Chapters (57)
- Cover
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Chapter 30
- Chapter 31
- Chapter 32
- Chapter 33
- Chapter 34
- Chapter 35
- Chapter 36
- Chapter 37
- Chapter 38
- Chapter 39
- Chapter 40
- Chapter 41
- Chapter 42
- Chapter 43
- Chapter 44
- Chapter 45
- Chapter 46
- Chapter 47
- Chapter 48
- Chapter 49
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Praise
- By Matt Hilton
- About the Publisher
Rickard’s bullets had shattered the femur in her left leg and had nicked an artery. Immediate fears that she would lose the leg were negated by the superb team of surgeons who worked on her through the evening and into the small hours. They saved the limb, but she’d never walk again without a limp. She also had to forgo her spleen and a portion of her liver to save her life. She spent the remainder of the night deeply anaesthetized and it wasn’t until the next day that she had related her story in a whisper that told more of continued terror than it did of the pain she was suffering.
If Rickard was allowed to live, Alisha would never shed that terror. Imogen too would live in fear of his promised return. For both their sakes I was determined to put the son of a bitch in a deep, dark hole. But my reason for hunting down the killer went way beyond that. He’d murdered people I’d once called friends, viciously torturing them and their loved ones in an insane attempt at punishing me. He’d murdered other innocent people too, and the list was long. I was his intended victim: he should have just come for me and had done. He’d fouled up and I hoped I was now going to get the opportunity to redress that.
It was the reason I’d accepted Walter’s “official sanction” and promise of immunity from prosecution—not the incentive of a hefty paycheck for getting the job done. Good friends that they were, Rink and Harvey agreed too.
One of the aircraft’s seven-man crew signaled that we were approaching our drop point. We’d been very specific about checking our gear but it didn’t hurt to check again. We went through the routine, then helped to check one another. We’d joked about landing on heads, but it was the last thing we wanted.
A light in the bulkhead went to red and we moved toward the open hatch at the rear of the plane. The crewman counted down and the light turned green. Harvey jumped out and it was like a giant hand had snatched him away. Rink followed and he too was gone in a blink. Then it was my turn. One step. No turning back now.