Page 23 of Ruthless Enforcer

The man has been standing behind me for the better part of twenty minutes with a mouthful of pins and the increasingly haunted expression of someone reconsidering every professional choice that brought him to Turner Ranch on a Sunday morning.

He smooths the fabric over my shoulders. “Perhaps the jacket is pulling.”

“Perhaps.”

He nods.

Smart man.

I turn my attention back to the mirror. Charcoal. Single-breasted. Peak lapels. Expensive enough to be respectable without being memorable.

Perfect.

There are occasions when a man wants to be remembered. There are others when he wants everyone to remember the cut of the wool and forget the face wearing it.

At the moment, anonymity has considerable appeal.

Behind me, the tailor carefully repins the drape along my right side, taking care not to press too hard against the discolored ridge of cracked ribs beneath my shirt.

He came highly recommended. More importantly, he makes house calls without asking why his client’s jaw is still yellow with fading bruises or why one shoulder sits at a slightly unnatural angle.

Good help is increasingly difficult to find.

I glance past my reflection toward the tall windows overlooking Turner Ranch.

Home—or what remains of it.

The house is cold. The staff is gone. The grounds have the abandoned quality of property belonging to a man who disappeared and isn't expected to return.

Which is precisely why I'm here.

Gabriel Reyes will search hotels, airports, border crossings, and every property owned by every man who ever owed me a favor. He'll turn Montana inside out looking for me.

Eventually, it may occur to him to search my own ranch, but by then, I won't be here.

For now, hiding in the one place everyone assumes I'd be suicidal to return to has a certain elegance.

The cameras aren't a problem.

Callahan and his friends seeded enough of them around the property to monitor a small nation. Useful little things.

They've been watching the same empty ranch for the last eighteen hours.

An empty drive.

An empty house.

An occasional deer crossing the south pasture.

Five minutes of footage, endlessly repeating.

Blackthorn sees exactly what I want them to see—nothing.

A knock sounds from downstairs.

Three sharp raps, a pause, and then two more.

I glance at my watch. Late. “How long?”