Because when she was finished with the Pretender, Baldwin might never look at her the same way again.

Fourteen

To: Troy14@ncr.tr.com

From: crypto@ncr.zk.com

Subject: Denver

Dear Troy,

Long drive. Arriving shortly. Anticipate no delays.

ZK

He was tired from the drive. The thump of the tires on the road was driving him mad. He was too tall for the car. The little beat-up compact rental was a piece of plastic crap. He didn’t like to drive. It would have been faster and easier to fly, but he had to follow the instructions to the letter. He’d taken the fastest route— I-5 south toward L.A. then across to I-15 northeast. He drove through the night, then face-first into the sun. He’d lost two hours in Vegas—the victims’ house had been hard to find in the maze of sameness that was the Vegas suburbs. But he’d found and dispatched them with the thoroughness expected of him.

Kill ’em and leave ’em. Those were the rules. No playing with the bodies. He was sorry for that. After the couple in San Francisco, the reaction he’d had to the blood, he was curious what it would be like. They wouldn’t be moving, right? But they’d still be warm.

It would violate the rules.

Monotony. He turned on the radio for company. He liked the conservative talk shows the best—they got his blood boiling. He’d always dreamed of calling in to one of them and telling the bastards exactly what he’d like to do to them. How he’d take them apart, piece by piece. They had everything—money, drugs, women. That Limbaugh guy had just gotten married for something like the twentieth time. And that English prick Elton John played at the wedding. He always thought Elton John was a liberal—he was gay, after all, flaming, really. Apparently money made everyone mercenary. He knew it worked that way for him.

On he drove, his thoughts racing, the radio spewing.

The sun, sinking like heavy red blood in his rearview mirror, the moon rising heavy and full, an expectant sky, then stars, pinpricks in the ink-black night, peeking from their celestial beds. For hours his headlights mingled with the moonlight, illuminating the path, miles upon miles of empty, lonely road stretched before him. At last the moon bade him farewell. The trees hung low across the pass, the tunnels empty and forlorn.

He rolled across the Rocky Mountains as the sun clawed through the morning virga, the gigantic peaks powdered with snow, the air becoming crisp and sharp. There would be a storm tonight, the rains he’d left behind in San Francisco making their way to higher altitude. He needed to finish the job and move along so he didn’t get stuck in town. That would get him off schedule, and he didn’t want that to happen. He glanced at his watch to double-check. No, he was still okay.

He stopped in Conifer for gas and a candy bar. He needed the energy. He was getting sleepy. He had another to kill today. He was surprised at how deadening the thought was. Boring, almost. Almost. The first time, back in San Francisco, now that had been something special. He wanted to stay and savor the moment, relive the gun exploding in his hand and the shocked looks on their faces, relish the scents that streamed from the bodies. He had no idea they would smell like that. Burnt offerings, elegantly tinged with copper, and the faintest tang of urine.

But he couldn’t stay and relish. He had a plan, and he must stick to it. The letter must be posted. The next targets eliminated. He didn’t know if he liked this game. He felt rushed. The driving, the back-to-back deaths. His own senses were out of whack. Not being able to choose his own victims, well, that took all the fun out of it for him.

He’d agreed to play by the rules. The rules meant he wouldn’t be caught. The rules meant he could win, then go on his own path, kill his own way. The gun seemed too impersonal, too easy. He really enjoyed using the knife in Vegas. Four more with the gun, and he’d have that freedom again.

He scarfed the candy bar and drank the Coke. Got back in the car and dreamed as he drove.

Freedom. If he won, the money would float him for years. He didn’t need much. A small house with a basement would be good, out of the way, with no nosy neighbors. Maybe he’d get a cat. He liked dogs, but they had to be walked, and he didn’t like to be seen. No, a cat would be perfect, a friendly face to keep him company.

If all went well, a few scared, unfriendly faces, too.

Fifteen

Taylor sat in her office and stared out the window. Night was falling fast. She watched the stoplight change, blinking ever so slowly through its cycles. Green, yellow, red. Green, yellow, red. She noticed how the colors altered ever so slightly as the gloaming settled in, the green like freshly mown grass, the yellow becoming nearly amber, the red a livid crimson. Bloody.

It was better than dealing with the seething mass of paperwork, Post-it notes, schedule changes and case updates that spilled across her desk. Her inbox was overflowing, the wood surface was covered in junk. Even her guest chairs had piles on them. She’d only been on leave for a few days—but it felt like weeks and looked like months. She shouldn’t be here now, but she needed a quiet place to think.

Baldwin had dropped her off at the CJC, with stern admonitions about what she was supposed to do for the next hour to ensure her safety while she worked, then he left, intent on some beckoning task. Probably arranging for the guards to be put on her. She was worried about the extra attention. Not because of the threat—the Pretender was going to come for her, that was simply a given at this point. No, she was worried about the accountability.

She’d never planned a murder before.

She wasn’t going to lie to herself. What she had in mind was cold-blooded, by-the-book first-degree murder. Premeditated. Malice aforethought. Intent to cause grievous bodily harm.

If she were caught, A.D.A. Page would plead her out. It wouldn’t even look like manslaughter once she got hold of the case. It would be labeled self-defense. Taylor was a cop, for heaven’s sake. Cops killed in the line of duty. And there were few people within her circle who weren’t already aware of the Pretender and his threats. So long as she managed the situation, made sure it was her word against, well, his wouldn’t count. He’d be dead. No witnesses to exact the moment. Timing was everything in this plan. She simply needed to make sure no one saw her kill the bastard, but the aftermath would leave no doubt that she’d been acting to protect herself. That was the most important thing. That way it wouldn’t look like an execution.

Still, it would be murder.

Taking life meant suffering the consequences daily. She knew that from experience. Usually at 3:00 a.m., when sleep eluded her and the ghosts of the men she’d killed sat on the edge of her bed, staring with empty, disapproving eyes, their flesh rotting in spots, bones glistening in the moonlight. Her waking nightmares were her punishment.