Mac steered his Harley onto the main road. A few minutes later, the space between his shoulder blades itched. He glanced in his mirror. The mammoth SUV far behind him set off an internal alarm and Mac made a sudden left. The SUV lumbered through the turn and settled into place the exact same distance behind him. Mac’s gut twitched. At the next intersection he turned left and rode away from his brother’s place.

The SUV followed.

Mac eased off the throttle, but the truck stayed a stubborn distance behind him, just far enough that he couldn’t see the driver clearly or read the license plate.

Like a professional.

He drove to the grocery store in town, parked, and went inside. He watched through the plate glass window as the SUV continued past the store. He went out and fired up the bike again, leaving the lot through a different exit and heading in the opposite direction. Ten minutes later, when there was no sign of the truck, Mac headed for Grant’s house.

Had that been coincidence or had the old gang spotted him? If he stayed in town long enough, they’d catch up with him. But for now, Mac hoped he was being paranoid.

Knowing he’d be on his bike, Grant had left the detached garage open. Afternoon storms had been hitting the region daily. Mac parked and walked to the front door.

Grant answered the first knock. “Mac?”

He stepped into his brother’s house.

Grant was staring at his face. “I hardly recognize you.”

“I shaved. No big deal.”

“You don’t have to knock. You’re always welcome here.”

“Thanks.”

“Down!” A toddler’s scream sounded from the back of the house.

“Come on back.” Grant led the way down the hall to the kitchen. The house had been a project when they’d bought it, but Grant and Ellie had transformed it into a home. The kitchen was Mac’s favorite room. Done in earth tones, with hardwood floors and bronze granite, it boasted a huge picture window that framed a view of the woods out back.

“Faith, hold still.” Grant’s fiancée, Ellie, struggled to unclip the high chair straps while his nineteen-month-old niece squirmed.

“Down!” Faith wailed, flinging her body sideways in an Oscar-worthy dramatic gesture. She grabbed Ellie’s dark ponytail, and Grant hurried across the kitchen to pry her fingers free.

Ellie straightened her ponytail, lifted the child out of the chair, and set her on the floor. “Let me wipe your hands.”

But Faith bolted toward Mac like a mini missile. He swooped her up and carried her to the aproned sink at arms’ length while she babbled. Kicking a stool into place, he set her down on top and turned on the water. “Can you wash your hands like a big girl?”