Chapter One
He's still there.
Still following us, dammit.
Kimmer Reed glanced in the rearview mirror and gave an
unladylike snort completely at odds with her shimmery
taupe jacquard tunic, her carefully understated makeup,
and the lingering taste of an exquisite lunch on Captain
Bill's Seneca Lake cruise.
The big man filling the passenger seat of her sporty Mazda
Miata immediately understood the significance of such a
noise. Rio Carlsen turned his gaze away from the typically
picturesque wine country scenery speeding past them--
spring green everywhere--to stretch a long arm across the
back of Kimmer's bucket seat, glancing behind them and
bracing himself as she took an unsignaled left
turn. "Suburban. Big. Old. Can you say 'eat my dust'?"
Kimmer shook her head, short and firm, eyes on the road.
She could outrun him...but she wouldn't. She took another
left, accelerated down a barely traveled alley on the
outer edge of Watkins Glen, shot across a one-way feeder
road, and downshifted to take the next left at
speed. "This isn't a Hunter assignment. This is my home.
There are rules."
Rules about how to live...rules for those around her.
Rio's hand strayed from the back of the seat to stroke the
hair at Kimmer's nape, a short dark fringe that showed
well enough how her hair would explode in curls if she
ever freed it from its close cut. A reassuring touch that
could turn smoldering in a moment...but right now it
wasn't nearly as casual as it might seem. It connected
them...and it transmitted his readiness. He said, "Let's
go explain the rules, then."
Another glance showed her that the idiot had stayed with
her, bouncing along the rough roads on spongy shocks--if
anything, closing the distance between them. "He's
persistent enough. This isn't casual."
Rio glanced behind them. Kimmer knew that quiet tension in
his body, the tall rangy strength he hid so well in his
amiable nature. "The question is, is this about you or is
this about me?"
"Your turf was overseas." The Miata slewed back out onto
the main road, a two-lane state route between Watkins Glen
and Rock Stream. "And you're ex-CIA."
"Hey," he said, wounded. "I'm good ex-CIA. I might have
made an enemy or two. And it doesn't make sense for it to
be you--you don't exactly work on your home turf."
"Not if I can help it," she grumbled, not bothering to
point out the irony that she'd met him on a job she hadn't
wanted simply because it was too close to her childhood
home. Her long-buried, long-hated childhood. She blew
through a stop sign--not a significant risk on this
particular stretch of road--with her eye on the upcoming
turn, the one that started off with a decent paved road,
turned abruptly to dirt, and even more abruptly came to an
end, a service road made obsolete by underground
utilities. She thumbed the switch to bring up the Miata's
barely open windows. "Check the glove box, will you?"
"God, is it safe?"
Kimmer smiled. "Probably not."
With care, Rio flipped the latch, hands ready to catch
whatever spilled out. "Switchblade," he reported, ably
maintaining his equilibrium as Kimmer hit her target turn
at speed, luring her pursuer along behind...enticing him
to carelessness. "Tire gauge. Knuckle-knife thing. And
this."
She glanced. "War dart."
He grinned, for the moment truly amused. "War dart. Of
course it is."
His wasn't the grin she associated with Ryobe Carlsen,
former CIA case officer and skilled overseas operative.
No, this particular grin belonged to the man who'd left
the Agency after a bullet took his spleen and kidney.
Eventually he and Kimmer had collided during one of
Kimmer's assignments; eventually he'd turned just this
same honest get a kick out of life grin on Kimmer. In
response she'd turned the fine edge of her no-nonsense
temper back on him, and--
And now here he was at Seneca Lake.
Kimmer's car hit the rough seam between asphalt and dirt.
She'd gained ground with the turn; she spared an instant
to warn Rio with a predatory expression that really
couldn't be called a smile.
Rio braced himself.
Kimmer hit the brake, slinging the car around in a neat
one-eighty and raising enough dust to obscure the rest of
the world. She didn't hesitate, but punched down the
accelerator, heading back up the road just as fast as
she'd come down it. They ripped out of the dust and back
onto asphalt, passing the Suburban.
"I think I lost the dart--" Rio groped along the side of
his bucket seat.
"Got my club," Kimmer said. Miniature war club, iron set
into smooth red oak wood, sleek with time and use. She
handled it with great familiarity and precision.
"You brought your club?" Rio said as they whooshed past
the Suburban. "On our date?"
"As if the whole world is about you. Of course I brought
it." Kimmer didn't warn him this time; she hit the brake,
gave the wheel a calculated tug, and ended up neatly
blocking the road. She reached for her seat belt before
the car had even rocked to a complete stop. "You coming?"
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