A steady April rain shower pattered on the windshield. Water dripped off the visor onto Danny’s thigh. He wiped the seam between the convertible top and the windshield frame with a paper napkin. His restored 1970 Dodge Challenger wasn’t the most practical vehicle, but she was Danny’s good luck charm, and considering the purpose of this trip, he needed all the good vibes he could get.

Long shot didn’t begin to describe his chances of accomplishing his goal.

Switching lanes, Danny stepped on the gas. The car responded with a surge of speed, the throaty roar of the powerful V-8 an audible middle finger to the powder-blue Prius humming along in the slow lane.

He’d restored her in high school, and like a valiant charger, she’d carried him safely through his youth. The days of perceived immortality. Illegal drag races on Front Street. Skipping school to cruise to the Jersey Shore. Hot summer days with the top down and the sun beating on his head. A decade later, the black bucket seat was molded to his ass, and a glance in the back filled him with wistful memories of fumbling hands, steamed windows, and teenage girls rebelling against their parents with the neighborhood troublemaker.

Ah, those were the days.

The days before he’d learned exactly what a well-placed IED could do to the bodies of a dozen men. Or what horrible deeds two psychos would attempt in the middle of the Maine wilderness. At twenty-nine, Danny’s head was filled with more than enough violence for a lifetime.

A green exit sign flashed in his peripheral vision. He rested his left wrist on the wood-grain steering wheel and ignored the twitching of his fingers. Thanks to an Iraqi insurgent, that hand no longer worked as it should. With his right, he checked the map resting on the passenger seat. This was it. He exited onto a country highway lined on both sides by a forest vast and thick enough to conceal the most horrific of crimes.

Four months before, while on a photographic assignment in this small, isolated town, his sister had been kidnapped by a pair of psychotic killers. One killer had died. The other, Nathan Hall, had slipped away and was still on the loose. According to the last phone call from the lead detective, the police had all but given up their manhunt. Dammit. His sister deserved a future untainted by the fear that the escaped crazy ass was going to come after her. Danny was going to do his best to get it for her, even if his chances of succeeding were less than winning the Mega Millions.

Even if being back in Maine sent his gut into a free fall.

Danny turned up the radio volume. “Paradise City” blasted over the speakers, but his attempt to drown out his worries with thoughts of green grass and pretty girls was unsuccessful.