Chapter 1: Jack

I killed a man today, from a mile away, lying up on a ridge shrouded by a thick forest, unseen by my target and his hypervigilant bodyguards. After calculating for wind speed and gravity, with one eye glued to the scope of my McMillan TAC-338A sniper rifle, I took my shot, ending the life of a Russian mob boss who'd attracted the attention of some very powerful people. The mob is tolerated in New York City to an extent, but Antonin Yevgeny crossed a line when he stepped on the wrong toes, and in the blink of an eye, his life was forfeited. The moment he hit the ground, his younger brother, Yuri, assumed the leadership position. We basically traded one mob boss for another. I wondered, what's the point?

It was a clean hit. One shot to the head, mission accomplished. Afterward, my boss congratulated me on a job well done. I went out with my buddies that night and, as I got drunk, I questioned my life choices.

And the next day, on my fortieth birthday, I resigned my position as a hatchet man—what you'd call a hitman—working for a private organization that does contract jobs for a certain US government agency that shall remain nameless. We get our hands dirty so they don't have to. It's called plausible deniability.

But it was time for me to go. After almost ten years in the US Navy SEALs, followed by a decade working for a shadow death squad, I was done. Ready to move on.

It had gotten too easy for me to pull the trigger—too easy for me to take a life. Yes, they were the baddest of the bad, but still, that's not who I wanted to be. Not anymore. I wanted more out of life. I wanted to settle down, establish roots, even have a family. But at the time, based on my most recent career choice, I felt like I didn't deserve more. And I wanted to become someone who did.

So I liquidated some assets and moved my money so it could be easily accessible. I paid cash for a sweet '67 black Impala—yeah, I know, it's not the most inconspicuous of cars—from a used car lot in Massachusetts, bought a defunct Ohio license plate from a flea market in Pennsylvania, and traded my sniper's rifle for a Glock 20 on the black market. I hit the road with little more than the clothes on my back and a bag full of burner phones.

Unfortunately, my anonymity has been blown, most likely due to a mole in my organization. Someone's been tailing me ever since the hit on Antonin. I'm guessing it's Yuri Yevgeny's men. So far I've managed to stay one step ahead of them, but eventually they'll catch up. And when they do, we'll have it out once and for all.

As long as I keep moving, I stand a chance of surviving this cat-and-mouse road trip long enough for them to lose interest in me. Theoretically, anyway. But for some reason, they never seem to be far behind.

And that makes me wonder which of my buddies is a mole.

* * *

Six months later…

It's Friday evening when I walk into Ruth's Tavern, a hole-in-the-wall bar located in a Podunk town in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains.

One week ago, as I was passing through Bryce, Colorado, population 829—a town so small you'd miss it if you blinked—I stopped for gas. It was after nine, and everything except the gas station and a bar was closed for the night. Gnawing hunger and the aroma of grilled meat drew me to the tavern, where I ate the best damn burger I'd had in years. That's when I first saw her—themost compelling woman I'd ever laid eyes on. Gorgeous, yes, but it was more than that. She radiated a power, a confidence, a no-holds barred attitude that really piqued my interest.

I figured she was about my age, early forties. She was obviously Native American, with long, silky black hair that she wore in a thick braid that hung halfway down her back. Her skin was a burnished shade of light copper-brown, her sharp eyes dark as a moonless night sky. She was dressed casually in distressed blue jeans that hugged a generous ass, a red-and-white plaid flannel shirt over a tight-fitting black tank top, and well-worn cowboy boots.

This was no girl. This was a woman who'd been around the block a few times. This was a woman who knew her own mind.

This was a woman I wanted to know better—much better.

That first night, I stayed until closing time—one a.m.—when she ordered us stragglers out the door. I lingered on my barstool until I was the only customer left, hoping to exchange a few words with her. The servers had left two hours prior. Besides Ruth, an older guy was still here as well as a young kid sweeping the floor.

"You too, pal," Ruth had said to me as she nodded toward the door. "It's closing time."

"Yes, ma'am," I'd said as I pulled out my wallet and laid cash on the bar. I never use credit. I never leave a paper trail.

I should have hopped in my car that night and kept driving, continued on south to Arizona on my way to Mexico, but I didn't. Instead, I backtracked a mile or so until I came to a roadside motel I'd passed on my way into town—The Lone Wolf. It was one of those old motor courts dating back to the '50s, a row of one-story white buildings with blue doors.

I walked into the office and handed the guy behind the counter forty bucks for a night. He handed me an actual key on a leather keychain. No keycards here. We're talkin' old school.

That was the first night I hadn't slept in my car in weeks.

I went back to the bar the next evening around the same time. I parked in the rear lot, in the back row away from the lights. I sat in my car for a while, just monitoring the parking lot to make sure I hadn't been followed.

After I was sure the coast was clear, I walked in through the back door, strolled down a hallway past a storage room, an office, two gender-neutral bathrooms, and lastly the kitchen, on my way to the main bar area.

The place was hopping, full of chatter, country music from an old-fashioned jukebox playing over a sound system, couples on the dance floor. While nothing fancy, the place sure had plenty of character. A hand-carved sign hanging over the bar said HANK'S TAVERN EST. 1960. I guess it was Ruth's place now.

The walls were wood planks, decorated with old tin signs advertising popular brands of beer and 8x10 black-and-white photographs of cowboys and horses. There were a few cowboy hats hanging on the walls, spurs, bridles, and posters featuring popular local landmarks.

The bar itself ran along the back wall, ending in a ninety-degree turn. The front and side walls were lined with booths, and there were tables positioned around a small dance floor. The floor itself was made of old wooden boards, scuffed and scarred, that had been worn smooth over the decades. A few pool tables and dart boards attracted a rambunctious crowd.

I walked the length of the bar, passing stools topped with well-worn, hand-stitched brown leather seats. Above the stools hung vintage stained-glass pendant lights. Behind the bar, a mirrored wall held shelves of liquor bottles. It was an old-timey place that probably hadn't changed much in its sixty plus years of existence.

I liked the vibe of the place, but what brought me back that second night was the woman standing behind the bar—Ruth. She was like a queen reigning over her kingdom. When I looked at her, my chest tightened and my breath caught in my lungs. I couldn't remember the last time the sight of a woman did that to me.

I've been coming back ever since, night after night, just to see her. To hear her voice. To meet her gaze and wish I were someone else—someone worthy of knowing her. Someone who had the right to walk up to her, introduce himself, and ask to buy her a drink.

But I'm not that someone. My hands are stained with blood. She deserves so much better, and no amount of wishing on my part can change that.

I've seen no sign of a husband or boyfriend. I've since learned she has a younger brother and a gang of girlfriends who stop in frequently to say hi and shoot the breeze with her. But I haven't seen any sign of a significant other. No one with an apparent claim on her personal time.

God, I want to be that man.