Page 1 of Darkwater Lane

PROLOGUE

Most people have no idea how vulnerable they truly are. Even when they try to tuck themselves behind layers of security: locked doors, alarms, cameras, maybe even a firearm locked in the bedside table.

Those are fine as deterrents, the kinds of things that will stop a random criminal from choosing you over an easier target. But when someone wants to get at you? When it’s not just a simple case of picking a target by chance, but instead a case ofI want you and no one else will dothen no amount of security is going to protect you.

Not against someone like me. Someone practiced. Someone lethal. Someone with an agenda.

So, you’re welcome to set that alarm and scratch your balls on your way up the stairs to bed, but when you wake up in the middle of the night with my hand clamped over your mouth and my knife against your throat, you’re going to know what it feels like to be vulnerable.

You’re going to know what it feels like to beher. The woman you’ve been terrorizing. The woman you’ve been threatening. The woman I’m here to protect.

Gina Royal.

Gwen Proctor.

The woman I’m here to exact vengeance for.

It’s nearing midnight when I reach the target’s house. I don’t have to guess whether he’s home or not. His obnoxiously large truck is parked in his driveway. If that wasn’t a dead giveaway, the fact that every light is on in his house would tip me off.

I wonder if he realizes that the angle of his TV makes it so that the picture reflects off the back window of his family room so it’s blatantly obvious to everyone in the neighborhood that he’s watching porn.

And not good porn, either. The nasty stuff you have to troll the dark web for.

He deserves to die for that in and of itself.

I park the car down the street and take my time getting out. The key to this sort of thing is to blend in and make it look like you’re supposed to be here. I grab the leash from the passenger seat of the car I “borrowed” from the airport and yank off the tag. Then I clip it to the collar of the dog panting in the back seat—another thing I borrowed, this time from the yard of a house a few blocks away.

No one thinks twice about a stranger walking their dog in the neighborhood, even this late at night. Dogs can be assholes. If they want to go out, then you have to take them out. Everyone knows that, which is why if someone happens to see me, they’ll think,That poor soul must really love their dog,and that will be that.

It’s late fall, so I pull the hood of my windbreaker over my head, huddling a bit as though it’s cold, and shuffle my feet while I walk. The dog, some sort of fluffy black thing, happily trots along in front of me, gleefully sniffing at every bush we pass. Fine by me; the slower he goes, the more time I have for recon.

As we near the target’s house, I keep my senses on high alert. Casual as can be, I saunter down his driveway and let myself in to the back yard. Look like you belong and people will assume that you do. Once there, I drop the leash and pull on a pair of gloves. This close to the windows, I can hear the sounds from the porn he’s watching. Low, guttural moans and all too realistic-sounding whimpers of pain.

I risk a glance inside and find the guy snoring on his lounger, hand tucked into his unbuttoned pants. Well, I hope he was able to enjoy the last moments of his life.

I’ve already been through the house once before, though that was several weeks ago—the last time I was able to make it out to this area. He’s got a decent alarm system, though he’s not super smart about the placement of his keypad. Anyone with a halfway decent Wi-Fi camera strategically placed in the right spot could easily figure out the code.

He’s also got a firearm in his bedside table. Last time I was here I unloaded it. I wonder if he noticed. He won’t have time to get to it either way. Fat lot of good a gun does you if it’s out of reach when you need it.

I take a moment longer, listening and waiting, forcing myself to regulate my breathing.

I’m ready.

I pull the car escape tool from my pocket and crouch, pressing the spring-loaded spike against the bottom corner of one of the large sliding doors. Then, I turn my head, close my eyes to protect them, and click the release button. The entire window shatters, pebbles of tempered glass scattering across the ground.

In seconds, I’m through the door and on my target. I straddle him, pinning his arms to his sides. His eyes go wide with groggy confusion. He’s too slow to wake up and understand what’s going on. By the time he starts to figure it out, I’ve already taped his mouth shut.

He starts to fight against me, bucking on the lounger. He doesn’t have enough leverage. He’s already lost. He just doesn’t want to accept it.

That’s fine. He will, eventually.

He’s screams against the tape, trying to form words. I don’t have to hear him to know what he’s asking. It’s what they all ask.

Who are you?

Why are you doing this?

I lean in close. Force him to meet my eyes. Then I tell him. “You fucked with the wrong person.”

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