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S
HAUN HAD DRIVEN
to the Conquistador Outlet Mall parking lot and once there turned left, heading for the back entrance. She’d known exactly where to go, because Gordon had told her about the outlet mall store when the plan was for her to shoot Max Conroy.

And she
had
come to kill Max Conroy, but she would do it her way. She would kill him slowly. She wanted him to beg for his life, and then, to beg for his death. Shaun’s stolen 9 mm had a full magazine. She would shoot both kneecaps. Both elbows. Then one to the stomach. She’d stand over and watch him die by inches.

The kill shot—one in the ass.

Anyone who got in the way would die too.

Max Conroy had shot and killed her son. A silly movie actor, who wasn’t worthy to be in Jimmy’s presence. He wasn’t worthy to speak to him or look at him or breathe his air, and yet Conroy was alive and Jimmy was dead. Her
boy
. Her son. Jimmy was brave, intelligent, ruthless, and strong. She could not picture life without him, yet now he lay at the bottom of the canyon in the dark, the whiff of brimstone rising from the broken truck. And she’d had to leave him.

The least she could do was avenge his death.

Shaun felt different. She was usually cool under pressure. She feared nothing. She did her job. But now she felt as if the world were rushing at the speed of light underneath her feet. Everything sped up, going so fast, whipping by. She was one long line of hatred and righteous fury. Her body was bruised and battered, and she still wondered if there were internal injuries. But the need was so great, so overwhelming, the well of anger so deep, she could not rest until she had him. She would finish this now. The closer Shaun came to her quarry the stronger she felt. She could sniff him out, she could find him anywhere. That solid, unbreakable cable, thin but tensile, ran from her to him; her hatred for him reanimated her, kept her going. One foot in front of the other. She could smell her own hatred. It was rank like the smell of an animal, enveloping her. Pure
need
.

He had killed her boy.

And now he would beg for her to kill him.

T
ESS STAYED CLOSE
to the building and peered around the corner. It was almost full dark now, thanks to the thunderheads covering the last sliver of sunlight. She spotted the green car and could see a shape—
thought
she saw a shape—sitting in the driver’s seat. Just the sight of the old car, the sight of the silhouette in the car, touched something atavistic deep inside her—the urge to fight or flee. Tess could almost feel the woman planning, see the wheels in her head turning—the woman who had tried to kill her and tried to kill Max Conroy. Tess had dealt with many drug dealers, killers who made examples of enemies by torturing them and decapitating them. But she sensed this woman was worse.

She strained her vision against the reddish gloom, looking for headlights, looking for Yavapai County cars. Tess punched in the number for Laura Cardinal at DPS. Hoping that she or some of her people would be in a position to respond.

S
HAUN WAS READY
to move. She’d waited for full dark, waited to see who would come and go. She knew that there would be a woman and a child; she was supposed to kill them too. Whether they lived or died now was not the issue. If they got in the way, she would kill them. Otherwise, she cared about only one target—Max Conroy. She hunkered down to wait, keeping her eye fixed on the loading ramp, and saw a battered old rice-burner drive into the lot behind the store and park. A woman and a girl got out.

They were sticking to the plan.

Showtime.

M
AX COULD HEAR
Jerry, Gordon, and Talia talking as if he wasn’t here. It could be because he just stood there like a dumb ox. He made sure he looked cowed and bewildered. Weak. And so their words drifted into him, and the more he listened, the more clear the words became.

“Where’s Dave?” Jerry.

“Don’t worry, he knows he’s got to be here by seven.” Gordon.

Talia: “Can he even speak? He looks like a zombie.”

“Try Dave again.” Jerry.

“He’ll be here,” Gordon said. “Do you have to worry everything to death?”

Talia said, “God, I can’t wait until this is over!”

Max pictured their words, like hard gunshot pellets, cold and shiny. So much for true love.

He saw Gordon walk away from Jerry and Talia, phone to his ear. Gordon cursed, came back to the little group.

Then his phone sounded—New Age music. Gordon answered, impatient. “Yes?”

Gordon had been pacing, but now he stopped. He stared intently at the floor. Pressed the phone harder into his ear. “Are you sure?”

He listened. Max watched him listen. It was like watching a movie.

Surreal.

He needed to stay alert, ready. He needed to hold onto his anger, let it build.

Gordon was pacing now, talking into the phone in a harsh whisper. Max couldn’t make out the words. But he felt the tension. He could feel that something had changed. Something had changed in a definitive way.

Gordon held the phone away from himself, looking at it in dismay. His face was gray in the fluorescents. He looked ten years older.

“There’s a problem?” Jerry asked.

Gordon’s gaze wandered to Jerry. “Yes, there’s a problem. Somebody walked in and shot Jared.”

“Jared?”

“The front desk man.”

“At the Desert Oasis?”

“Yes! Where else would he be? The police are on their way.”

“Holy—”

Gordon spoke over him. “He was shot by a twenty-two. Two to the heart. You know what this means?”

Jerry and Talia stared at him, openmouthed.

Max knew.

“Shaun,” Gordon said. “One of my employees overheard what she asked him.”

“What?” Talia demanded.

“She asked him where I was. She asked him if Max was here too. She’s coming.”

For a moment, everyone was quiet. Then Talia said, “This is getting too weird. I’m outta here.” She shouldered her purse and started toward the back door, her boots clacking across the floor.

Jerry ignored her. “Maybe this is still salvageable.”

Gordon turned to him. “Where’s the Cadillac, Jerry? Where’s Dave? We don’t have a shooter. Somebody’s been shot at
my
facility. You honestly think this can still work? Really?”

Again, Max watched the action unfold. Just like a movie. And he realized he felt nothing for these people—not even hatred.

“So what now?”

“What now? We abort the mission, Jerry.
We get the hell outta here!
”

“But what about Max? He knows!”

Gordon didn’t spare Max a glance. “He’s a druggie. An alcoholic. A nutcase. Who’s going to believe him? And anyway, it’s time to fold the tent. I don’t know about you, but there are options. I’m part owner of the rehab center in Switzerland—”

Then Max heard it. A knock on the door.

“Who’s that?” Gordon said.

“It’s probably Talia,” Jerry said, striding to the door. “Locked out.”

He opened the door and a woman and a girl—she had to be all of eight years old—walked in.

“You’re early,” Gordon shouted.

The woman stopped, shocked. The girl stared at him.

Gordon stood over a small-caliber gun sitting on a rolling table. Max didn’t like the way Gordon was eying the gun. He had the look of a cornered animal, and Max knew cornered animals were dangerous.

Max decided it was time to move.

He shoved the rolling table across the floor of the soundstage, then went for the woman and the kid.

He reached them in six steps. Jerry jumped back, terrified. He yelled to Gordon, “Shoot him! Shoot him!”

Gordon looked at Jerry.

“The gun! On the table,” screamed Jerry.

Gordon scurried over to the table and picked up the .22. He aimed it at Max.

Max wasn’t worried. The gun was small. Gordon was agitated, scared. He was yards away. Max doubted he’d be able to hit the wall, let alone a human being. “You don’t want to shoot anybody, Gordon,” Max said. “You said yourself—it’s over.”

Gordon looked down at the gun. His hands were shaking, but he raised it. Pointed it at Max.

The little girl shrieked. Max whipped around to look at her, and that was when the gun went off.

Max looked down at himself. He was all right. He looked at the mother and the girl. They were all right. He looked at Gordon, who lay on his back on the soundstage floor, a look of sheer surprise on his face.

Gordon had shot himself in the head. The .22 had done its job, bouncing around inside his skull. Gordon appeared to be dead, but Max wasn’t going to wait around to check his pulse. Jerry was screaming, and Max had no idea how he would react to his brother’s death. Max yanked the heavy door to the outside open with one hand, and shoved the mother into the girl. He pushed them through the doorway, and pulled the door closed behind them.

The mother said, “What are you—”

“Move!”

He pushed them along. They stumbled across the pavement, up the ramp. “Which one’s your car?” he demanded.

The woman stared at him, her face was white with shock. She seemed unable to move.

Max put his hands on her shoulders, more to steady himself than to calm her. He looked in her eyes. “Do you know who I am?”

She stared at him. “You’re…you’re Max Conroy.”

“Do you trust me?”

“I…yes.”

The child stared up at him.

“Listen. You’ve been set up. These are bad people. They want to kill me, and they probably want to kill you. You’re witnesses. Get in your car and drive away now. Please.”

The girl tugged at her mother’s arm. “Mom…”

“What’s going on?” the woman demanded.

“I don’t have time to explain. Get in your car and drive out of here and don’t stop until you get home. Do that for me.”

She stared at him.

“Mom,” the girl said. “We’d better do what he says.”

The woman glanced at her daughter, uncertain. “I…”

And that was when a piece of stucco shattered above his head and almost took off his ear.

There
she
was, at the top of the ramp. Pushing past the side mirror of a big white truck, the light bouncing off the gun in her hand.