Houston , Texas , January 1999

Luke Dallas waited in a secluded booth of a dark, smoky bar. Over the drunken posturings of would-be cowboys, Tammy Wynette whined about true love with a untrue man. From the bar's far corner came the distinctive crack of pool balls connecting and the occasional throaty laughter of the big-haired women who circled the table, watching their men play.

Luke's lips lifted. The bar had been his contact's choice, but he rather liked it. It had a certain kind of style. An undeniable "Texas, Every Man," atmosphere. He could imagine his Alex Lawson at the pool table, pissing the local boys off by taking not only their money but their women as well. And not giving a shit that all hell was about to break loose.

That's what he loved about Alex, the character he had created in Running Dead, his first published novel. He had balls. He was arrogant, too smart for his own good and deeply scarred from a nightmare childhood. He was a man's man, but one women could love.

His editor had been so taken with Alex Lawson and his nemesis Trevor Mann, that she'd had him change the ending of Running Dead and reprise both men for his next novel. That had been three books, three consecutive runs on the New York Times bestseller list and a major motion picture deal ago.

Luke Dallas was publishing's new golden boy. His backlist was being repackaged and rereleased; his agent had scored him a fat new multibook contract and subrights agents were in bidding wars for both his new and old work.

Not bad for a guy who'd been tending bar to keep food in his belly and power flowing to his computer. Not bad at all.

Luke took a swallow of his tepid beer, turning his thoughts to his new novel, its new protagonist-and the reason he was waiting in this out-of-the-way, redneck bar for a man who might or might not show.

His new novel's main character was a former CIA assassin turned vigilante, antihero. Luke had turned to Tom Morris, a contact he'd made at the Agency for some nobullshit information. Tom Morris was a director of the Operations branch of the CIA, a man impressed by Luke's bestseller status and his Hollywood connections.

At first Tom had denied the existence of government assassins-laughable in the wake of documented accounts of the Agency's attempts to end the lives of political adversaries, including the many, infamous plots against Castro.

The documented cases weren't what interested Luke. No, what interested him was speculation. The things people talked and wrote about that were unacknowledged, undocumented and unadmitted by the Agency. Things even the president had no knowledge of-for his own good, of course. Mentions of The Farm. Of elite killing machines who served a specific, deadly purpose, who kept their country safe and on top through the process of eliminating ones enemies.

Luke was enough of a cynic to believe the speculation.

Finally, Morris had admitted the past existence of government assassins and the now defunct Farm. He'd insisted both had been the product of a now dead political climate-of the cold war and conservative, defense-minded administrations.

Luke thought that was bullshit, but he didn't argue. That was the great thing about fiction, he didn't have to prove something was true, only have the ability to make people believe it was.

Morris had agreed to set Luke up with a former Agency mechanic, code name Condor, though he had made no promises that the man would show. These guys were a special breed-loners, secretive-men who lived by their own code and on the fringes.

Condor. Luke brought his beer to his mouth once more. A bird of prey. Fearsome, majestic. A hunter.

A creature on the verge of extinction.

This man could provide Luke with a wealth of information-into the psyche of a paid assassin, a man who not only killed for a living, but for his country. A man who was a refugee of the CIA Farm, the elite training ground for government assassins.

In real life this man had been in the same spiritual place as Luke's fictional character. He had committed the same acts, had perhaps thought and felt the same things.

Perhaps. That's what Luke hoped to learn.

Luke checked his watch. Condor was late. Luke acknowledged a moment of anxiety. This meeting was a lucky break. Guys like Condor were near-impossible to find-there were damn few roaming the streets and even fewer willing to talk to a writer. He wanted this meeting to happen in a big way.

"Kate! Over here!"

In an instinctive reaction, Luke swung in the direction of the voice, his thoughts filled with her. His Kate. The woman he had once loved, the woman he had convinced himself loved him. Loved him enough to take a chance on a guy with nothing but his dreams and his belief in himself and his future.

Thoughts of Kate brought ones of Richard as well. Of the friendship which had degenerated into an ugly rivalry for Kate's affections. Of their last encounters, ones that had had nothing of the easiness and laughter they'd once shared, but were heavy with secrets, suspicion and resentments over things like social class and affluence. Things that shouldn't have mattered, that hadn't mattered to them once upon a time.

The better man had won, apparently. The one who could give Kate all her heart desired. The one who could make all her dreams come true. Or so Richard had said to him, that last morning, as Luke had stood in the cold sunshine in front of the student center, waiting to meet Kate. He had planned to tell her once and for all what she meant to him and to ask her to take a chance on him. To believe in him.

Richard had laughed at that.

The better man. Luke turned back to his beer, rolling the glass between his palms. The one with the money, the family connections and pedigree. The one with all the things Kate had never had. Not the would-be novelist intent on chasing an impossible and childish dream.

Not so impossible, after all. His lips lifted into a grim smile. Not so childish. He wondered what she thought of his success. And of her choice. Did she ever wonder if she had made a mistake?

Obviously not. Four weeks ago he had received an invitation to Kate and Richard's annual New Year's Eve party, along with a chatty, happy-sounding letter from Kate.

Both had affected him like salt ground into an open wound. Even though he could now probably buy and sell Richard Ryan several times over. Even though he had proved to Kate and the rest of the world that his faith in himself and his talent hadn't been self-indulgent foolishness.

He supposed that was what really grated. That they were happy. That maybe she had done the right thing for her. That he had been a lovestruck, naive fool.

As he did every year, he responded to their invitation by making sure his publicist sent the couple his most recent promotional materials, news of his successes, updates on signings, personal appearances and so forth.

It was the only contact he'd had with them in years, and only because he took such perverse pleasure in rubbing their noses in his success. He understood Richard well enough to know that his onetime buddy's phenomenal success drove him crazy. As far as Richard was concerned, there could only ever be one king of the hill-and it had to be Richard Patrick Ryan.

Luke gave himself a shake. Kate and Richard were a part of his past. He was over his anger, his disillusionment. He was. The Ryans and their happiness had lost their power to hurt him.

"Luke Dallas?"

Luke swung back around. A man stood just behind him, hands stuffed into the pockets of his corduroy jacket, gaze intently on Luke's. "That's me."

"Tom Morris sent me."