CHAPTER 1

Redlands, California—Thirteen Years Later

Tucker Flynn was turning into his father. The old man had been nothing if notpredictable. So much so that Tucker and his brother had always sworn to be justthe opposite. And looking at recent history, he'd have to say they'd achievedtheir goal in spades.

Until now.

Tucker checked his watch as he stepped out of the car: exactly 10:30. Shit. Itseemed he'd developed a routine. The coffee shop beckoned even as he consideredhopping back into the Jeep and heading for the hills. Or at least somewhere thatwasn't exactly the same as yesterday, and the day before that, and the daybefore that.

Hell.

He blew out a long breath and shook his head in disgust. After years in prisonin San Mateo, he'd have thought routine would be the last thing he desired. Andyet here he was, newspaper in hand with a hankering for a cup of coffee and thecaramel rolls Weatherbees was famous for. After holding the door for an exitingman in a Dodgers hat, Tucker walked inside and took his customary place in thecorner booth, partially from habit, but also a remnant of his espionage days. Itwas always better to keep your back to the wall and your eyes on the room.

Not that there was anything to see, really. Redlands was a sleepy little townwith little to recommend it but a university, a backdrop of mountains and orangegroves, and a handful of mansions left over from the railroad-baron days.Tucker's father had been a schoolteacher. His mother ... well, bitch wasthe word that came to mind. She hadn't been able to deal with small-townAmerica, even Southern California style. So she'd hit the road, leaving Tucker'sdad with two little boys. He'd risen to the occasion but lost a part of himselfin the process.

Maybe that's why all the routines.

Tucker nodded as the waitress brought him his coffee and roll. He never talkedto any of them, but that didn't mean they didn't know who he was. There'd been aflurry of newspaper articles when he'd first come home. Native son, risen fromthe dead and all that. The official story was that he'd managed to escape theplane crash that killed the rest of his unit, but wound up in a hospital with nomemory of what happened.

Of course the real truth—his escape from Colombia, his friend's betrayal,and Lena's death—none of that was public knowledge. Hell, the brass atLangley had buried it so damn deep Tucker doubted it would ever come to light.Which suited him just fine.

He sipped his coffee, his gaze moving slowly around the diner. The place waspretty empty, the morning crowd long gone and the lunchtime rush still an houror so away. A couple across the way was canoodling over lattes. A businessmanone booth up was lost in the financial pages. And an older man in the far cornerwas fidgeting with his spoon as he gazed out the window, clearly waiting forsomething or someone.

Tucker dropped his gaze, trying to focus on the sports page. The Bulldogs hadpulled out a walk-off win in the ninth. And in LA the Angels had beaten theYankees. First game in the series. If Drake were still here, they'd probably beon their way to the stadium right now. But Drake was in New York, at Sunderland.Or maybe he was off on a mission. Hard to know for certain. Although his wife,Madeline, usually called when he left the country.

Maybe Tucker should have gone with them when they'd headed back to New York.Maybe he'd be better off working again. But that part of his life was over. Deadand buried. Pain, pointed and heavy, speared his gut. Lena. He closed his eyes,memories of her smile dancing just beyond his reach, her laughter echoing deepinside him.

Angry at his maudlin turn of thought, he took a sip of coffee, the hot, acridbeverage pulling him firmly back into the present. The older man was standingnow, a smile of joy spreading across his face as a young woman strode throughthe doorway, arms extended.

"George," she cried, throwing herself into his arms. "It's been so long."

The two of them moved out of earshot as they walked back to his table, but evenwithout words Tucker could feel her joy. Blonde in a way that only women inCalifornia seemed to be able to achieve, naturally or otherwise, she was talland lithe, her body bronzed by the sun, a dimple in her left cheek making herseem even younger. Her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled, and herhands were in constant motion as she talked. The old man's face lit up in herpresence, the years seeming to drop away.

Tucker idly wondered at their connection. Father, maybe. Although she'd calledhim by his first name. He rejected the notion that they were amorouslyconnected. Neither of them seemed the May-December type. Old friends, then. Thatmuch was clear. He smiled, still watching the two of them, their hands joinedtogether as their voices lowered and the tone of the conversation turnedserious.

Tucker shook his head, wondering when his life had gotten so dull he'd startedliving vicariously through total strangers. Next he'd start adopting cats. Hecut off a piece of the caramel roll and stuffed it into his mouth.

A burst of synthesized music signaled an incoming call, and he grabbed the cellphone, grateful for the interruption. "Flynn," he barked into the phone.

"Same here," came the answer, a thread of laughter lacing through his brother,Drake's, voice. "Thought I'd check in and see how you're doing."

"Bored out of my fucking mind," Tucker said, not making any effort to sugarcoathis words. "I'm at Weatherbees, and I think I'm turning into Dad."

"It could be worse," Drake replied. "You could be turning into our mother."

"Bite your tongue." Tucker shifted so he could better see the blonde. "Anyway,what's up? You don't usually call to chat." She was still waving her hands, butthey clearly conveyed anger now. Seemed the joyous reunion had turned sour.

"Hey, can't a guy check in on his brother?" Drake asked, pulling Tucker'sattention back to his conversation.

"A guy, yes. You, no. You're not the nurturing type."

"Well, I sure as hell better be," his brother mumbled. "Actually, that's why I'mcalling. I've got news." There was a pause, and Tucker smiled. His brother wasnever at a lack for words. Except when it had to do with Madeline.

"So, what?" Tucker teased. "Your wife left you?"

"Give me a break," Drake said. "The woman adores me."

"That she does," Tucker admitted, still smiling. Madeline Reynard Flynn was thekind of woman who loved without reservation. Drake had been lucky to find her.And Tucker was happy to have played a part in it. "So what's the news?"

"Hang on," Drake said, fumbling with the phone. "There's another call. Avery. Beright back."

The line went dead as his brother took the call from his boss. Tucker felt astab of envy. He'd sworn he wouldn't go back to the life, but that didn't meanhe was immune to the pull of it. There was a rush involved with working blackops, an adrenaline surge you couldn't get anywhere else.

He leaned back, phone to his ear, waiting for his brother to return. The blondewas on her feet now, her hands cutting through the air as she argued with theold man. He was standing too, fists on the table as he tried to make her seereason. Good luck with that. Tucker recognized the set of her shoulders. Shewasn't about to give in. Whatever had set her off, the old man wasn't anywhereclose to assuaging her.

"Hey, Tucker, you still there?" Drake asked. "Sorry about that....