ONE

      Mackenzie Winters didn’t need her years in witness protection to know someone was targeting her. She was looking at the evidence.

      All four tires on her old, nondescript car had been slashed.

      Mackenzie glanced up at the dark sky. After the day she’d had, all she wanted was to go home and crash. But that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

      She looked back at the dark building, the center that she managed for at-risk teens. Locked up for the night, it looked almost menacing, but that was crazy. It was only bricks and mortar.

      The broken streetlight at the far end of the parking lot cast long shadows on the pitted cement. Mackenzie gripped the strap of her purse and strode around the building to the street, where there was a pay phone that seemed to have been long forgotten.

      Downtown Phoenix was busy even at this time of night, and there wasn’t much time before the last bus of the day. Mackenzie dropped some coins in the slot and dialed her WITSEC handler’s number. Eric would know what should be done about her slashed tires. He’d do what he called a “threat assessment” to determine if she needed to be really worried—as opposed to just regular worried.

      All because of one night: the night Mackenzie had walked into the hotel suite her entourage shared and saw a man holding a gun to her manager’s head. Seconds later, he’d pulled the trigger, and Mackenzie, her manager and her head of security, who’d been with her that night, were all on the floor bleeding. She was the only one who’d survived—the one who had testified against the shooter and crippled a drug cartel in the process.

      The call to her handler went to voice mail, so Mackenzie left a message and started walking again.

      She scanned the street in front and behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Whoever had slashed her tires could be watching right now, waiting for the right moment to strike. Why else would they make sure her car was undrivable, instead of just slashing one tire and making her change it? They must want her out of her normal routine. But for what?

      Paranoia came with the territory, even though it had been sixteen years since the day she’d testified against the shooter. The adrenaline never really left. Not when at any moment you could be recognized, gunned down...or kidnapped and left for dead in the middle of the desert.

      Okay, so she needed to watch a romantic comedy tonight instead of a movie about vengeful mobsters.

      A car slowed beside where she was walking on the sidewalk, but she didn’t look. Traffic was backed up, so it could be nothing. Mackenzie walked faster. It was better to be safe than dead. She should call her WITSEC handler again as soon as she got home. It had been years since she’d needed protection, and months since she’d even talked to Eric on the phone, but if there was a threat, then he should know.

      She flicked her gaze to the street. The car was still there, tracking with her every step.

      This was her life. It had been ever since her manager had made a deal with the wrong people. It wasn’t enough that he’d spent all the money she made him as a musician on his habit; no, he’d needed more money to sustain that habit. And when he’d neglected to pay the money back, the cartel had come looking for him.

      Hello, witness protection.

      Now for the past two weeks she’d had a funny feeling—nothing more than that, not until the tires. It could be simple vandalism, nothing more. Maybe someone with a grudge against the arts center she’d founded. Since she was still alive, she didn’t think it was about her former life. If Carosa found her, he would simply kill her.

      Mackenzie knew what it felt like to be watched, and to have her whole life dissected for everyone to read about in the tabloids. But no one would even recognize her now. Mackenzie’s WITSEC persona was more of a spinster librarian than a famous musician. To her surprise, she’d found being unassuming felt more natural than all the makeup and sparkly clothes in the world.

      The car slowed to a crawl and a window whirred down. Mackenzie’s foot hit a crack in the sidewalk. She stumbled and broke into a run. There was only one more block to the restaurant where she sometimes got dinner before she went home. The car engine revved to catch up.

      A door opened ahead, and a man stepped out, blowing across the top of his white paper cup. It was Eric, her handler. Mackenzie tried to stop, but she slammed into him. Eric’s coffee went flying. She grabbed his arms to steady herself and his eyes flashed wide.

      “Someone’s after me.”

      The rapport of gunfire shot toward them like fireworks. The window of the coffee shop shattered, and concrete chips flew up from the sidewalk, stinging her legs. Mackenzie’s head spun. She was being turned; Eric had his arms around her. He hit the concrete first, grunting when she slammed into him. They rolled toward the car parked by the curb. Gunshots flew over their heads and people screamed.

      When they reached the spot between the parked car and the curb, out of the line of fire, Eric hauled her up on her hands and knees. “Crawl. Go!”

      With him right beside her, they scrambled away. The sidewalk cut through her tights, so she got to her feet. Eric’s grip on her elbow held her down, lower than the cars parked on the side of the street.

      The gunfire stopped, but he still didn’t let her straighten fully. Thank God he was here. What would she have done if Eric hadn’t walked out of that coffee shop at exactly the right moment? She’d probably be dead, and she owed the U.S. Marshals Service so much already. They’d given her a new life when she desperately needed one. How could she possibly thank him for this?

      The engine revved, and the car sped away.

      “Okay, I think we’re good.” His voice was deep, deeper than she remembered, and his proximity warmed her chilled skin. His denim-blue eyes scanned the area and then focused on her. “You can get up now.”

      He stood first and winced when he touched his left shoulder.

      “You’re bleeding.” Mackenzie gasped. “You’ve been shot!”

      “It isn’t from this. I just ripped my stitches is all. Don’t worry about it.”

      “We should call an ambulance.”

      He checked the street and finally looked at her, his blue eyes almost gray. “What we should do is get off the street.”

      Mackenzie glanced around. The sound of sirens was getting closer. Probably someone in the coffee shop had called 911. “Do you think whoever shot at me will come back and try again?”

      Eric shrugged, as though being shot at was no big deal. “I wouldn’t rule it out.”

      “Are you going to make me leave Phoenix? I like it here.”

      His forehead crinkled in confusion. It was a nice forehead. What was wrong with her? Eric was her handler; she wasn’t supposed to think he was good-looking.

      He motioned to the coffee shop. “We should at least go inside.”