A sudden panic overtook him as he dashed along the rear of the building. They tracked him this far, and they would track him forever, relentlessly pursuing until he was dead.

He needed to run and never stop until he was out of the city, maybe the country—that is, if he survived this night.

Shaft spun around a big blue dumpster at the rear of the building, narrowly missing it in the darkness. His shoulder was burning like crazy where the bullet entered, but that was the least of his worries. It could’ve been a leg, or worse. At least he could still run, and run he did, past the dumpster, around a parked car, all the while knowing his pursuer was mere seconds behind.

He dropped to a crouch, spun on one heel, leveled his gun, and squeezed the trigger.

No one was there. He heard a chuckle. Where was it coming from? Behind the dumpster, perhaps?

He straightened slowly and backed up, keeping his gun ready, finally reaching the far corner of the building.

It was another alleyway, leading back to the street, empty and bare. There would be no form of protection. He would need to be careful, and perhaps he might be lucky enough to make it the distance.

He backed into the alley, his weapon raised, ready at a second’s notice to pull the trigger. Step by step he retreated, watching, waiting, hoping to see the assassin step into his line of fire.

Except for the pistol shaking in his unsteady hand and the thumping of his heart, he felt tense and stiff. He could hardly breathe, managing short, quick breaths as he moved slowly toward a safer place.

Then from behind him, a footstep and a chuckle. The killer had retreated, circled the building, and now came at him from behind.

He cursed his own stupidity as bullet number six bit into his back, burrowed through his spinal cord, and entered his left lung.

He sank to the ground and lay flat on his destroyed back, shards of gravel biting the back of his head, his body numb, in shock, and his mind in turmoil.

He looked up at his murderer through dimming eyes. He saw a face, and a pistol grasped in a steady hand, its barrel aimed toward his skull, and then utter darkness as his eyesight faded to black.

Number seven had his name on it. The one destined to end his worthless life.

Werner Shaft took one last breath and spoke his final words, one second before bullet number seven left the assassin’s gun and made its way into the inner recesses of his brain.

“It’s you. Why?”

He didn’t hear the answer, if perchance there was one.

Chapter 2

Monday, 7:49 p.m.

ANNIE LINCOLN shut down her computer and leaned back, the annoying squeak of her swivel chair again reminding her to ask Jake to give it a drop or two of oil. She could just as easily do it herself, but anything that remotely smacked of maintenance, Jake stubbornly claimed as his territory.

It was an unremarkable day. Cranston’s Department Store had requested background checks on several perspective employees, a law firm needed some legal papers served ASAP, Richmond Insurance urgently wanted some research done, and the one that made her smile, a ten year old boy wanted to hire them to find a lost puppy. She politely declined that one.

Lincoln Investigations, the business she had started not so long ago with her husband, now flourished. In addition to their mainstay of research, more than their fair share of bad guys came their way. Their recent successes in apprehending criminals led to a surge of publicity that couldn’t be bought, with more business than they could handle, now in the position to pick and choose. It was exciting, often dangerous, and always demanding—but Annie loved it.

And so did Jake. He wouldn’t go back to his old job as a construction engineer for twice the money he once received. When he was laid off some time ago, turning Annie’s part-time research company into a full-fledged business was his brainstorm. Annie was skeptical at first, but now she wouldn’t have it any other way. It turned out to be challenging, satisfying, and exhilarating. Working alongside her husband was a bonus.

She straightened up some stray papers on her desk, filed a couple of folders in a drawer, pushed back her chair—it squeaked again—and wandered into the adjoining living room. Jake sprawled on the floor, a pillow under his head, watching television. His six-foot-four inch body stretched halfway across the room. He held the remote control in one hand, the other tucked behind his head.

A smaller copy of her husband lay beside him. Eight-year-old Matty was destined and determined to be like his father—somewhat reckless and impulsive at times, too cocky for their own good, and the best looking guys Annie had ever seen. Matty was intent on the TV, his eyes wide as the program wound down.

She stopped in front of them and looked down at her son. “Matty, is your homework done?”

Matty didn’t look up. “Aw, it’s only math, Mom. I’ll do it later. It’s a snap.”

“I think you should get at it now,” Annie suggested firmly.

Jake turned his eyes her way. “Five minutes, okay? CSI is almost over. I’ll make sure he gets it done.” He turned his eyes back to the TV.

Annie relented, navigated past the guys, and gazed out the front window toward the street. The neighborhood was quiet. The sun was already set, final shades of red and orange barely visible on the horizon. She pulled the drapes closed, snuggled up in her easy chair, and reached for her book—a book on real crime scene investigation, not the one hour TV version. She was always eager to increase her knowledge of investigative techniques and police procedure, and her library continued to expand as fast as she could devour them.

Half a chapter later, the television was dark, Matty on his way upstairs, Jake lounged on the couch. She felt him staring at her and she looked up. “Something on your mind?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Nothing more than usual. Just enjoying your company. Things have been busy lately and we haven’t had a lot of quiet time.”

“You could read a book,” Annie said, glancing to one of two stuffed bookshelves flanking the fireplace. Reading was one of her passions and she couldn’t understand why everyone didn’t feel the same way.

“Maybe later,” Jake said, and she knew he wouldn’t. He crossed his arms and dropped his feet on the coffee table. “What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”

Annie shrugged. “You can look for a lost dog if you want to.”

“A lost dog?”

“I really don’t have anything for you right now.”

“What kind of dog?”

Annie frowned. “I didn’t ask. I turned it down.”

“I had a dog once,” Jake said, his brow wrinkled in thought. “When I was a boy we had this ugly looking mutt. We called it ‘Ugly’ because it was.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I loved that dog. Broke my heart when it died. Dad wanted to get me another one but nothing could ever replace Ugly.”

“My mother never allowed a dog in the house. She said they were too messy.” Annie chuckled. “But we had a cat. A real mean beast.” She laughed out loud. “A bit like my mother. But Dad put up with it.”

A grin appeared on Jake’s face. “Like he puts up with your mother.”

Annie shrugged. “Maybe she’s getting better. She actually mentioned your name yesterday without having anything nasty to say about you.”

Jake gave a short laugh. “Maybe it’s me that’s getting better.”

Annie stood, went to the couch, and curled up beside her husband. She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him an extended kiss. “I can’t find any room for improvement,” she said. “You seem fine to me.”

He grinned and gave her another kiss. “You’re a good influence on me. I can be bad when I want to.”