Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

Mark fell into the tackle and used his momentum to roll on top of the guy. For good measure, he kneed him in the ribs hard, earning a grunt, then bounced to his feet.

Apparently, the kid wasn't prepared for a fight—not one with a man, anyway.

At least the blonde had taken off.

The guy straightened, pulled a blade from his sweatshirt pocket, and lunged.

Seriously? Mark grabbed his right wrist and twisted until the knife clattered to the ground. Then he smashed his elbow into his attacker's face.

Guy screamed like a girl.

Mark swept his legs out from under him, and the guy fell onto his upper back. His shout ended with a whoosh of breath. While he struggled to inhale, Mark knelt, yanked the hood off his head, and studied him. He was older than Mark had thought. He might've been dressed like a college student, but Mark guessed he was closer to his own age, late twenties at least. White-blond hair, hazel eyes, pointy nose, and straight, white teeth.

Mark considered calling the cops, but what would he say? He had no proof the guy had meant any harm to the server. He could tell them the guy had jumped him, but considering Mark was pretty much unscathed and this guy was most assuredly scathed , Mark would be the one who ended up in handcuffs.

He grabbed a fistful of sweatshirt and lifted his head from the sidewalk. "If you want to live," he said, "I suggest you run." He straightened and pointed in the opposite direction from where the server had gone. "That way."

The man sucked in a breath, stood slowly, and scurried across the street, disappearing into an alley like an injured rat.

A few spectators stood twenty yards away, mouths agape.

Mark grabbed the man's knife off the sidewalk and jogged toward Justin's apartment. Much as he hated to let the little rat go, he couldn't take the chance of getting arrested tonight. He didn't have time for the legal issues. He was shipping out in a week.

The war had officially begun a month earlier. He had a week of leave before he shipped out. This stop in Providence had been a mistake. Justin had changed during his years at Brown, and Mark had changed, too. The Academy, the Marines, they'd changed him. Life had changed him.

He and Justin had nothing in common now, and after one day with the guy, Mark was tired of talking about ex-girlfriends and long-forgotten high school football games. That chapter of his life was over. Coming here had been a pathetic attempt to avoid his mother. Now that he was going to Afghanistan, she'd never forgive him for joining the Marines.

Some mothers were proud to see their sons in uniform. His mother was embarrassed. He couldn't handle an entire week of her stony stares and heavy sighs.

At least Dad was proud of him.

He slowed to a walk. Good thing Justin had given him a key to his condo. He studied the knife, still gripped in his right fist. The blade was open, the handle locked. The man hadn't flipped it open during the fight, which meant it had been open already, in the pocket of his sweatshirt.

Mark unlatched it, closed it, and turned it over. Why would the little rat have opened it already?

Mark's heart thumped.

The blonde. Amanda.

Would she have survived if Mark hadn't interfered with the little rat's plans?

He'd been watching her.

She wasn't a random target. He'd chosen her, followed her. Did they know each other? Were they exes? Or was something more sinister going on?

He dressed like a student and hung out in college bars, passing himself off as one of them. He'd followed a woman. He carried a knife.

The hair on the back of Mark's neck stood up again as he reached Justin's condo and let himself in. He had more questions than answers.

But that server had been a target, so the biggest question was this: Would the rat look for a new target, or would he find Amanda again?