Prologue

      San Francisco

      Hungry to read it again, he reached for the newspaper article describing his suicide and prior murder conviction. There it was, right where he’d put it, next to the pile of information he’d collected on the seven men who had witnessed the murder.

      Over the past year, the article’s plastic jacket had become scratched from his constant handling. But his picture was still as clear as the day it was taken—a mug shot of a stone-faced man with vindictive staring eyes. The face of a killer, he thought grimly, reading the article for the third time that day, even though he knew the words by heart.

      Captain Albright Missing

      Police Suspect Suicide

      Spokane, Washington. Air Force Captain Donald W. Albright may have leaped from the Tacoma Narrows Bridge early this morning, less than twenty-four hours after his conviction for the April 22 murder of his squadron commander, Major William F. Bradley. Bradley had commanded the C-130 squadron at Fairchild Air Force Base.

      Out on bail pending appeal, the 31-year-old Air Academy graduate is believed to have jumped from the bridge’s central span at approximately 3:00 a.m. Witnesses saw a man in an air force uniform on the bridge at about that time. An hour later Albright’s Ford Explorer, containing his wallet, a note to his parents, and some personal belongings, was found by police parked on the east side of the bridge.

      In spite of the note, there is some question whether Albright really committed suicide. Until the body is found, police will continue their search for the fugitive.

      Go ahead. Try to find me, he thought, clenching his fists. With his appearance altered surgically, not even his own parents would recognize him now. The newspaper story went on to describe the scene at the Spokane tavern where the murder occurred. In detail it told how the lights flicked out, shots were fired, and the squadron commander was killed. Later, police found Albright’s fingerprints on the murder weapon. He knew the words as well as he knew his new identity and name: Derek Archer. Reading the article every day had become an obsession, like his dark desire for vengeance.

      Pacing back and forth in his cell-like room, Archer remembered the damning trial testimonies of the other men at the stag party. Each had named him as the murderer. Supposedly his friends, they were all members of the same C-130 crew, having a beer bust with their squadron commander off base at a local tavern. With the lights out, how the hell did they know who fired the fatal shot? They couldn’t possibly have seen him in the darkness.

      Most damaging was the story told by Brian Wade, the C-130 pilot, once his best friend. Wade swore Albright touched him when he lifted his arm to fire at Bradley. As he pictured Wade’s handsome, mocking face, bile rose in Archer’s throat. He’d touched no one during those fatal few seconds. He was damn sure of that.

      Since Archer had faked his own suicide and changed his name, he’d been obsessed with only one thought. Get even. Every day he spent hours in his basement apartment poring over newspapers from the towns of the seven men who had witnessed against him. From the newspaper articles, data collected through the Freedom of Information Act, and various stolen computer files, he compiled a dossier on each man. Eventually he would destroy everything they held dear: their honor, their families, their property. That would teach them to turn on him.

      Maybe he’d even kill them. Already convicted of one murder, he’d simply add seven more. In spite of the dank coldness of his unheated basement room, Archer felt himself start to sweat.

      During the past few weeks a new element had been added, one he could use to his advantage.