Page 7 of One Last Stand

Ah.And here he’d stay, probably. Unmoving in the darkness. For hours.

Sometimes he powered up his gas fireplace. Watched television—he loved old John Wayne movies.

And then he’d go to bed. All in the darkness.

Always Mr. Calm, Mr. Suffer in Silence, Mr. Tuck Away His Emotions. Until, of course, a month ago, when he’d told her he wanted more. And even then he’d been patient. Kind.

Mistake number three: letting him love her.

Letting herself believe in a happy ending.

She didn’t turn on the heat, preferring the cold.

She deserved the cold.

Lights flickered on, peeking around the window shades of nearby townhomes. She ducked down in her car—a very used Ford Bronco she’d purchased with cash—when a couple neighbors returned home.

Still Shep sat there, in darkness, even after he’d finished his drink.

Maybe Ziggy was right. Why would someone come after Shep? He had no connection to her except being her friend.

More than a friend.

And maybe that’s why her gut had remained in knots since the moment she and Ziggy had pushed her Subaru into the lake, the dead body of a stranger inside. Because London just couldn’t dodge the sense that . . .

Well, the Russian mob wasn’t exactly above tracking down someone she cared about to flush her out.

Maybe she should grab Shep and run.

What, like he was a puppy?

She leaned her head back on her seat, took a breath. Closed her eyes.

For a second, just like every time, the memory of the attack lurched back to her.

The assassin’s blow had come from behind her. If it hadn’t been for the reflection in the sliding-door window?—

She’d dodged, whirled, caught the woman’s wrist and slammed it into the wall, jarring loose the club.

Thank you, Ziggy, for the muscle memory.

The woman threw a fist at her, but London dodged it. The second punch caught her though, and the woman shook out of her hold, rolled out, and came back with a knife.

Yeah, well, London too. She’d grabbed the butcher’s knife from the block, breathing hard, bracing.

No one came out of a knife fight uncut.

The woman was lean, about London’s build, blonde hair snaking out of a black stocking cap. She dressed like an assassin, in all black, and moved slowly, circling. London circled with her, and that’s when she spotted another woman outside on the porch.

One, maybe, but she was out of practice and?—

The door opened, her attacker turned as if surprised, and right then, a shot—just a whoosh and ping—from a silencer.

It hit the woman center mass with a thunk.

Vest. But the attacker dropped, and then the second woman—she also wore black, her dark hair back—jumped on her.

She put her hands to the attacker’s throat.

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