He didn’t like ragging his brother like that. There had been a time when things weren’t so bad between them. But he tried not to think about ’Nam these days. There were too many conflicting emotions interwoven with the memories, and he’d never been good at sorting the two out. The heat, the rains, the nag of impending death or dismemberment waiting just along the trail . . . He still had nightmares after all these years. But there had been good times as well. Hell, he’d be the first to admit it—he had thrived there. He had been alive. He’d had his skills, his men. And his brother. It was there that he’d finally gotten to know Alex, something the previous nineteen years had failed to accomplish. He had depended on Alex then, counted on him. They were finally getting closer. Or so he thought. He didn’t learn until much later just how self-serving Alex’s motives were. He got what he wanted, didn’t he: an expertly trained killer to follow his lead like an obedient puppy, bound by a leash of family loyalty.

Too bad Alex didn’t recognize the same bonds, he thought ruefully. Three years without a visit, without a sign or postcard, without knowing if he was hurt or happy or . . . At times Chris wished he had his brother’s sense of loyalty. Maybe then he could walk out on this hunt and not look back. Maybe then he could start a life of his own.

His mood was darkening, and he was determined not to let that happen. He pushed Alex out of his mind. There were other things to think about.

A sign rose up on the right and swept by the passenger window. It was small for a roadsign, and his eye almost missed it. ISHERWOOD, 2 MILES, it read.

Stiles reached for a cigarette and patted down the many pockets in his down vest before remembering that he’d thrown them out somewhere south of Bedford. It was time to stop smoking, he’d decided. Maybe it was good that the hunt was back on; he’d been lax over the last few years, let his discipline slacken and his senses dull, and as soon as there was an opening his old habit had reasserted itself. It would be hard to stop again, but he’d do it. He couldn’t allow his wind to be cut or his reflexes hampered. In his “business” the slightest slip could have decidedly unpleasant consequences. Like death. Or worse.

It was incentive enough. He settled for a fossilized piece of Wrigley’s he dug from the van console. It tasted like cardboard but he chewed it anyway.