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The men circled him, and English started ticking off their flaws in his head. The one who moved behind him had a slight limp, likely a weak knee. The one who flanked his left was light on his feet, but he was at a height disadvantage compared to English. He could use that. The one who flanked his right was bulkier with a heavier step, and English could use it against him. Then there was the instigator, the man he didn’t know but had obviously crossed paths with during his career. For the man to hold such a deep-seated vengeance, he should have been someone English remembered. He couldn’t recall the details of all of his jobs, but he remembered the ones who counted — the truly vile criminals who deserved everything English dished out.

The man behind him made the first move. English’s senses alerted him to the attack. He spun out of the way, his arm whipping up to catch the assailant in the gut and his boot ramming down on the man’s knee. The man dropped as the one to English’s left rushed forward, the glint of a knife catching the pale moonlight. English sidestepped to use the guy on the ground as a shield as the other sliced the knife through the air, catching his buddy in the side. Before English could disarm him, the other to his right joined the party. The instigator stood by and watched the foray. English gave as good as he got, and for a moment, he thought he might actually come out the victor.

Then the leader took his shot, a kick which connected to the groin and forced him to his knees. The stranger gripped his hair and jerked his head back, making English’s teeth rattle. Then came the second kick to his midsection by one of the others. He fell to the ground, and another kicked his temple. Then the last one to his ribs, snapping them and chasing his breath away.

The punches and kicks continued. English’s arms went up to protect his head as much as possible. The pain was sharp, but he soon became numb. He didn’t know how much more he would have to endure, and English doubted he’d be able to last much longer.

Then the abuse stopped. English detected a siren piercing the air, and for the noise to penetrate the fog clawing at his consciousness, it had to be close by. He heard steps running, and he hoped he’d maybe escaped death with the help of the local police. Then a shadow knelt next to him, and the voice of the ringleader addressed him with a cool, steely tone which had his blood turning icy in his veins.

“This isn’t over, Legend. I’m coming for you and yours. Everything you thought was hidden is mine to destroy. You deserve this and far worse for what you’ve done to me.”

The man plunged a knife into English’s side before standing and walking away with slow steps that echoed in English’s ears long after the man disappeared. The pain was blinding. English laid in the alley, his blood pooling underneath him. The man’s words rolled in English’s mind, a never-ending torture as he tried to figure out the man’s identity and his intentions.

The sirens passed him by, and he was alone with no hope of being discovered. He prayed for unconsciousness. Just as he started to slip into the blackness, clarity struck him. A memory took him back to another time when he was a broken man who made an impossible choice. The consequences of his decision reared up to destroy him after all of these years.

His last waking thought was of the one person to ever break his heart. The name left his lips on a gasp that English believed would be his last.

“Ray…”

Then his world went black.

Chapter Two

He stood over her, watching the life leave her bright eyes. A faint sigh – a death rattle – escaped her plump red lips. Blood pooled around her head. He crossed his beefy arms across his chest, relishing his handiwork. This moment, the quiet hanging in the air after a life was lost, was the moment he yearned for. He craved it, much as an addict craved a steady fix of methamphetamine. Only his addiction was more satisfying. He held her life in his hands. He determined her fate. In no small way, he was like God – only with a more sinister motive.

Vzzzzt…vzzzzt….

Reagan Bell held her fingers poised over her keyboard and allowed her eyes to dart from the computer screen to her phone. With one glance, she balled her hands and slammed them against the desk on either side of her laptop. The number was unknown, but she recognized the area code. She rejected the call only to have the number flash again almost instantly.

She loathed disruptions to her writing time, but when the disruption came from the one person she never wanted to speak to again, her anger shot from loathing to murderous.

Her editor kept telling her to turn her phone off when she worked on a book, especially when she was in danger of missing a publication deadline. Reagan couldn’t do it. She would walk away from the career she loved as a mystery novelist before she would make herself unreachable should her mother ever need her.

But this call wasn’t her mother or anyone else she desired to speak with. For the first time, she considered following her editor’s advice.

“Leave me alone!” She grumbled as if the caller could hear her, and though she knew he couldn’t, she felt better saying the words.

Her cell stopped vibrating. She stared at the open document on her laptop screen, trying to regain her writing inspiration which drew her into a world of danger and whodunits until she tuned out all else. She failed.

She didn’t have to wait long before the call came through again. He wasn’t going to leave her alone. He was stubborn that way. It was the one trait she inherited from him — the only one she would admit to anyway.

With a frustrated sigh, she answered the call. “Now’s not a good time. Whatever it is—”

“Reagan? Is this Reagan Barlowe?”

She hadn’t been a Barlowe for a long time and really wished she had never been. The feminine voice on the other end of the line wasn’t familiar to her, but the fact this woman knew anything about her past life was enough to make her end this call.

“You have the wrong number.”

“No, please! Wait, Reagan. It is you, isn’t it?”

The woman sounded desperate. If she was in any way associated with Reagan’s father, she probablywasdesperate. And she had to be associated with him for her to call Reagan by his last name.

“I don’t know who you are, but tell him nothing’s changed. You and he need to forget me completely.”

“He needs you. We all do.”

“We? I don’t know you. If he needs anything from me, tell him to ask me himself.”