I saw there were more parked behind. It seems like we both fell for that mistake.”

“There’s a distinct longhorn skull, polished chrome, on the grille of his truck. I remembered it.”

“I still can’t get over that he was there. I can’t believe the plan worked.”

“I don’t think it did. I think he was keeping his trailer there. He had disconnected it so he could move about freely. It was blind luck.”

Ahead, the truck came to an intersection and turned to the right.

“He’s not going into Ravenwood,” Alex said. “He’s going north of the town.”

“Do you know what’s there?”

Alex shook her head. “I didn’t come this far north when I was looking for you.”

Then, a thought occurred to Shaw. “The Mason property. Do you think he’s heading back there?”

Alex pulled out her phone. “No. We’re farther north.” She squinted at the screen. “There’s nothing out here.”

“Well, he seems to know where he’s going. He’s leading us somewhere. Maybe it’s not on any map.” Shaw slowed, then took the same turn. There was no one between them and the truck ahead, and Sam was keeping right on the speed limit. There was no other traffic to hide behind, and it made Shaw uneasy.

“You got that feeling?” Alex asked.

“Yep. He knows we’re here, and he’s drawing us along like a fish on a line to wherever he wants.” Shaw didn’t care. All that mattered was the man driving the truck. He would follow him to Hell if it meant coming face-to-face with him again.

The rain came. There was no warning, no gradual patter of drops, just a violent and sudden deluge. Huge sheets of water hammered on the hood and roof, and the windshield melted into a rippling river of liquid glass. The wipers kicked on automatically, and Shaw tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

Now, he had the distinct feeling they were being drawn into the center of some evil vortex, and at its very core, the Devil himself would be waiting for them.

43

PROMISE

“Stop!” Alex called out. “Back up. I saw something,”

It was fully dark, not another vehicle in sight, and the road twisted and turned through the countryside.

Shaw almost missed the entrance, passing it before seeing the gap in the hedgerow and the road beyond. They had rounded a bend, keeping the truck’s taillights in view but not following too close when the lights veered off to one side and disappeared. Thankfully, the torrent of rain had stopped.

Hitting the brakes, he quickly reversed.

“Where the hell is he going?” Alex whispered.

Shaw turned in, then stopped. A tall wall of vegetation, dark against the night sky, lined both sides. It curved across overhead and formed a tunnel of twisting branches layered with leaves. The unsealed blacktop, littered with broken branches, ripped away no doubt from the truck burrowing its way through, stretched into a dull maw that reminded Shaw of a railway tunnel.

“If he can make it through, so can we,” Alex said.

He nudged the SUV forward slowly.

Fifty yards along, the tunnel of foliage peeled away, and they found themselves under a high canopy of tall trees and drooping vines. He couldn’t see the truck's taillights, but there were no other side roads or tracks where he could have turned off.

Alex brought her rifle up and aimed it through the windshield. “Just in case he does the dirty, turns around, and rams us head-on.”

Shaw didn’t need to do the math. Alex could be holding an RPG, and it would make no difference. They’d be dead before the airbags deployed. It would also be hard to navigate the truck along here, to then turn around and come hurtling back at them.

He pressed the gas a little more. The speedometer dial clicked over a mile, and there was still no sign of the truck.

“I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all,” Shaw said. “We’re in a choke point with no clue what’s ahead. He might, but we don’t. He could have found a clearing and turned around by now.”

“Pull over and kill the lights,” Alex said, reaching up and flipping off the internal door light on the ceiling panel. “He waited for hours in the forest at the Mason property for you to emerge. He’s a patient, cunning little fucker. For all we know, he’s waiting up ahead, peering through that night vision scope of his, waiting to put a bullet in both our heads.”

Shaw stopped, cut the lights, and killed the engine. “Let’s turn the tables on him.”

Alex nodded. “Flush him out.” Reaching across, she pulled Shaw close and kissed him hard. Her tongue was soft, warm, and sweet.

“Let me guess?” he said, pulling away after the kiss.

“When a one-legged woman wants to kiss you, just roll with it?” Alex suggested.

Shaw shook his head. “You said that last time. I was thinking more like when a good-looking woman who has two perfectly good legs wants to kiss you, you make a promise to her that if you both get out of this alive, next time, you’re going to do a lot more than just kiss.”

Alex swallowed hard. “Drought-breaking rain rarely happens to someone⁠—”

“I’ll make it flood.”

“Promise?” Alex smiled and wiped something from her eye.

“Promise.”

She shoved a spare magazine into each of the back pockets of her jeans. “How could you think of a thing like that at a time like this?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Believe me, you think of the strangest shit when your next breath could be your last.”

She eased open the door, slid her foot out, brought the rifle up, and pointed it ahead. “Give me ten minutes, then you follow. Lights off. Nice and slow. And this time, try to keep your head down.”

She closed the door gently, then vanished into the darkness.

Gun up, scanning the shadows ahead, Alex moved quickly along the unsealed blacktop. Fifty yards later, it dwindled into a bed of coarse gravel. The forest on both sides pulled back, and the overhead canopy dropped away, revealing a wide expanse of open ground ringed by a dark, tall wall of forest. The limitless expanse of deep black above sparkled with a billion stars. The moon, huge and yellow, bathed the landscape in a watery gray. The storm had passed, leaving the night sky clear and bitterly cold.

The silhouette of a massive building loomed in front of her in the middle of the clearing. The truck was nowhere to be seen.

Feeling a little out in the open, she came off the dirt road and scooted into the safety of the forest, then followed the edge around and approached the structure from its west side.

Once there, she edged forward and settled behind the first row of trees. Under the ghostly wash of moonlight, she could just make out most of the building’s features and the surrounding terrain. It looked like an old power station, like something she had seen pictures of on the banks of the Thames in London. Except this didn’t have the huge chimneys like the other did. A tall chain wire fence encompassed the entire structure. A large set of gates at the front was drawn back. One road in and out. Another smaller dirt road seemed to surround the building. Scattered outside the fence, near the dirt road, were the bones of disbanded machinery, piles of scrap metal heaped into conical anthills, and what looked like a large truck slumped on its side, the front cab buckled, the trailer twisted.

So where was the truck?

She checked the luminous dials on her watch. Five minutes had passed.

There were no apparent signs of movement from the building, no flare of light, or the slightest flashlight beam. The place looked cold and dead, an edifice to industrial decline and abandonment. The perimeter fence had jagged gaps where the wire had been torn out. Over the decades, the place would have been ransacked, stripped of anything remotely valuable, she guessed.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and she ducked behind a thick tree trunk. Slowly, she edged out again. Along the side of the building, there was a raised platform, like a loading dock. Next to it, a broad, tall opening yawned with enough height and width for trucks to drive straight into the building.

He was in there, somewhere, hiding and watching. Alex could feel him.

She checked her watch again. Ten minutes, just gone.

44

BLOOD RAIN

An icy drizzle fell, and the moon disappeared behind a veil of clouds.

In the distance, arthritic fingers of white crawled across the sky. Moments later, a grumbling of thunder rolled toward where Alex stood in the trees. The storm was returning.

In the gloom, she caught the shape of something emerging from the tunnel of foliage along the dirt road at the edge of the clearing. It was Ben in the SUV. He was driving slowly toward the gates, lights off. She was too far, and it was too dark to see him behind the wheel.

Good. This might just work.

She took a deep breath, and then, leaving the safety of the forest, she slipped out between the trees and approached the perimeter fence, her eyes scanning the building for any movement. She cut across a dirt road that ringed the entire complex. The ground was soft, muddy, and puddled.

The SUV passed through the gates, then stopped.

Reaching the wire fence, she slipped through a large rent and made for a nearby hunk of shadow that protruded from the grass and weeds. She took refuge behind a rusted piece of scrap machinery and glanced at the gates. The SUV was still parked inside the open gates, the engine idling, a spiral of gauzy exhaust coming from the rear. He knew the plan and how to play it out.

The clouds parted, and moonlight bathed the landscape in monochrome.

She raised her head a few inches and studied the building. Parts of the exterior walls had toppled, leaving crumbled corners and jagged holes in the brickwork. Not a single glass window stayed intact; all were smashed out, now just dark hollows that made the building resemble a massive multi-eyed insect from a 1950s black-and-white sci-fi movie.

She estimated it was another hundred yards from where she was crouching to the side of the building, where the loading dock and truck entrance were.

Glancing over her shoulder, she watched as the SUV rolled slowly forward again. A minnow, swimming innocently into the unsuspecting jaws of a whale. It stopped again.

Still no movement from the building. She waited. Seconds ticked by, her attention switching between the building and the SUV.

Lightning pulsed across the sky. Seconds later, a boom of rolling thunder crashed down on her, rattling her chest and numbing her ears. The heavens opened, and sheets of icy, hard rain lashed down, drenching her in seconds. It was like she was standing under a shower of pebbles. Her teeth chattered, and her entire body shivered with bone-numbing coldness. She gripped the rifle harder, her inner furnace of determination keeping her warm.

She peered through the curtain of rain, visibility cut to almost half. “Come on, you fuc⁠—”

Like a massive moray eel slithering out of a dark hole in coral, a long dark shape slid out of the entrance inside of the building. No headlights, no running lights.

She thumbed the rifle selector from Safe to Fire.

The truck accelerated as it turned toward the open gates, the SUV blocking the only way out.

The truck came broadside, and Alex stood. Water streamed down her face and into her eyes as she brought the rifle up, hunkered down behind it, and then took aim at the truck’s cab.

Shaw watched as the dark shape lumbered toward him. It was Sam in his truck. He had taken the bait.

Hunched behind the wheel, Shaw floored the accelerator. The wheels skidded, and the rear slid sideways. The vehicle lurched forward, then slid again. He fought to control the vehicle as it pitched and skidded along the muddy ground. The dirt road was now gone, replaced with a brown, oily torrent of watery mud.

The wiper blades thrashed violently, pushing aside solid walls of water, but there was no mistaking the solid mass bearing down on the SUV. Easing off the gas, Shaw turned the wheel, and the SUV angled away, then slid again. The engine wailed. The wheels spun as he applied more power, trying to get out of the truck's path that was barreling toward him.

Wind and rain lashed at the vehicle, pushing it sideways in the opposite direction, back onto the dirt road before he corrected the slide, turning the wheel and steadying the sway. It was almost impossible to keep the vehicle straight.

Now! Alex pulled the trigger and kept it depressed, tracking the truck left to right, iron sights firmly on the driver’s cab, the butt stock thudding into her shoulder, the jittering recoil rattling her teeth in their gums, a constant stream of hot shell casings arcing out of the ejection port.

Sparks flew off the door and side of the cab, but the truck kept going, immune to the hail of gunfire pummeling into it.

The rifle ran dry, and Alex slammed a fresh magazine into it and ran toward the truck, the muddy quagmire sucking at her feet.

The SUV continued its slew through the mud, churning and plowing as it went. Shaw changed gears and gunned the engine. The tires squealed, and the rear of the SUV lifted as the tires skidded on the soggy ground. The vehicle lunged, faltered, then lunged again.

The terrain dipped and sloped downward. He eased off the gas a fraction. The steering wheel went sluggish in his hands as he felt the sensation of the rear end beginning to swing around behind. The hood dipped some more. He tried to brake but couldn’t halt the slide.

The truck turned sharply toward him, mimicking the SUV’s movements, zeroing in on it like a heat-seeking missile.

He glimpsed Sam behind the wheel, sitting high in the front cab, the windshield a spidery web of cracks. Dark, evil eyes locked onto Shaw’s. The man’s gaze seemed to pierce his soul, tainting it, blackening the surface of his mind. Something passed between them, an understanding: the hunter and the hunted, face-to-face.

Then the truck turned fully toward him, and its headlights came on, flooding the inside of the SUV with blinding light. Then, an ear-ringing blast from the truck’s horn thundered over the SUV. Not a warning to get clear, but a deep, resounding cry of victory.

Shaw raised a hand to shield his face, the back of his eyes burning white.

Pulling up, Alex brought the rifle up again. The truck was almost on top of the SUV, dwarfing it, a giant about to smash it into smithereens. Fuck this. She flipped the selector to Full Auto, braced herself, took aim, and unleashed.

The head of the Devil filled Shaw’s vision. Wide horns protruded from each side of the cow’s skull as the truck’s gleaming grille seemed to rise over the hood of the SUV, ready to plow down and crash into Shaw. Sparks flew from the grille, and then, at the last moment, the grille whipped away and was gone.

Alex watched as the front unit of the truck jerked sideways, pulling the rear trailer around. The truck jackknifed around the SUV, missing it by mere feet before coming to a halt.

The driver’s side door flew open, and a dark shape dropped to the ground.

Alex slammed her last magazine into the rifle and took aim at the tall grass where the dark shape had fallen. She fired again, strafing the area, the rifle shuddering into her shoulder until it ran dry. She was out—no more ammo.

Dropping the rifle, she drew her handgun. The response was automatic. No thought process was required—just the primal urge to stop a threat—to save her own life and the life of another.

Another burst of lightning. Not from above but from in front of her. A small star burst from within the tall grass. Then, the sound of a dull crack traveled behind the flash of light.

Alex felt something hit her. Her legs went from under her, and she dropped to her knees in the mud. She knelt there, her head down, and watched as red raindrops dotted the mud around her knees.

Her world turned red, and she toppled backward.

45

KILL HIM

Lying on her back, Alex couldn’t feel her lips. Her cheeks were numb, and her head felt like part of her scalp had been ripped off.

Water filled her eyes, her nose, her mouth, and even her ears.

Clouds spun and boiled overhead, a glowing, conical mass of silver-gray. The air was brittle with cold, thick with dampness, and buzzing with electricity.

Her hair was soaked, plastered to her head and face. She rubbed her eyes, and her fingers came away in a watery red dribble. She touched her forehead, and instantly, a raw, searing pain sliced across her skull. Ignoring the pain, her fingers searched the front of her head and felt a deep laceration, the edges of the skin on either side rough and torn.

The bullet had grazed her head but was meant to kill her. The game was over. More blood dribbled into her eyes, and she wiped it away with her sleeve. She could easily just close her eyes, let exhaustion and the bitter cold wash over her, and drift off into a sleep she may never awake from.

Then urgency gripped her numb senses and shook her awake. He wasn’t dead; he was alive. She had to get up. He was still there, lurking in the tall grass, ready to kill her and Ben.

Grinding her teeth, Alex willed herself beyond the limits of what she thought she was capable of, and desperation took over.

Shaw undid his seatbelt and pushed the door open.

Outside, the pummeling rain assaulted him. Rain pelted his face; his feet sank into the thick, muddy quagmire. His knees made sucking noises as he pulled them free and wrestled around to the front of the truck, where it stood. His mind screamed. It had to end. It had to end now. He would kill Sam with his bare hands if he had to.

Reaching down, he grabbed a large rock and closed in on where the truck stood, its headlights glaring.

Bullet holes peppered the side of the cab, the driver’s side window was smashed, and the wide front windshield was laced with cracks. The engine idled as Shaw crept forward and saw the side door open. Wielding the rock, he jumped onto the sidestep, ready to smash⁠—

The cab was empty.

Then, a sound came from behind him, and he dropped to the ground, his eyes scanning the surrounding darkness.

Alex staggered to her feet and picked up her handgun that had fallen into the mud. Ignoring the searing pain in her head, she shambled forward, pointing the gun in front of her to where Sam had fired at her. The wind surged, pushing the rain sideways, smacking her in the face, momentarily blurring everything in front of her. A wave of horizontal water swept past; the air cleared for a moment between surges, and she saw the rear end of the big eighteen-wheeler materialize in front of her.

Reaching the rear of the truck, she dropped next to the back tire and wedged herself hard against it, aiming her gun up. Water pooled around her, and her knees sunk into soft mud.

Then she saw him. A dark figure was standing there near the front of the truck, waiting. She rubbed the blood from her eyes, looked up again, and he was gone. He was moving to the opposite side, coming down the length of the trailer, hoping to catch her unawares.

Alex crawled around the back of the rear wheels until she reached the outer tire on the other side. A dull corona of light bathed the front of the truck from the headlights, but where she crouched, it offered little light down the side of the truck.

She brought the gun up, tilted her arm and head around the tire, and took aim. He was coming. She could sense him coming to kill her. She’d only get one chance—one shot this time to kill him. It was going to be her or him. She gripped the gun harder and tried to settle her breathing as she looked into the gloom, looking for any⁠—

He was there, creeping down the length of the trailer toward her, taking his time, being careful. A dark shape, darker than the surrounding gloom, as though part of the world had been sliced out, leaving just a dark hole of nothingness. He was hunched, stepping carefully, looking for her.

He stopped, and Alex’s heart almost did, too. What was he doing? She watched as he crouched down, then tilted his head beneath the chassis, seeming to look along the entire length, rear to front. He was looking for her, thinking she had crawled under the truck, maybe climbed up under the axle.

Backing out, he stood again and resumed his walk toward the rear to where Alex was waiting. She could hear his feet making sucking noises as he pulled them from the mud to take the next step toward her.

Closer. Just a little more. That’s right, you bastard. Come to me. The sight of a bloody, meaty smear along the truck stop hardstand flickered across her mind—the cop he had brutally run over just for thrills. Come on. A few more steps. That’s right. You’re almost there.

Alex tried to steady her aim, but she was shaking so much, her bones numb with cold. The front sight of her gun wavered back and forth over the dark mass of Sam as he moved toward her, his shape distorted by the deluge of rain. Yes. Now you’re close enough. She squeezed the trigger. “Die, you motherf⁠—”

Sam stopped. “Alex?”

She blinked. Confusion flooded her mind. How did he know her name?

No. It’s a trick. Don’t listen to him. It’s a trick. Kill him. She squeezed the trigger some more.

“You shoot me, and I won’t be able to keep that promise I made to you.”

“Ben!” she cried. Lowering her gun, she pivoted out from behind the tire, ran to him, and threw her arms around him. “Thank God. I was about to shoot you.” Despite the rain and biting cold, his body radiated something that instantly filled her with warmth.

“I know.” He dropped the rock he was carrying and took her face in his hands. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing, just a flesh wound. Where is he? I shot at him.”

The rain had eased to a light drizzle.

“Did you hit him?”

Alex shook her head. “No. He shot back at me. The bullet just grazed me. I must have passed out for just a few seconds. I don’t know where he has gone.”

Shaw pulled her closer, and they huddled against the side of the truck. “Well, he can’t get far, not on foot in this weather.” He looked around. “He’s still here, somewhere.”

They both turned and looked at the vast building. A scatter of lightning arced across the sky above it, lighting up momentarily in a strobing glare, giving it the ominous appearance of a gothic castle perched high on a clifftop.

They turned back to each other. “Let’s find him,” Alex said.

46

TOMB

They held their position behind the truck and waited.

Shaw’s body was perfectly still, his eyes like slits as he scoured the exterior of the building like he was looking for a shooter at a presidential rally. In a way, he was searching for the barrel of a rifle poking from a window or around a corner of the brickwork, ready to snipe them.

They had returned briefly to the SUV for Alex to reload the magazines for her gun while Shaw grabbed the shotgun and threw in his backpack, which he had found inside the sleeping pod of Sam’s truck. He didn’t have time to search the truck thoroughly for anything else.

“Can’t see anything,” he said. “Let’s look inside.”

“Wait. You can’t see him at all?”

He turned to Alex, who was hunkered behind him. “The place looks deserted, but he’s in there, somewhere. We won’t really know until we go inside and search the place.”

“It’s huge. He could be holed up anywhere inside.”

Shaw wiped the mud from his face. Once again, Sam had the upper hand. It was him waiting for them to come to him, luring them on his terms, and Shaw hated it.

The clouds had cleared, and the sky above was a velvety black. The temperature had dropped, and they needed to keep moving. Despite using the truck as a barricade, they were still exposed.

“Well, either we find him, or he’ll find us first,” he said.

Once they were satisfied that no one was watching, they slid out from behind the truck, and, keeping low, they leapfrogged between old machinery that had been pulled from within the building and left to rot in the elements outside.

Halfway across the open ground, they took shelter behind an old steel vat that lay on its rusted side. Half kneeling, Shaw looked up at the building's bare windows and vacant openings, expecting to see Sam’s face glaring back at him with those dark eyes and his rictus grin.

He couldn’t help but feel like they were in a fairground shooting gallery, their heads instead of steel ducks for targets.

Alex pressed up behind him, and he felt a reassuring surge of confidence as her hand touched his shoulder.

“Just like the old days,” she said.

“Just like.” Despite what he had said to her back at the diner, he was glad she was here. He needed her, and they had worked well together in that cornfield in Utah, moving in tandem. No words were needed, as though telepathy between them was guiding each other’s actions.

If Sam were inside, it would take the two of them to flush him out. Yet, he had eluded them so far, like a ghost. But he wasn’t some supernatural apparition or phantom. He was flesh and blood and would bleed just like everyone else.

“Let’s go,” Shaw said, and they sprinted the last stretch toward the loading dock.

Inside, they found themselves dwarfed by a cavernous interior. The ceiling high above was ribbed with a network of metal girders, like the vaulted ceiling of a massive cathedral. Large swathes of moonlight shone down in columns from where entire sections of the roof were gone, the tin sheeting worn away from decades of harsh winters and hot summers.

The floor was a confused mass of twisted and scattered debris, piles of twisted metal, broken wooden planks, sheet metal, dead animals, and a buildup of trash from years of curious visitors.

“What is this place?” Alex whispered as they crouched behind an old Dodge truck sitting in black puddles for tires, the hood up, the engine bay just a gaping hole.

Shaw shook his head and imagined the place had been well and truly ransacked for anything of value. Fire had scorched some walls, while others had graffiti covering them. Layers of grime, filth, and years of neglect coated everything. Metal stairs led up to a framework of raised gantries and offices on the sides.

Then he saw meat hooks, curved and cruel, hanging from a long conveyor system overhead and knew what the place had once been. He visualized livestock carcasses, big slabs of meat, dangling from the hooks as they were pulled along. It had been some kind of meat processing plant. Maybe an abattoir. Parts of the cement floor under the conveyor bore dark blemishes from years of carnage and spilled blood.

“This place is a tomb,” Alex whispered, her head constantly swiveling.

“Let’s split up,” Shaw said. “We each take a section of the ground floor. Meet back here when we’re done.”

Alex nodded, then peeled away and scanned the stairs and gantries above, her gun following wherever her eyes went.

Shaw hung back in the shadows, shotgun in hand, covering her until she was across the open floor and safely behind a row of old machinery on the other side.

Everything was murky, the air thick with the cloying smell of tannin fluid, rust, and freshly tilled soil. The place had a morbid heaviness to it, like it was hiding years of dark, sinister secrets.

He took off in the opposite direction.

Twenty minutes later, they were done, and there was still no sign of Sam. Shaw had found an off-road motocross bike with dirt tires. Someone had hidden it behind a pile of broken wooden pallets, covering it with an old solid canvas tarp. At first, he thought it was a backup mode of transport for escape. However, it looked like it had been there for years, and someone had cut the ignition cables. The bike wasn’t going anywhere soon.

“Where to now?” Alex asked, turning to him as they stood behind a forklift.

Shaw thought for a moment, trying to imagine what Sam would have done. He knew the place and had driven here, so he was familiar with the layout.

“We go down,” he said.

“Down where?”

“Come on.”

Shaw led her to a set of steel stairs framed by a tubular handrail he had discovered. “We need to search the lower levels.”

Alex stood at the top of the stairs and peered down into the pool of blackness. She pulled out her cell phone and went to thumb on the flashlight before Shaw touched her hand. She looked at him, and he shook his head.

She slipped her phone back in her pocket.

They descended, with Shaw taking the lead and aiming his shotgun down at the black and ominous pool below.

47

THE DARK

Suddenly, the surrounding darkness, the morbid loneliness of the place, and almost being killed all seemed to converge into one massive wave of doubt in Alex’s mind.

She swallowed, shoved aside the feelings of doubt, and started down the steps with Shaw in front, past one landing before spiraling around, then down again to the bottom, her handgun pointing past him and toward what her eyes were seeing, which was nothing except a soupy wall of black.

At the bottom, they paused side by side, their guns sweeping the darkness beyond. Alex blinked hard, and her head throbbed. At least the bleeding from the gash across her forehead had stopped.

Then, hard edges and solid lines materialized out of the gloom in painstaking slowness. They were in a narrow passageway. Brown, rusty puddles pooled on the floor, and the air was thick with the smell of rot and decay, heavy with dampness.

Next to her, she could feel Shaw, calm but bristling with menace. She wanted to take the lead; it was the only way she could overcome the fear she was now feeling. Fear was nothing to be ashamed of. Not accepting it or pretending to be invincible by not acknowledging its existence was something to be ashamed of—and highly dangerous.

She tapped Shaw on the shoulder, then moved past him and took the lead. If he had any qualms, he certainly didn’t show it.

With each step, her eyes seemed to adapt more to the darkness, like a nocturnal creature returning to the comfort and familiarity of an environment absent of light after spending too long in the daylight. It wasn’t totally dark, though—more of a watery charcoal color. And as tempting as it was to flip a light switch on the wall when she passed it, she kept moving, doubting that it would work anyway. The power to this place probably had been cut before she was even born. Yet, light, natural or unnatural, was getting down here somehow.

She shuffled on in a slow walk, maneuvering around shattered bulbs that had fallen out of the light fixtures above, making as little noise as possible, her ears trained to the slightest sound.

Twenty yards along, she reached an open doorway, and they paused outside. Looking down, she noticed what looked like dark paint on the floor and the outline of a boot imprinted on the rough concrete. Blood or paint? She couldn’t tell. Whatever it is, it isn’t recent.

She closed her eyes and swallowed, steeling herself to go on, forcing herself to slow her breathing, which unknowingly had sped up into short, shallow gulps in the last few moments. She needed to do this and follow it to the end, no matter what happened next or how it ended. They were a team.

Shaw gripped her shoulder from behind, signaling he was still there and had her back. She nodded, took a breath, opened her eyes, then pivoted into the room, her gun up.

A chair lay toppled in the middle of the small room. Silence, nothing. The room was empty.

They backed out into the passageway.

After walking for another twenty feet, Alex paused and cocked her head.

It was a faint sound, like the soft clang of metal. She turned back to Shaw, and he nodded. He had heard it, too.

Someone was running away from them, the sound fading fast.

Shaw didn’t wait. He took off, pushing past Alex.

“Ben,” she called out after him, but he ignored her. He kept running, shotgun ready.

The passageway ended in a set of stairs. From above, the sound of metallic clangs echoed down to where he was standing. He climbed, shotgun pointed up, his feet clanging on the metal.

At the top, he passed through an open hatch and found himself back on the cavernous first floor—then movement to his right—a shape, a person, running away from him. Climbing out, he lifted the shotgun, steadied himself, and fired, racked the slide, and fired again. The shots boomed out.

In the distance, the sound of feet again, going up metal stairs to the gantry system above.

Shaw took off again after them.

Reaching the base of a metal ladder, he glanced up and glimpsed a head jutting out high above—over the railing. In the shards of pale moonlight coming through the torn ceiling, a face peered at Shaw for the briefest of moments, but it was enough.

It was him.

Gone was the innocent, grandfatherly face. What stared down at Shaw was a mask: deathly pale, gray hair plastered to the skull, gaunt features drawn skin-tight over hollow cheeks and bone. Kind eyes had been replaced with the cold, ravenous loathing of a starving wolf, its brain ravaged and crazed by rabies—a ghastly face. Dead, evil, soulless.

The head whipped back and was gone.

48

MELT DOWN

Alex pulled herself up through the open hatch door and saw someone climbing the gantry on the opposite side.

It wasn’t Ben. He was climbing the ladder at the bottom and hadn’t even reached the first level.

“Hey!”

The darkened shape reached the top of another ladder, stopped, then turned toward her.

In one fluid motion, she drew her gun, took aim at the center mass of the man, and squeezed the trigger. Sparks bounded off the handrail a foot to the person’s left. He stood there, unmoved. Cold, bony fingers scraped along her spine. It was as if he was goading her, seeing if she could hit him.

Alex hurriedly adjusted her aim and fired. The shot sailed wide, missing him completely and anything solid.

Damn!

The person resumed climbing. Alex holstered her gun.

Another gantry near the top of the ceiling spanned both sides of the building. It was on the fourth and top level, she estimated. Ben was already scaling the stairs on the opposite side, and there was no point following him up. There was a quicker way to the top. Alex had seen it when she had split off from Ben and searched before. She had seen a service elevator, the old birdcage type with the accordion gate doors you slide across but had thought nothing of it. With no power to the building, it wouldn’t work. Now, she remembered that some elevators, especially old-fashioned ones, have their own battery backup in case of emergencies. If the person got to the top, they could easily get across to the other side via the overhead gantry and then disappear among the labyrinth of other floors, passageways, and rooms. No, she could go up on this side, and in a pincer move, Ben and she could cut off his escape.

There was only one enormous problem, even if the elevator’s battery worked after all these years. Since she was a child, Alex has had a phobia of elevators. Strangely, she had no fear of heights or flying and loved rollercoasters. It was just elevators. Even the thought of stepping into one and being trapped inside a small box tethered to a thin wire cable on pulleys inside a narrow shaft would send her anxiety racing. It was the fear of the floor dropping out from under her or the cable being cut ten floors up and then plummeting to the earth in what effectively was a steel coffin. She wasn’t claustrophobic and could crawl under houses and into roof cavities as she had done looking for drug stashes or dragging out a perpetrator who had been hiding. It was just… elevators.

She had put it down to her first visit to Disneyland when she was just five years old and when Zac, her brother, was six. They had gone on the Hollywood Tower Hotel ride, and Alex almost passed out in pure fear when the ride rose all the way to the top. The wall opened, and you could see out over the theme park, then the elevator plummeted.

Alex now watched as Ben reached the first level while the person he was chasing was on the second level and starting their climb to the third level. Despite his injuries, Ben was younger and fitter, but she didn’t want to take the risk Sam would reach the top and cross over.

Alex had to push her fear aside somehow and stop that from happening. She took off at a run to where she had seen the elevator entrance.

The passageway led to the antique freight elevator, and Alex could feel her anxiety already beginning to rise as she approached. Maybe this was a bad idea, and she should take the stairs. But Sam would expect that, be ready for her as she climbed up. It would also mean he had the advantage of the higher ground; he would be above her, and she would have to fight her way up.

As she stood there, a growing sense of despair rising in her stomach, precious seconds were being lost. Taking a few deep breaths, she hung back and forced her galloping heart to slow down. No. She had to do this and conquer her fears.

Pulling back the accordion gate, she stepped inside, then closed the gate behind her. A simple brass panel had four numbered black buttons and a red button for the emergency stop. She pressed the button marked four and waited.

Nothing. Not even a slight groan of a motor or wheel turning. Alex breathed a sigh of relief. There was no auxiliary power, and if there were backup batteries, they must be dead, drained of all juice from years of no use.

She grabbed the handle on the door, then noticed another panel, a smaller one beneath the main panel. Reaching down, she flipped it open. Inside were wires and a red paddle switch. Excitement and terror hit her at once. It was a kill switch, installed and used to properly cut power to machinery or a battery to prevent it from being drained when the machinery was shut down.

Reaching in, she twisted the red paddle. Nothing—no electrical hum. No fluorescent overhead light coming on. Nothing.

After closing the panel, her finger hovered over the four. Will it work?

She stabbed at the four button, and the cage shook slightly, sending fresh waves of fear up her spine. An electric hum came from under the floor plate.

Alex closed her eyes, her breath feeling like she had lost the use of one lung. I’m going to make him proud. Make Zany Zac proud of his little sister. Alex had always called her brother ‘Zany’ Zac because of his complete lack of fear as a kid for trying anything once, no matter how dangerous it looked. He was the first to try the California Screamin’ rollercoaster. First to try the Hollywood Tower Hotel, then he dragged her on, convincing Alex that it wasn’t really scary at all. Yeah, right. He was the first to jump off the patio roof and into the swimming pool when Mom and Dad weren’t home. He was the first to break his leg when he misjudged how far out he needed to leap.

She opened her eyes.

Somewhere in the darkened shaft below her, mechanisms whirled and clunked as ancient cogs, pulleys, and counterweights moved in unison. The elevator lurched, then settled into its rickety ascent as she huddled in the corner, trying not to throw up. She watched as the big brass pointer arrow above the door moved with utter painstaking slowness toward the one.

Given that her fear and anxiety were rising faster than the damn elevator was, the only question in Alex’s mind was: could she stop it from reaching the point of her own physical and mental meltdown before the elevator made it up to the fourth level?

49

CHASE

Rounding the steel landing on the first level, Shaw heard gunshots, maybe three seconds apart, and knew it was Alex shooting at Sam, who was climbing to the next level above him.

Without missing a beat, he tore up the next flight of stairs, his feet clanging on the metal. Reaching the steel platform halfway between the levels, he panned the shotgun around. Another gantry ran out to a small circular platform over a line of old conveyors that zig-zagged below before disappearing into an opening in the wall. Sam was nowhere to be seen. A ladder bolted to the opposite wall ran up to another secondary platform, which housed a large power junction box. He slung the shotgun over his shoulder, climbed the ladder, and searched the area.

Nothing. The air smelled of rust, raw metal, and grease.

He listened, expecting to hear the metallic thrum of feet above him on the metal steps, but the place had descended into an unearthly silence. Where was he? Had he stopped between floors? But there was nowhere else to hide, and he was certain he had seen no other gantries splitting off the main one.

Another ladder doglegged into a square opening, maybe a service conduit. Shaw looked at the ladder, wondering if Sam had crawled into the dark opening.

He needed to keep going up. After moving back down the ladder, he unslung the shotgun, returned to the stairs, and continued his climb. On the second level, the configuration changed. The stairs ended in a series of steel ladders and small platforms. The stairs to the next level above were on the far side, and a small metal bridge kicked out to a narrow gantry that spanned across the cavernous gap above a line of processing machinery below.

Halfway across the small bridge, the sound of footsteps clanging on the steel grating above floated down to him. He looked up into the murkiness above but couldn’t see anything. But he was there, above him, still climbing.

He raced across the bridge, leaped onto the ladder bolted onto the wall, then rushed up the rungs. At the top of the ladder, the stairs began again, and this time, the metal clanging of feet was closer. Much closer.

He had him.

50

FACE OFF

Reaching the third level, Shaw placed his hand on the rail of the gantry and felt a slight vibration.

He looked farther along the gantry and saw nothing but an empty blackness thanks to an overhanging section of ceiling that was blocking out the dull moonlight coming down through the gaps in the ceiling.

The blackness rippled and bulged, and then something pushed out like afterbirth, and his eyes settled on a shape coming toward him.

It was a man—a dark face with its features hidden in shadow. The figure then cocked its head slightly, almost like one does when a stranger’s face is vaguely familiar.

The person moved closer and stepped out of the shadows under the overhang, and immediately, their face became illuminated by the watery moonlight that seeped from above. It was a hard face, furrowed with determination, teeth gritted, and jaw muscles clenched in venomous resolve. The curve of the chest was heaving from exertion, but each breath was soft and composed, not ragged and gasping from their rapid ascent to where they both now were.

Eyes of deep black coal stared at Shaw. There was nothing there, within them or behind them, except a ravenous need to kill. The hard lines of his face softened slightly like he had found what he had been searching for—something of value, something he had lost, and now he had found again. But there was no joy in that expression. The value was not in relief or a sudden sense of some new resolve to keep the thing in better safekeeping. The value lay in finally finding again what was once gone, what had once slipped through your fingers, so next time, those same fingers would wrap around the throat of the thing and squeeze the very life out of it.

Upon seeing Shaw, the man’s facial expression rippled under his skin as if his mind were scrolling through an infinite catalog of pain and suffering that he would inflict on him purely for the inconvenience caused and not for pleasure. Perhaps there was some anticipation of pleasure Shaw saw in Sam’s eyes, but it would pale into insignificance compared to the pleasure Shaw was going to derive from killing him first.

He stopped a few feet away and smiled at Shaw before his eyes fell on the shotgun slung over Shaw’s shoulder. Why had he stopped running? Shaw knew why. Despite not showing it, he was exhausted and spent. Shaw had finally run him down, and Sam had little choice but to turn and face his pursuer.

Sam was an unarmed man. Shaw didn’t care. He would dispatch him with all the empathy and mercy he had shown to all those lives he had taken by his own hand.

“You have me at a distinct disadvantage,” Sam said, nodding at the shotgun tucked behind Shaw.

“So? The last time we met face-to-face, you had me bound and gagged and were about to bury me alive. None of your victims had any advantage over you.” He could think of nothing better than to kill him. To slip off the shotgun, aim it at his stomach, and cut him in two.

“Hardly sporting, is it?” Sam said, an evil gleam in his eyes.

“Sporting?” Shaw scoffed. “You hunted me like an animal.”

“And you did well. I commend you.” Sam’s eyes narrowed. “I underestimated your skills and determination. You were a worthy adversary. Now you want to kill me? But shooting me would be too easy. In fact, I welcome it. A few seconds of immense pain, then nothing.”

Shaw slipped off the shotgun and aimed it at Sam’s chest. “So be it.” His finger found the trigger.

Sam stepped forward. “Then why don’t you?” he retorted, throwing both arms out suddenly in surrender, his body now shaped like a crucifix. “It’s what I deserve. Equal justice.”

Just the slightest pressure and boom! The world would be rid of another monster.

Shaw paused. It’s what I deserve. Equal justice. But it wasn’t equal justice. For all the brutality and tortuous fear Sam had inflicted on his victims, simply pulling the trigger and quickly ending his life was… too easy. It was almost painless, like giving him a lethal injection so he could drift off into a comfortable sleep while his victims had suffered in so many unimaginable ways, not to mention the endless suffering their loved ones had to endure for the rest of their lives. Some people just needed to be killed in a way that honored the people they had killed.

“So, where is she?” Sam asked. “The woman with you.” He looked around. “What have you done with her?”

He was referring to Alex. “I have no idea,” Shaw replied. And that was the truth.

“Hiding from me, maybe?” he gloated. “Don’t worry, when I’m done with you, I’ll find her.”

Done with me? He tightened his grip, but his mind was torn. Shaw’s eyes swept over Sam. He was unarmed, or was he? Why the arrogance, the sudden bravado? No, he was too cunning. Something was wrong, but he wasn’t about to frisk him and find out. “Turn around.”

Sam smiled. “Don’t you trust me… Ben?”

“Don’t say my name,” Shaw snarled. “Don’t you ever⁠—”

“Why the heavens not… Ben?” Sam took another step forward. “I like your name.” He kept his hands up. “Go on, pull the trigger.”

Shaw relaxed his grip on the shotgun for a second. No, shooting him was too easy, too quick. He wanted him to suffer, bury him alive in a dark hole in the ground like that woman with nothing to breathe but dirt and ants.

Sam’s face was now twisted in a cruel smile, seeming to enjoy Shaw’s indecision. “You couldn’t save her, could you? That woman who I buried. You tried.” Sam’s voice was low, syrupy with false sincerity. “But in the end, you failed.” He gave Shaw a pondering look, then brought his hands down and pointed a finger at him. “You know, Ben. I think you’re the type of guy that enjoys saving people, especially young women.” He licked his lips. “Yeah. You do, don’t you? We need it as much—maybe more—as the air we breathe.”

“You don’t breathe the same air as me.” Wisps of red mist unfurled at the edges of Shaw’s vision. His heart slowed, and his body temperature began rising.

Sam let out a laugh. “Well, she certainly didn’t, did she? Not with all that dirt I buried her under.”

The red mist thickened.

Sam’s eyes cut to Shaw’s forearm. “And that other woman, too.” He shook his head. “See, you got burned too, trying to save her.”

Shaw’s jaw muscles clenched so tightly that it felt like his teeth were about to shatter into a million pieces. “You saw it, didn’t you?” he snarled. “You were watching it all, weren’t you?”

Something drifted beneath the blackness of Sam’s eyes. His jaw dropped out, and he gave a hollow moan. “Tell me, Ben. What was it like to see someone burned alive? Or was she already dead?” He licked his lips again. “And the smell of burning skin and flesh. It must have clung to you like….” He gave a slow, almost jealous nod. “It must have been something to behold.”

“No!” Shaw dropped the shotgun and ran at Sam, his hands bunched in tight fists. He was going to kill him with his own bare hands, do it slow, beat him to death.

As if time had jumped forward a few seconds, a meat cleaver, the blade dull and rusted, suddenly appeared in Sam’s hand. He brought it up behind his head and hurled it at Shaw before Shaw’s brain could comprehend where it had come from, let alone how to avoid it.

The meat cleaver somersaulted through the air.

A sharp jolt of pain cut into Shaw’s thigh as he rushed forward.

Shoulders bunched, head down, fists up like an old barroom brawler, Sam delivered a right cross into Shaw’s solar plexus, driving the ball of his fist deep into the pit of his gut.

As Shaw staggered back, Sam stepped in, closing the gap again, and unleashed an elbow into Shaw’s face. Ducking like a boxer, Sam grabbed the cleaver's handle, which was sticking out of Shaw’s thigh, and pulled it. The blade came out with a wet sucking sound and a gush of blood.

With one sweep of his foot, Sam kicked the shotgun over the edge, and it sailed away into the darkness. The dim light caught Sam’s face. It was twisted in a rictus snarl, with eyes glacially cold and just as lifeless. Holding the meat cleaver, the blade dripping blood, heinous, inhuman, he advanced.

51

FIGHT

Shaw retreated along the gantry, dragging one leg behind him, his eyes focused on Sam, who held the meat cleaver in front, slashing the air side to side. He must have hidden the cleaver in the waistband behind his back.

“Like I said, when I’m done with you, I’m going to find the woman.” He paused. “You know, Ben, the average adult body has around three hundred and fifty joints?” The meat cleaver resumed its slashing. “And I intend to separate her from every last one of them, ever so slowly. It might take a few days to do. I’ll start at the extremities and work my way in.”

Despite his injury, having no shotgun now, and Sam wielding the cleaver, Shaw was more determined than ever to kill him. It had been Shaw’s fault, though. He had given in to the frailty of human nature by allowing his emotions to control him. Sam had wormed his way inside his head and had manipulated his own rage against him.

It was a foolish mistake that could cost him and Alex their lives.

Sam lunged again.

Shaw had to end it here, now. With a flick of the wrist, the blade of the cleaver came at Shaw’s head. Not fast, but determined.

Stepping to meet it, Shaw blocked Sam’s arm, latched onto the man’s wrist, and wrenched it back. Sam let out a grunt, and the cleaver tumbled over the railing and into the darkness below.

With nowhere to go, Sam barreled forward into Shaw, using his mass and nothing else, tackling Shaw to the floor, but not before Shaw hit him square in the face with a straight right, breaking his nose in a gush of blood. The gantry shook as their combined weight slammed into it.

Sam, on top of Shaw, started slamming his head into Shaw’s face. Shaw brought both arms up to protect his head from the barrage of head butts, with Sam’s blood-covered face and saliva drooling from his mouth, just inches from his own face.

Shaw bucked his hips just as a fist connected with Shaw’s face. The crunch of the impact left him stunned as the edges of his vision burned white.

Getting to his feet, his chest heaving, his eyes wild, Sam followed up with a brutal kick to Shaw’s exposed ribs as he lay squirming on the ground. There was a distinct snap as ribs fractured.

“What’s the matter?” Sam said, wiping blood from his nose. “You’re what? More than half my age? You young ones got no fight in you.”

He stood over Shaw, whose whole body was racked with a plethora of pains he never knew existed.

Reaching down, he pulled him up effortlessly, with both hands wrapped tightly around his throat, and grinned into his face. “You know what your problem is? You haven’t killed enough people. You haven’t felt what it’s like to take a life. You haven’t tasted the brutality of it.” He let go of Shaw, and he slumped back to the ground.

“After you escaped again,” Sam kicked him in the side of the head, “I thought I was going to kill you quickly when we next met. Then, I changed my mind and convinced myself I needed to take my time with you. Make you pay for disrupting my plans.”

Reaching down, he grabbed hold of Shaw’s ankle and locked it under his armpit. He then dragged him toward a small platform a few feet away.

Shaw’s head lolled as he was dragged along, almost unconscious, powerless to do anything.

“But then I decided that no. You’re too dangerous. You need to die.”

Sam gave Shaw one last kick, sending him between the bottom handrail and the metal floor.

Gravity took hold, and Shaw tumbled off the platform and into the darkness beyond.

52

MOTHER

There. Alex heard it again: a low, mechanical hum coming from somewhere below the elevator’s carriage. Something was wrong.

Then, there was a jolt, and the elevator stopped.

The big brass pointer arrow on the clock-like dial above the door was stuck between three and four. Alex could hear a metallic groan, gears straining, cogs shedding teeth maybe or screws coming undone, then falling into the blackness of the shaft below.

She was going to be trapped inside the thing as it came apart, and then she would fall to her death.

She looked at the floor, raw fear flooding her intestines, then seeping into her lungs, squeezing her chest, shortening inhales, her breath sounding ragged.

Images exploded in Alex’s head, light bulbs of pure dread and unimaginable horror bursting into a crescendo that began paralyzing her. She could see the elevator cable slowly unraveling, one strand at a time, until, eventually, it gave out. The elevator plummeting down the shaft, a one-way express trip to Hell. Then, it would implode into a twisted pile of metal and splintered wood. Her body, limbs bent at horrible angles, bones broken, eyes huge and shiny, but frozen dead with fear, nostrils flared, warm sticky blood from her mashed body spraying over the debris, coating everything in red.

Alex felt her chest constrict some more like she was having a seizure. All the air seemed to have been sucked out of her lungs, and Alex slid to the floor, brought her knees up to her chest, and squeezed her eyes shut so hard it pained her. Still, the fear found a way into her head, seemed to know where to go, where to find and then fuel her worst childhood imaginations.

A raw, familiar iciness seeped into her body, chilling her deep into her spine. She couldn’t breathe. There was no air. The floor beneath her warped, then vanished, leaving a square abyss, a bottomless chasm in its place. And yet, she seemed to float above it despite her stomach feeling like it had already plunged into the abyss. Forcing herself, she looked down into its yawning, ominous depths.

She could sense something malevolent below her, underneath her, like she was directly over an empty grave. An empty-eyed face floated toward her out of the depths, out of the grave, the fetid stench of death preceding it. Her naked mother rose out of the abyss. Her skin was pallid and papery thin, drawn tight over her ribs; her collar bones were like wishbones, and her hair was blanched pure white and brittle as husks of winter wheat—an emaciated body ravaged by her addiction.

“No!” Alex gasped.

Then she saw herself as a child, standing next to her mother’s grave, the hole not yet filled in—a bottomless pit. She was then toppling in and being swallowed up by the inky blackness.

A new sound, a low hum from below, and her world lurched.

Gritting her teeth, Alex forced the ghostly apparitions aside, pushed back the images of her mother, and opened her eyes.

The pointer on the dial was moving again. It inched past three and then on toward four, where it finally stopped. She was on the fourth level, where she had seen the crossover gantry.

Grasping the handrail, she pulled herself to her feet, her knees flaccid, a warm sourness in her mouth. After a few deep breaths, the torrent of fear subsided to a trickle, and she stumbled to the accordion gate, wrenched it open, and staggered out.

With her breathing returning to some semblance of normality, Alex gently eased her handgun from its holster, her hand shaking, pointed it ahead, and moved off into the darkness.

53

WORST NIGHTMARE

With a sudden, jarring thump, Shaw landed sideways, and all the breath shunted out of his lungs in one chest-crushing exhale.

A fiery ball of numbing pain bounced around his innards, and behind his eyes, fireworks ricocheted off every corner, leaving contrails of blinding white. Everything was a blur of contorted images and sounds. He teetered in and out of consciousness and could hear the clang of feet receding above him.

Air trickled back into his mouth, and he took a painful gasp. The last of the fireworks cleared from the edges of his vision, and he opened his blood-caked eyes, trying to see where he was.

I’m dead—or should be dead. Maybe I am dead, and this is all there is—nothingness except crippling pain.

The ground felt spongy beneath him, not the hard, bone-shattering cement of the slaughterhouse floor three levels below.

Ignoring his shoulder, he sat upright and gently tested his limbs. Thankfully, his limbs were all intact. Blood from the wound in his thigh was now only a damp patch. Small mercies that the blade of the meat cleaver hadn’t gone in too far. But his shoulder throbbed, so did the burn on his forearm, and maybe some of his ribs were fractured.

The silhouette of the small platform above came into focus. He had landed maybe twenty feet below on a suspended conveyor system barely wide enough to hold him, the trampoline-like slackness of the rubber belt between the two rollers breaking his fall. But it still damn well hurt. A foot on either side and he would have plummeted to the cold, hard floor below.

Despite being racked with pain, a slow-burning fire was smoldering deep inside him, gathering heat and ferocity with each passing second. His brain gradually came back online after almost having its plug pulled—for good.

Grimacing, he struggled to one knee, careful not to topple over the edge. A conveyor support tower with a ladder stood in the distance. Hunched and shivering, he moved on the conveyor belt on one knee, dragging his other leg. The pain was blinding, but he gritted his teeth as he dragged himself inch by inch toward the tower. It felt like his body was being torn apart, and he willed himself not to pass out.

Reaching the support tower, he climbed down the service ladder and onto a metal platform. Fresh spears of pain ran through his shoulder and ribs, his vision wavering. His chest burned, and he felt like someone had split open his ribcage. His breaths came in ragged, shallow rasps, and he took a moment to regain his strength.

His eyes adjusted, and he saw another gantry the next level up. Level four. Except this one spanned both sides of the building, allowing you to cross over and then descend to the floor on the opposite side. That’s why Sam had continued upward, so he could cross over to the other side of the building, then go down and search for Alex.

When I’m done with you, I’m going to find the woman.

Alex wasn’t safe. She was trapped in here with a madman. Finding her before Sam did was all his mind could focus on. Not the pain. Not those he couldn’t save. Just the one person he could still save.

With as much strength as his broken and tired body could summon, he grabbed the rail with one hand and dragged himself toward the start of the stairs.

Just one level up, that’s all. But it felt like it was miles away, each pull of his arm a lifetime of torture. Inch by inch, with the bones of his fractured ribs grating against each other, he grabbed, then pulled, grabbed, then pulled.

Don’t pass out. That’s all he wished for—not to fade and relent to the blackness that was encroaching on his mind.

Reaching the metal landing, he looked up at the first flight of stairs that led up to the next level. Suddenly, they corkscrewed back and forth in a sickening wave of dizziness. It was only two flights of stairs, yet it seemed insurmountable—like he was at the bottom of the Empire State Building and had to climb to the top with a severe case of vertigo.

He steadied himself until the corkscrewing and the dizziness passed. Then, taking a ragged, deep breath, he placed one foot on the first step and hauled himself up while keeping ahold of the handrail. Sweat poured from his forehead, and his insides felt like they were tearing apart. Ignoring it all, he took another step up, then another, and another, pain fighting him every inch he climbed.

Alex. Do it for Alex. She’d do the same for you.

Finally, he reached the fourth level—and saw his worst nightmare.

54

NO DEAL

Alex brought her gun up and took aim. “Do not move.”

Someone was coming along the gantry that spanned both sides of the building. Alex had reached the middle when she saw a shape lumbering toward her.

She shifted her focus to the foreground, where a pool of moonlight from above settled on the metal flooring ten feet away.

The person, unperturbed by her warning, continued moving toward her. They stepped from the shadows into the light and looked right into her eyes. “There you are,” Sam said. His face was a bloody mess, but his dark eyes shone bright and clear.

Alex looked around wildly. “Where… where is⁠—?”

“Ben? Oh, he couldn’t make it. It’s just you and me.” His lips stretched to reveal a row of sharp teeth coated with blood.

Alex gripped her gun tighter. “What did you do to him?”

“Not as much as I’m going to do to you.” Sam took a step forward.

“Stop! Don’t move.”

“Then shoot me, little lady,” Sam said, his voice low and gravelly, his eyes hooded.

What? Alex glanced down at the lower levels to see if she could see Ben. But everything was smothered in shadows, and she could see no movement. Glancing back up, she saw a wicked, twisted smile spread across Sam’s face. He was getting some kind of sexual arousal from the whole incident. Now, she understood. He wanted this—confrontation, a battle of wills. He was unarmed, while she had a gun. Yet he seemed supremely confident.

“I said, shoot,” he said, his voice sounding like it was swimming up from the depths of a deep tomb.

Alex was no cold-blooded killer. She wasn’t that ruthless. And Ben wasn’t dead. She refused to believe it. He was most likely injured, left for dead somewhere below. While she had ridden up in that deathtrap of an elevator, Ben had obviously caught up to Sam, and they had fought. But Ben was stronger and younger. So how did⁠—?

“I know what you’re thinking,” Sam said, cutting into her thoughts. “Why am I standing here and not Ben?” One corner of his mouth kinked up.

Alex pulled the trigger. The bullet rode high over Sam’s head, hitting metal far behind him. “Just a warning shot,” she said, lowering her aim to him again.

“Shoot me proper, little lady. I know you want to.”

Despite Sam’s perverse smile, she saw death in his eyes, her own long and lingering death if she didn’t stop him.

“Make it a quick kill,” he said, pointing to his heart. “Make it painless. Surely, you know I deserve it. You’ve seen what I’ve done. Ben has told you what I’ve done.”

“You are going to jail to rot for the rest of your life,” Alex sneered, lifting her chin defiantly. “A quick, painless death is too good for someone like you.”

He seemed to ponder this for a while. “Let’s make a deal. I’ll tell you where Ben is, and you let me pass.”

“You said he was dead.”

“No, I didn’t. You just assumed that’s what I said. I said he couldn’t be here to join our little threesome. And I’d much prefer it was the three of us standing here.”

“Why?”

Sam inhaled deeply, then slowly nodded. “You know why. It’s a game, and you’re playing it now, whether you like it or not.”

His words confirmed what Alex had figured out. It was a game—a game that he controlled, where death, slow and painful, was the only prize.

“Normally, I would offer you a quick death,” he continued. “There’s nothing else. No freedom. No life. Just your death. Unless, that is… you have something worth trading.”

“How about I shoot you first in the knee?” She lowered her aim. “Then the other knee.” Her aim shifted sideways. “Then I finally put a bullet in your—” Her aim moved diagonally up a few inches to the apex of the imaginary triangle. “—balls.”

Sam hummed out a little moan like he was savoring a piece of delicious chocolate cake. “I bet you’d sure like to. But you won’t. I can tell you’re no sadist. Whereas I….” Both his eyebrows gave a little jerk. “So, let me pass, and I’ll tell you where he is. But don’t take too long, little lady. The human body doesn’t have an infinite supply of blood.” He gave an evil chuckle to himself. “And I should know.”

Alex couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Was Ben lying somewhere, bleeding out, or was it a lie? If he wasn’t dead, and she killed Sam here and now, it could take her forever to find him.

“What’s it going to be?”

“Fuck you!” Alex snarled.

“Fuck you?” Sam said, mimicking her tone. He bowed his head slightly at her. “So be it.”

It was almost like his dark eyes were penetrating into her mind, reading her thoughts. Alex felt her anger bristling. “Tell me where he is.”

“No deal,” Sam said. “My life for his. It’s a simple transaction.”

It sounded like a rehearsed speech from Sam, leaving her to wonder how many women he had concocted the same lame offer or variation of it to. Maybe a less painful death for them if they complied and let him do to them whatever he wanted. But giving him the same offer—a quick death or a long, drawn-out one—would never happen. He was right. She was not a sadistic killer, and the thought of torturing him just to get the details about where Ben was made her stomach churn almost as badly as it did when she thought of the poor cop’s body Sam had run over with his truck.

There was no choice. She lowered her gun. “Back up, and I’ll let you pass.”

She could see he was thinking about it. Then, he nodded.

“Turn around. Go to the platform behind you.” Twenty feet behind Sam, a small observation deck jutted out from the gantry—a semicircle of steel mesh floor with a hand railing around it.

He turned and walked back to the platform and waited.

Keeping her gun pointed at him, she joined him but stayed back on the gantry, allowing enough space between them so he could walk off the platform and back onto the gantry without getting too close.

She nodded. “Good. Now tell me where⁠—”

Something caught her eye behind Sam—a flutter of movement in the background, the shadows suddenly shifting and moving.

Pritchard saw the shift in Alex’s attention and turned to look behind him.

Hobbling toward them from the far end of the gantry was Ben. He was hunched and moving slowly, one hand gripping the rail, pulling him forward while his other hand clutched at his side. He was alive.

Turning back to Sam, she knew it was too late. She did well to avoid the first blow but was too slow to stop the second.

His fist drove into her stomach, and sickening pain flooded her torso.

“Can’t fight if you can’t breathe,” Sam taunted, stepping in and punching her in the side of the head as she bent over.

Alex dropped to the ground. Her gun bounced once on the metal floor before disappearing over the edge. Her vision faded, blackness growing, and the light shrinking. The pain around her midsection was crushing, and she couldn’t get any air into her lungs. Turning her head, she retched up a putrid yellowy discharge that squirted through her gritted teeth and out her nose.

Then, hands were on her, roughly pushing her. She scuttled her heels, trying to dig them into the mesh floor, while her hands clawed feebly at the arms around her, but she kept sliding.

“No!” she gasped. A knee came into view, and she lashed out at it instinctively with a foot thrust right into the kneecap using her enhanced leg.

There was a distinct pop as Sam’s kneecap shunted sideways out of the joint groove. He screamed—a high, girlish cry—then buckled sideways and collapsed.

Alex’s fingers hooked into the steel mesh flooring, and she slowly dragged her body away from the edge.

“You fucking bitch!” he snarled, crawling toward her, one leg pushing him along, the other dragging behind him like a useless piece of meat. Grabbing her shoulders, he began pushing her again toward the edge.

Still winded and dazed from the punch to her stomach and the blow to the head, it came down to simple physics: his superior size and upper body strength honed from years of man-handling women. Some dead weight, others fighting him for their last breath.

Her feet went out over the edge first, followed by her knees, then her hips. She twisted her torso and threw out her hands, desperate to grab ahold of something. Anything.

Her fingers hooked onto metal tubing, the bottom rail, and she shuddered to an abrupt stop. Her body swung wildly, like a pendulum, out over the platform's edge. Looking through her dangling legs, the hard surface of the ground seemed miles beneath her.

With both hands clinging to the lower rail, she looked up. Sam’s face loomed large in her vision, blocking off everything else. He gave her a heartless grin as he leaned over the edge and looked down at her.

“You should have taken the deal, little lady.”

55

THE CHOICE

Desperation bloomed inside Alex.

She didn’t want to die in this horrible way, with her head bursting open like a watermelon on the cement below. Swinging her hips, she tried to get one leg up and onto the lower rail, but she didn’t have the strength to swing the leg up high enough. Fresh agony surged up her arms, across her shoulders, and down her back. Every muscle fiber and nerve ending screamed, and her arms felt like they were being slowly torn from their sockets.

She couldn’t hold on much longer. “Please… God….”

“God won’t save you,” Sam said, still lying on his stomach and looking down at her, an amused look on his face. “But I can.” His hand reached up toward the fingers of one of her hands gripping the rail. He was going to pull her up. He was going to save⁠—

Pain, so hideous and nauseating, ripped through Alex’s hand as one of her fingers lifted off the rail and was then bent back at an unnatural angle.

No! No! My God! She let out a bloodcurdling scream.

“You scream, I scream, we all scream for ice cream,” Sam sang, reaching up for another finger. He lifted it off and twisted it back violently.

Another wave of nauseating pain ripped through Alex’s hand, and she let go. Now, she was hanging from just one hand. Waves of blinding pain coursed through her, and it was like being stretched on a medieval torture device.

Helpless and sniveling, she looked up and saw Sam turn his head away and yell. “Hold it right there, Ben. If you come any closer, I’ll rip her other hand away. But you can save her. It’s up to you if you really want to.”

He turned back to Alex. “Are you worth saving, or am I more valuable to him than you are?”

Using the rail, Sam pulled himself up and stood, all his weight on one leg, using the handrail as support. He swiveled around. “You must make a choice, Ben. Her or me?”

Up through the steel mesh floor, Alex could see Sam pull himself along the rail and away from her, his injured leg locked at the knee, incapable of bending or supporting any weight. He hobbled off the platform and back to the crossover gantry.

Alex’s fingers slipped. “Ben!” she screamed.

“Which is it, Ben?” Sam pointed down to where Alex was dangling one-handed from the lower handrail. “Her or me? Ignore her and catch me, then she falls and dies. Save her and ignore me; then she lives.”

Sam edged farther away along the gantry. Despite his injured leg, he was retreating fast—a man desperate to escape now that the odds had swung against him. But he still had one bargaining chip left in his bag of nasty tricks.

“What’s it going to be?” he yelled.

Craning her neck, she saw Ben on the opposite side of the gantry. He was injured, shuffling along like an old man with a walking stick, much slower than Sam was now moving. Would Ben make it in time to save her?

Coated in sweat, Alex could feel her fingers slipping. She was going to fall. No one was going to save her.

She looked down and knew instantly she shouldn’t have. Fear, sick and smothering, pushed up her throat. She was going to die.

A drop of blood splashed onto her wrist, then another. She looked up to see Ben leaning down over the edge. His hand wrapped around her wrist, and he dragged her up and back onto the platform.

Alex rolled onto her back just in time to see Ben, his face twisted in agonizing pain, collapse next to her.

56

LOCK AND KEY

It had been two weeks since they had staggered out of the slaughterhouse, battered and bruised, and discovered that the truck was gone, along with Sam.

They had managed to get the Explorer through the mud and drive away. Despite Alex’s insistence on Ben going to the ER for his injuries, he refused, telling her to take him back to her apartment in D.C.

During the last two weeks, his broken rib was healing, and the skin on his forearm had formed a tight, hard scale. He had refused any painkillers, not that he didn’t trust Alex. He told her Audrey Mason had fed him enough of them to last him a lifetime. After much arguing, Alex had taken him to the ER to have the puncture in his thigh properly stitched. She told the junior doctor that it resulted from an accident in the kitchen involving a carving knife.

Thankfully, the butterfly bandage she had used in the motel room to close the wound on his shoulder had worked well and didn’t require stitches. It also would have been harder to explain to the junior doctor how it had happened. Compared to him, she had gotten off lightly with just a few sprained fingers and a graze to her forehead from where Sam had taken a shot at her. She had worn a loose ball cap to the ER to hide it, while Ben had worn a long-sleeved shirt to hide his burn.

Alex told her boss, Nancy Chase, everything—well, almost everything—about what happened. Given the weapons she had requisitioned from the armory, the ammunition she had used up, and the damage to the Explorer, she had no option. Nancy seemed to accept the explanation that Alex was following up on a potential lead, that a truck driver was transporting vast quantities of amphetamines through Maryland, and she had tracked him down to Cullen’s Slaughterhouse just outside the town of Ravenwood.

Local police subsequently searched the slaughterhouse and found nothing worthwhile. The burned-out remains of the truck were discovered dumped ten miles south on a dirt road near Gathland State Park. She also told Nancy that the driver’s name was Sam, and he was posing as a Canadian truck driver named Raymond Casey, and the police were chasing a ghost. Sam had most likely killed Casey and assumed his identity, and the DMV picture the police were circulating was wrong. Collaborating with a police sketch artist, Alex gave a detailed description of Sam and, as per Ben’s insistence, made a copy of the sketches for Ben to keep.

Alex left out details about what transpired at the Mason property and, when questioned, said it was an unrelated matter. The police had exhumed seven graves, including that of a baby and Dean Mason, a local police officer. Apparently, Mason had emailed his written resignation to his sergeant twelve months ago, claiming personal health issues. He never returned to the police station to clear out his locker or say farewell to his fellow officers. Shaw believed Audrey had fabricated her brother’s resignation shortly after she murdered him and buried him in the backyard.

The other bodies, including those in the charnel pit Ben had fallen into, were still to be identified. So far, police had unearthed thirty bodies scattered around the property in various stages of decomposition or as just skeletal remains.

As well as being a succubus, Audrey Mason was also a Black Widow, luring unsuspecting male travelers, drugging them, then feeding them Viagra so they could impregnate her without them knowing.

The police were also looking into the murder of a policewoman at a truck stop. The same man posing as Raymond Casey was now the likely suspect, and, given all the police attention, it was suggested he had gained a new identity and may have even changed his appearance. The trail had gone cold, and the whereabouts of Raymond Casey’s body may never be discovered.

“So, what happens now?” Alex asked, a smile of utter contentment on her lips, her leg wrapped around Ben’s thighs, not wanting him ever to escape.

Shadows lingered over them. Candlelight flickered off the walls and ceiling, casting a warm glow around the bedroom in Alex’s apartment. But it was nothing compared to the warm glow that had started two weeks ago and had steadily built with intensity every day since.

In those first few days, she had been mindful of his injuries. The initial exploration had been a tentative one as both got to know each other’s bodies. As expected with any new lover, but more so in her case, Alex was at first apprehensive about how he would react. Then, all doubt and self-conscious thoughts flew out the window when their two bodies fused together as one. The sensation of him pressing over her, his taut body, his chest crushing her swollen breasts, his hands interlocked with hers as he held her arms above her head, their legs entwined, all felt so natural.

A promise made was a promise upheld every day—sometimes twice a day.

“At some point, I need to leave, Alex.”

She knew this. She couldn’t keep him here forever in her bedroom, even though the thought of it was so inviting. While their lovemaking had burned with fire, she knew his determination to find Sam also burned brightly. She couldn’t stop him. He had told her it was his quest, his sole purpose now. It still left her sad but not empty—definitely not empty. For the last two weeks, she had happily drowned in the flood that swept her away. At some point, the floodwaters would recede, but the once arid landscape of her life was now lush and thriving again, as sure as a crop field after a warm summer rain. She had never felt this alive in all her life. But until he left, she wanted him all to herself for as long as possible.

Alex gave him a thoughtful look. “Hmm, I’m not so sure. I could always lock you away.”

“I’ve been locked away enough lately,” he said, a shadow moving across his eyes.

She felt a sudden tinge of sadness. He hadn’t really spoken again about what had happened, what Audrey Mason had done to him, and Alex didn’t want to press him anymore about it. “Sorry, I didn’t mean⁠—”

Shaw rolled on top of her and silenced her with a kiss that seemed to last until dawn and made her flesh break out in a fresh, sweaty sheen of primal desire. And when the kiss broke, he looked deep into her eyes as though they were the only two in the entire universe. “We should get up and get some food.”

“I have all the nourishment I need right here.” She adjusted her hips until he melted once again deep into her. It felt as easy and natural as a one-of-a-kind key designed to fit into only one well-oiled lock—a lock that opened the door to her heart and soul.

57

AMBER

“But you promised!”

The woman in high heels and form-fitting black mini dress stepped back then looked down at Nick Bowen’s semi-flaccid appendage drooping out of his open trouser fly, an amused smile on her face. “Fat chance there, Freddy.”

The two of them stood in the dark alley behind Anteros Cocktail Bar in Pentagon City, and Bowen couldn’t believe what was happening.

“You promised me a fucking blow job,” he said. He had just been inside the cocktail bar to let off some steam after a hard day when this knockout blonde, with a hard body and slinky black dress, had come onto him within minutes of his arrival.

After buying her a few drinks, she convinced him (not that he needed much convincing) to come outside to the alley behind the bar for some private one-on-one time. While she didn’t elaborate on what exactly that meant, the last ten minutes she had spent on a bar stool rubbing her hand up and down the inside of his thigh had made it pretty obvious.

And he was up for it—and more, much more. To him, the blow job would just be the starter of a very long and delicious meal he had every intention of eating. Then he was going to fuck her rough and hard, even if she didn’t want to. And what could she do about it? Run to the police? It would be his word against hers. And he was a senior associate at Brockton Halliwell, one of the top lobbying firms in D.C.

Now, she was backing out, the cock-teasing little whore. He zipped himself up, blind fury building inside him. Forget about fucking her; he was going to fuck her well and truly over with his fists. He’d already looked about the alley when they first entered, ensuring there were no security cameras. No one would know. When he was done, he would throw her body in a dumpster like the trash she was—blame her death on some homeless person.

“I’m warning you,” he said, pointing a finger at her. “Don’t mess with me. Get on your knees, open your God damn mouth, and⁠—”

The woman glanced sideways, and Bowen’s eyes followed to a wall of shadow. The darkness shimmered, and a man stepped out—just an average man of slightly average height and build. Lean, not thin. Strong-framed, but not gym-junkie bulky. He wore oil-tanned leather work boots, well-worn dark jeans, and a weathered leather jacket over a black T-shirt. Muted colors. Woodland colors. Like camouflage.

He paused and looked around, as a tourist would, taking in a strange new place's sights, sounds, and smells. He frowned, then murmured, “You’re all class, Nick.”

“Who the hell are you?” Bowen turned back to the woman, his hands bunched into tight fists. “So, it’s all a scam, is it?” A twisted smile broke out across his face. He thought about the serrated blade in the pocket of his Armani wool jacket and then pictured himself standing in front of a judge. “Yes, Your Honor, there were two of them in it together. They tried to rob me, so I had to defend myself. The guy had a knife. Luckily, I managed to wrestle it off him. Then, somehow, fearing for my life, I must have stabbed both of them. I’m truly remorseful, but it was two against one, and he had a knife. As God is my witness (and thankfully, there would be none), I thought I was going to die, Your Honor. Honest.” Now, if he could only just cry on demand like that hot Barbie-bitch actress Margot Robbie could. That would really seal the deal with the judge.

Finally, the man turned and looked at Bowen. “This is no scam.”

It was the way the man had said it with no expression whatsoever—like it was almost an inconvenience for him to be here. A chore he was about to carry out that he had done many times before.

“Thanks, Amber.” The man pulled out a wad of notes from his pocket, thumbed out ten twenty-dollar bills, paused, then thumbed out another two for good measure. He handed her the cash. “Your job tonight is done.”

The woman smiled and slipped the cash somewhere in her dress. “Anytime.” She looked Bowen up and down, who just stood there, mouth gaping. “You know, I don’t know what’s uglier… your small dick or that tie you’re wearing.” Then she faded into the shadows.

The man stepped closer.

“I asked, who the hell are you?” Bowen demanded, one hand moving to his jacket pocket where the knife was, but before he could reach it, the man punched him hard in the solar plexus. Bowen doubled over in gut-wrenching pain, gasping for air. He would have collapsed completely if the man hadn’t grabbed him by the collar and held him upright.

“You don’t need to know my name,” the man said, his face just inches from Bowen’s. “I have no name. All you need to know is that I’m a friend of Alex Durant.”

Bowen felt like he was going to puke. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”

The man shook him one-handed like he was holding up a big old tuna on a fishing line. His size belied his pure strength. “You know perfectly well what I mean. You threatened her. She told me everything about you. She doesn’t know I’m here. I took it upon myself to come and pay you a visit.”

Bowen tried sucking air back into his lungs, and his stomach churned with sickening pain. “W—What? Alex?”

The man slapped him hard across the face. “You don’t get to say her name anymore. This is a matter now between you and me, no one else.”

Bowen took a gulp of air. “What the hell are you talking about? You and me?”

The man drove Bowen hard against the brick wall, smacking the back of his head. Stars burst behind his eyes, and he could feel the hot breath of the man inches from his own face. “You don’t go near her ever again. You got that?”

“But—”

The man jerked him away from the wall, then slammed him against it again, this time harder. “You got that?”

Bowen nodded. “Yeah—yes! I got it.”

“You don’t contact her. You don’t even breathe the same air as her. If you do, I’ll kill you.” He let go, and Bowen slid down the wall, his vision blurry and his head throbbing.

The man squatted in front of him, and Bowen raised his hands. “Please, please, don’t hit me. I beg you.”

The man smirked. “Typical,” he said. “I don’t exist. I’m a ghost. Whereas I know all I need to know about you—where you work, where you live, where you go. If you go against what I have said, then I’ll pay you another visit.” He paused as if remembering the words someone had told him. “When you least expect it.”

He stood, then walked off, vanishing back into the shadows where he had come from, like a ghost.

58

THE UNINVITED

“I saw her first.”

Sam Pritchard turned to see a woman in her mid-sixties with gray hair standing behind him. Wide-hipped and overweight, she had fair skin, rosy cheeks, and a motherly look with a soft, empathetic glow in her brown eyes. The only clue to a hard-fought life was the scar, thick and silvery, that cut sideways away from one corner of her mouth and along her cheek for about an inch.

She regarded Pritchard as one might regard a colleague, a fellow combatant who shared a common yet secretive interest that neither understood, let alone known by the surrounding people.

Without being invited, she sat down opposite him, her eyes never leaving his, then jutted her head back. “Young lady, over my left shoulder, two tables back.”

Pritchard felt the press of the switchblade in his pocket against his thigh, then relaxed as the server came over and topped up his coffee cup. “Anything for you, honey?” she asked the new arrival.

The woman looked up and gave a warm smile that seemed to stretch farther with the scar. “I’m good for now, thanks.”

As soon as the server moved on, the woman’s eyes dropped back to Pritchard, and all that fair-skinned, rosy-cheek motherly bullshit slid from her face faster and smoother than a sunny-side-up egg sliding off a Teflon frying pan.

“The brunette, with the shoulder-length hair,” she continued, “with brown eyes, a tatty denim jacket, and a slight tear in the top right shoulder. Probably torn when her boyfriend or father tried to grab her as she ran out the door.”

Pritchard just listened and drank his coffee, fascinated by the woman as she prattled on.

“I can share her. I can see why she caught your eye,” she said. “You noticed the same signs I did.”

“Signs? How so?”

The woman raised an eyebrow, then sighed. “That innocent, worried look she had on her face when she counted out dimes and quarters to pay for a small coffee at the counter. The canvas backpack, worn and tattered, sitting next to her. Not too big for her to be a foreign tourist backpacking around this glorious land of ours, but not too small for her to have run away from home for only one day. Big enough, though, to be carrying all her worldly possessions. Bloodshot eyes, too. She’s been crying, and she’s tired looking. Probably spent last night sleeping in an alleyway or on some park bench.”

Her powers of observation impressed Pritchard. Yes, he had noticed some of those telling signs—but not all that the woman had listed.

“Like I said, I’m willing to share her with you.”

“I do nothing sexual with them, if that’s what you’re thinking. That’s not what I’m about.”

“Good,” the woman said, “because I do, and after that, I don’t care what you do with them.” Her hand came across the table. She was all chubby fingers, thick wrists, and flabby forearms. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Dolores, but you can call me Dolly. All my friends do.”

“So, we’re friends now, are we?”

“We’ll grow to become friends through a common interest. Isn’t that how all friendships start? Two strangers discovering a commonality between them? A sharing of ideas, advice, better ways of doing things that can benefit both sides.”

“Look. Dolores⁠—”

“Dolly, I insist.” Her hand hovered there.

Pritchard took it, her grip naturally strong, not forced just to impress him. “Dolly, I’m Sam, and as I was about to say, in this game, you and I don’t have any friends.”

She smiled. “Well, Sam, you’ve got one now, and let me tell you, I’m getting too old to chase these young ones. Whereas you look like the kind of guy who likes to chase. For you, it’s all about the chase.” Her eyes considered him briefly. “You also look like the kind of guy that catches but doesn’t release.”

Pritchard didn’t warm to many women unless they were begging for their lives. Yet he found himself warming to her. Was he really that obvious? She had picked him a mile away as sure as picking out a rapist from a police lineup because his dick was still dangling out of his trouser fly. 

“And Sam, you look… threatening. Meaning that the actual catch part has to be quick with you because once they see you coming, they’ll bolt faster than a deer sniffing fear.”

“And that’s where you come in, Dolly?”

“We are two very clever people. We have to be to survive in this game without getting caught. I can be your cover, so to speak, make the whole thing less suspicious, especially with young and vulnerable women.”

Pritchard was intrigued.

“Sorry, honey,” she said, “you goanna finish that?” Her eyes dropped to the half-eaten breakfast burrito. He slid the plate toward her.

“I hate to see things going to waste,” she said, picking it up and taking a bite. Then she glanced over to where the young woman sat, a hungry look in her eyes, but not for the food she was eating. “And I sure hate to see her go to waste, either.” She turned back to Pritchard.

“So, Dolly, what are you proposing?”

“That we team up, work together. Women, trust me. I’ve dealt with a lot of them over the years, especially the young wayward ones and the single mothers.”

“I’m a traveler on the road. The lifestyle suits me.”

“Well, Sam, I need to travel too, just like you.”

So, she’s running from something.

Dolly finished the burrito in three mouthfuls and wiped her face with a napkin. “Teaming up de-risks what we do.” She leaned forward and dropped her voice, and for the first time, he saw buried behind her irises what he imagined was buried behind his—that primal need to hurt others very badly. 

“Sam, we both have that yearning, that hunger that we can never satisfy, no matter how much we feed it. You know we can’t stop. It’s in our DNA.” She leaned back again. “But it’s getting riskier.”

She made sense, but he still wasn’t convinced. He had been a loner all his life, and that’s how he liked it. “I don’t trust you,” he said. “You do a lot of talking. Maybe it’s all hogwash and bravado.”

She drummed the table with her fingers. “Well, then, Sam, let me show you.” She got up, walked over to where the young woman was sitting, and then sat down, uninvited, just like she had done with him.

The young woman was facing Pritchard, so he could see her face. That’s why he had chosen that particular table, to be closer to his prey. He just didn’t know at the time that while he was watching her, another predator was also watching him.

The young woman looked up at Dolly, hopelessness in her face. Then she smiled, and hope replaced all that hopelessness. Her shoulders relaxed as some of the tension dissipated.

Dolly called over a server and handed the young woman a menu. The young woman studied it for a few seconds, then said something to the server, who wrote it down on a notepad.

He continued to watch, his mind processing the last few minutes. There were certain advantages to it, what Dolly had proposed. The police were looking for a single male, and even though his ponytail was now gone, his unruly hair reduced to a short, tight bristle of gray, and he had a clean-shaven look, a husband and wife traveling together wouldn’t get a second glance from the authorities. The thought of a partnership was looking more attractive by the minute as he watched Dolly in action.

She had put the young woman at ease so quickly and easily, something that Pritchard had difficulty with.

Pritchard sipped his coffee, thinking about a nature show where an unsuspecting animal was lapping at the edge of a watering hole, oblivious to the terror lying in wait in the tall grass just a few feet away. That Dolly was a woman made it now blindingly obvious to Pritchard that she had a type of camouflage he could never hope to replicate.

His knee was almost back to normal; thanks to the doctor he had paid cash to pop the kneecap back into place. He still wore the neoprene knee brace, though, and walked with a slight limp. Both would be gone in a few more weeks, the doctor had said.

Not a day went by when he didn’t think about them: Ben and that bitch who had kicked him in the knee. At the slaughterhouse, it was all going to plan until that moment. He never intended to give Ben a choice, just make him think he had one. He was going to kill them both. Then she dislocated his knee, and the odds swung heavily against him. Sulking off into the shadows like a pariah and not finishing the job had left him feeling weak and pathetic.

Ben was such a disappointment. He should have put up a better fight. It was the woman who now preoccupied Pritchard’s mind. Maybe he would seek her out again. Alex? Was that what he had heard Ben call her? And she worked for the DEA. The Explorer parked at that truck stop was a giveaway. Not as much, though, as the windbreaker with the big yellow lettering he had seen on the back seat when he took an unobtrusive look after seeing them at the table in the diner. He was going to kidnap her there and then and had gone back to his truck to grab the chloroform. But then that pesky policewoman had stuck her nose in and ruined his plans. After that, he couldn’t hang around. The police were obviously searching for his truck.

Then the gods smiled at him yet again when he saw them following him in the Explorer. Luring them to the slaughterhouse made sense. And, yes, it had been risky driving back there, but he had no choice. Once there, he planned to kill them both, burn the truck, and escape in their SUV.

But that was all in the past. Newer and better plans had been made. Adapting. In this game, it was crucial because no matter how much planning you do or how many contingencies you have, fate has a way of twisting you into a pretzel if you let it.

He glanced outside to where a black RAM pickup truck was parked. Walter Bickford was a nobody, a loner, someone who wouldn’t be missed, just like Raymond Casey. And just like Casey, a few Budweisers later in a bar, Bickford’s tongue had loosened, and Pritchard knew all he needed to know about him. Killing him, then stealing his truck, his identity, and his pathetic life were out of necessity.

With the sudden appearance of Dolores Gruber, were the gods trying to tell him something? Was she an emissary sent to help him navigate the hard days ahead?

His instincts were telling him to adapt yet again—to change his plans to survive. Adapt or die. Isn’t that what they say?

And he could always kill her if this new arrangement didn’t work out.

After all, she was a woman, wasn’t she?

Birds of a feather flock together.

Looks like Sam Pritchard has found an accomplice in Dolores Gruber, a sadistic psychopath just like him.

If you want to know where Sam and Dolores turn up next, then A Spring Kill is a must read.

While A Spring Kill is Book #2 in my series, the Killing Seasons, you can read it as a standalone.

However, I would recommend you start with A Winter’s Kill, Book #1 in the series if you want the best possible reading experience, and full backstory on Sam Pritchard.

Turn the page for a preview of A Spring Kill…

Dying woman makes a vow to the dead victims of a vicious serial killer to hunt him down before it is too late.

It’s spring, and a new evil has awoken.

Sam Pritchard, the Highway Killer from Utah, tried to kill her…but failed.

Robin Hood, the winter serial killer who terrorized most of the Midwest, did kill her, and technically, Carolyn Ryder, for almost five minutes, was dead. But the woman who surgeons brought back to life on the operating table is not the same woman who was wheeled into the ER without a heartbeat.

She has changed. But one thing hasn’t changed. Carolyn Ryder has some unfinished business, and it’s called Sam Pritchard. She wants to find him real bad. And when she does…she’s not interested in capturing him.

She’s going to kill him.

The worst thing you can do is try to kill a serial killer… and fail.

CLICK HERE TO : Buy A Spring Kill Today

The No Justice Series Universe

There are many characters and locations in the No Justice Series that cross over into other books I have written. Therefore, if you want a truly immersive experience, or perhaps are interested to know some more backstory about a particular character you have enjoyed or are interested in knowing what happens to them next in a separate story, then I have prepared the No Justice Universe diagram as a guide.

1.     Deadly Touch–is a fast-read short story that is the prequel to the first book in the series, No Justice. However, strangely enough, I would recommend that you read Deadly Touch after you have read No Justice.

2.     The Ben Shaw Road Trip Thrillers–These are a series of three fast-reads that fill in the gap after American Justice and before Hidden Justice. They form a nice little story arc where Ben Shaw goes on a roller-coaster, road trip detour packed with murderous villains and interesting characters.

3.     The characters from the Ben Shaw Road Trip Thrillers include Magnolia Gray (Soldiers Field), Deputy Sheriff Monica Styles (All Other Sins), and Police Officer Haley Perez from the book Ravenwood. Therefore, if you want to know more about these characters, then, as per the No Justice Universe diagram, you can read these recommended books. Please note the book Ravenwood is Book #2 in the Ravenwood Series. As such, I suggest you start this series with Book #1, Mill Point Road.

4.     A Winter’s Kill introduces you to Carolyn Ryder, a tough, courageous FBI Special Agent who doesn’t mind breaking the rules occasionally if it means catching the bad guys. She was so well received in this book by my readers that I created a spin-off series of her very own, The Killing Seasons. If you take a shine to Carolyn Ryder, then why not start her standalone series with A Winter’s Kill.

5.     A Fall Kill–After Final Justice, Ben Shaw returns to Ravenwood, where he had visited once before in Dark Justice. He has some unfinished business with Sam Pritchard and again we see him teaming up with the newly promoted Detective Haley Perez in the last installment of The Killing Seasons, A Fall Kill.

However, I would recommend you start with A Winter’s Kill, Book #1 in the series if you want the best possible reading experience, and full backstory on Sam Pritchard.

Or you can simply choose to just read the books in the No Justice Series and none of the other recommendations. However, if you are curious as to the origins of some of the other characters mentioned, their stories and past encounters, then I hope the No Justice Universe diagram helps.

Books by JK Ellem

Ravenwood Series

Book 1 - Mill Point Road

Book 2 - Ravenwood

Book 3 - The Sisterhood

Book 4 - An Unkindness of Sinners

The Killing Seasons

Book 1 - A Winter’s Kill

Book 2 - A Spring Kill

Book 3 - A Summer’s Kill

Book 4 - A Fall Kill

Book 5 - A Wintry Kill

The Erin’s Bay Thrillers

Book 1 - A Dark Kill

Stand Alone Novels

All Other Sins

Audrey Kills Again!

Taxi Man

Murder School

No Justice Series

Book 1 - No Justice

Book 2 - Cold Justice

Book 3 - American Justice

Book 3.1 Fast Justice –A Ben Shaw Road Trip Thriller #1

Book 3.2 Sinful Justice –A Ben Shaw Road Trip Thriller #2

Book 3.3 Dark Justice –A Ben Shaw Road Trip Thriller #3

Book 4 - Hidden Justice

Book 5 - Raw Justice

Book 6 - Final Justice

Deadly Touch Series

Fast Read - Deadly Touch

Octagon Trilogy (DystopianThriller Series)

Prequel - Soldiers Field

Book 1 - Octagon

Book 2 - Infernum

Book 3 - Sky of Thorns

Boxsets

No Justice Box Set 1

Deadly Touch, No Justice, Cold Justice

No Justice Box Set 2

American Justice, Hidden Justice, Raw Justice

Ben Shaw Road Trip Thriller Box Set 1

Fast Justice, Sinful Justice, Dark Justice

Octagon Box Set

Soldiers Field, Octagon, Infernum

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A PERSONAL FAVOR FOR ME!

Thank you for investing your time and money in me. I hope you enjoyed my book and it allowed you to escape from your world for a few minutes, for a few hours or even for a few days.

I would really appreciate it if you could post an honest review on any of the publishing platforms that you use. It would mean a lot to me personally, as I read every review that I get and you would be helping me become a better author. By posting a review, it will also allow other readers to discover me, and the worlds that I build. Hopefully they too can escape from their reality for just a few moments each day.

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JK Ellem was born in London and spent his formative years preferring to read books and comics rather than doing his homework.

He is the innovative author of short chapter, Hitchcock-style adult thrillers in the genres of crime, mystery, and psychological thrillers which have multiple plot lines that culminate in explosive, unpredictable endings that will leave you shocked.

In 2022 he was accepted into the Curtis Brown Creative, Writing Your Novel in Six Months course which he undertook in London while working on his manuscript for future submission.

He splits his time between the US, the UK and Australia.