"Yes. Sounds like a nine millimeter. Must be a metal target. Hear the bullets hitting it?"

"Accurate shooter."

"Oh, he's definitely an accurate shooter," the spotter said. "That's why we're up here and not down there."

The sniper counted. "Nine, ten, eleven, twelve."

"Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen."

"Large magazine. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. Hell of a large magazine. You know any handguns that hold that many rounds?"

"No," the spotter said. "After ten, a slight pause. Hard to notice. That's when the magazine got changed."

"Damned fast magazine change."

"Twenty-two. Twenty-three. After twenty, another slight pause."

"Yeah, a super-fast magazine change," the sniper agreed. "Well, I'm here to blast his eye out at seven-hundred yards, not have a gunfight with him."

Amid the shots echoing across the canyon, they heard an approaching rumble.

Chapter 7.

Ear guards muffle sounds but don't eliminate them. Cavanaugh listened to the rhythmic thunder and peered toward the southern rim of the canyon, from behind which a helicopter appeared, its dragonfly shape getting larger, silhouetted against the cobalt sky.

Jamie lowered the pistol and glanced at her watch. "He's early."

"Yeah." Cavanaugh took off his ear guards. "A half hour. I was hoping he wouldn't come at all."

"You still don't know what he wants?"

"Only that he said it's important. But I can guess. He plans to offer me a job."

As the helicopter roared closer, Cavanaugh was able to read the name stenciled in red across the side: Global Protective Services. Memories rushed through him . . . the clients he'd protected, some wealthy and powerful, others ordinary people whom he'd persuaded GPS to help, all sharing the common denominator that they were prey . . . the protective agents he'd worked with, all of them linked by their hatred of predators and their devotion to being guardians, even at the cost of their lives.

Jamie said something, but the growing din of the chopper prevented him from hearing her. Or perhaps it was the memories.

"What?" he asked.

"Are you going to take the job?"

Preoccupied, Cavanaugh reached under his loose denim shirt and removed his knife from its sheath on the left side of his belt. A rugged utility knife, useful for work around the ranch, it was a gift from his friend, Gil Hibben, commemorating Gil's induction into the Knifemaker's Hall of Fame. It had the balance for what Cavanaugh did next. Releasing the emotions that memories of his dead friends had caused, he drew back his arm and hurled the blade toward a post fifteen feet away, expertly judging the number of flips the knife had to make.

It struck solidly, the force of his throw and his emotions embedding it.

"No," he said. "I won't take the job."

"I think you should."

The chopper was nearer, louder.

Ignoring it, Cavanaugh turned toward Jamie. "Five months ago, you nearly died. I still have nightmares about it."

"You didn't force me to go along. I made a choice. It wasn't your fault I was shot."

"I'm never going to put you at risk again."

"But a lot of people need help."

"Somebody else will have to give it to them."

The helicopter hovered over a section of grass between the barn and the lodge.

"We'd better not be rude and keep him waiting," Cavanaugh said.

"In other words, you're changing the subject."

Cavanaugh shrugged. He retrieved his knife, then followed her to the weathered table, where they put their eye-and-ear protection into the equipment bag.

Jamie dropped the magazine from the pistol and caught it in the air.

Impressed, Cavanaugh reloaded it, not looking where the helicopter landed, the roar of its engine diminishing.

"Now we are being rude," Jamie said.

"Do you suppose it's a clue that I don't want to talk to him?"

Chapter 8.

"Early," the sniper said.

"Yeah." The spotter kept opening his knife and closing it.

"Complicates things. I told you I could have done it when he got out of the car. Now--"

"Now we'll just have to wait a little longer." The spotter readjusted the radio bud in his ear, listening harder. "The backup team isn't in position to cut the phone line yet."

Two men got out of the chopper.

"Getting crowded," the sniper said.

Chapter 9.

The first man who climbed down from the helicopter was forty-three, but his permanently pensive expression created wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth, making him look older. His dark hair was as immaculately cared for as his handmade shoes and his custom-tailored suit. His broad shoulders and proud chest gave him a further imposing look. He carried a leather briefcase that shone with polish. His contact lenses had a similar sheen, the intelligence in his eyes magnified by them. What his smile lacked in warmth was offset by the brilliance of his perfectly capped teeth.

"William." Cavanaugh shook hands with him.

The man's last name was Faraday. A ruthless corporate attorney, he didn't just defeat his opponents' clients but also destroyed them, in the process acquiring numerous enemies. Cavanaugh had once saved his life when a disgraced executive hired someone to try to kill him. In gratitude, William did much of Global Protective Service's legal work in exchange for ready access to world-class protectors.

"You remember Jamie," Cavanaugh said.

"I do." William shook her hand. They'd met when he prepared their wills. "Have you recovered from your injury?"

"Yes. Thanks for asking."

William nodded, as if not accustomed to displaying soft human emotions or being complimented for it.

"Angelo," Cavanaugh said to the chopper's pilot. "It's been too long."

"Since Puerto Vallarta," the husky man replied, "and that stock market analyst we protected. Remember how he was afraid angry investors were waiting for him behind every corner."

"Hell, one of them was." Cavanaugh shook his hand warmly. "How are the llamas you were raising?"

"They were sissies. They never bred."

"You're sure you had male and female?"

"You think I can't tell the difference? They spent more time spitting than trying to fornicate. Right in my eye. One of them spat right here." Angelo used a middle finger to point at his eye.

Cavanaugh couldn't help laughing.

"Then they jumped the fence. By the time I found them, they'd been run over by a cement truck. If I'd been smart, I'd have eaten them instead of trying to breed them."