CHAPTER 1
The Mojave Desert stretched in endless directions under the inky night sky. This was no-man’s land, nothing but acres of bleak terrain bristling with forbidding vegetation and all manner of sharp-toothed nocturnal predators who prowled the dark, searching for prey.
As dangerous as the Mojave’s wild inhabitants were, there was no hunter more lethal than the Breed male currently speeding along the empty ribbon of pavement behind the wheel of an ancient Chevy pickup truck.
Tonight, though, Asher hadn’t gone out to hunt for himself. He’d left the old ranch some thirty-odd miles out in the desert on a mission to pick up animal feed and household supplies. Not his favorite thing to do, making the trek into civilization at the Nevada state line, but it was an obligation he’d eventually taken on as a favor to the aged human who’d given him shelter a decade and a half ago. Ned Freeman had accepted him with few questions asked and no apparent fear or disdain for who—and what—Asher was, or where he’d come from before ending up on the old man’s parcel of desert land.
Since Ned’s passing last year, the modest homestead and its assortment of animals had no one else to look after them, so Asher had stayed. And why not? He didn’t have anywhere pressing to be. No one waiting for him somewhere else. As a laboratory-spawned assassin, he’d been born and raised for a solitary life. It was all he knew or wanted, even now.
Driving Ned’s truck along the uneven, winding road that cut a path down the middle of the Mojave Preserve as far as the eye could see, Asher took cold comfort in the vast emptiness of the land that had become his home. The two-hour errand that began around eight tonight had turned into five after the truck blew a tire on the way out. The old spare Ned had stowed behind the seats in the cab wasn’t in much better shape, he had discovered, which had meant hoofing his ass to the 24-hour gas station at the highway for a patch and some air.
It was a relief to be heading back to the ranch after hours among the crush and noise of humankind. People made him twitchy, and not only because the sight of him put most mortals on edge. At six-foot-six, weighing two-hundred-seventy pounds on a lean day, and most of his skin marked with tattoo-likedermaglyphsthat announced him as one of the purest of the Breed, he didn’t exactly blend in.
It had been twenty years since the Breed was outed to the humans sharing this planet with them, but relations were still tenuous at best. Fortunately, those problems belonged to others among his kind. Asher was glad to leave the political fire-fighting and heroics to the warriors of the Order and their commanders stationed in major cities around the world. As for himself? He’d done enough killing, and he had never been anything close to a hero.
Settled back in the driver’s seat with the window rolled down to let in the cool night air, he stared ahead at the narrow, pot-holed stretch of asphalt illuminated by the dim yellow headlights of the rumbling pickup. A coyote howled off in the distance, a song that was quickly picked up by others who joined in a haunting chorus.
Asher respected these hunters. He’d had to kill one when multiple attempts to warn it off Ned’s chickens had failed, but he’d taken no pleasure in it. Not that killing was ever a pleasure.
Do your duty, boy.
The low, menacing command slithered through his mind. His old Master’s voice, the Breed madman who had created Asher and scores of others like him in his lab. On a snarl, Asher snuffed the reminder of Dragos and his hellish Hunter program. Reaching for the knob on the truck’s old radio he cranked up the only station it got without static to full blast.
No point in traveling down memory lane. His was nothing but a field of landmines waiting to blow. Instead, he let the noise of a morose country song drown out the equally unpleasant noise in his head while he focused on the road in front of him.
He was only fifteen minutes from the ranch when his headlights sparked a glint in the distance roughly a mile up the road. A sleek black luxury sedan, pulled off the pavement about fifty yards onto the hard-packed sand of the desert.
Asher’s nostrils flared as a sense of unrest rolled over him. Not many people had business this far off I-15, and nothing good tended to result when they ventured out into that bramble-choked sand cemetery. This deep into the darkened desert, and at this late hour, you either stopped here deliberately or under duress.
Over time, he’d seen enough of both to know.
His thoughts flashed to a night some twelve years ago, when he’d stumbled across a fellow Breed male—a former Hunter, like him—in this remote part of the desert. The male’s name was Scythe, and he’d dragged himself out to the Mojave to die in the sun after losing a woman he loved and her young son. It was Ned who’d insisted they bring Scythe back to the ranch and help him heal if they could. But it was Asher who’d ultimately refused to let the other male give up. He’d kicked Scythe’s ass through weeks of recuperation, until his Hunter brother was finally well enough to leave.
Not that one good deed could ever make up for all the wrong Asher had done in his life. Wouldn’t even make a dent, in fact. But he was glad that Scythe had lived through it and although they hadn’t kept in touch much, Asher had heard the male had since taken a Breedmate and was living a good life in Italy somewhere.
He had a feeling whatever was going on near the parked black sedan wasn’t going to end nearly as well.
Not his business.
Not his problem, either.
Asher scowled and turned off the music, silencing the raspy-voiced crooner who was lamenting about the woman he didn’t know how badly he wanted until she was gone. Almost against his own will, his foot eased off the gas pedal as he studied the large car up ahead.
It looked empty, though for how long he couldn’t be sure. No visible tire issues, no scent of smoke or other outward signs of vehicle trouble. Which meant the real trouble was taking place somewhere among the spindly Joshua trees and cactus patches in the desert off to the right.
The old truck’s headlights were dim as it was, but Asher doused them completely and rolled to a quiet stop several yards behind the sedan. He killed the engine and shoved open the rusted-out door.
The instant his boots touched the ground he knew with cold certainty that something was wrong.
It was quiet. Unnaturally quiet. No bugs scuttling over the sand, no scorpions clicking over rocks, no bat’s wings beating heavy in the night.
He tipped his head back and scented the air.
People.
Three men, two apparently bathed in competing, cloying colognes, the other reeking from a recent meal laden with garlic. By the stench of it, the guy must have enjoyed a large garlic pizza with garlic crust, chased with a garlic smoothie.
Voices sounded in the distance, bulky shapes moving against the black silhouettes of the scrubby trees and spiked vegetation. The trio of olfactory offenders were shoving another person ahead of them in the dark. The sound of something hard and metallic connecting with the soft flesh and bone of a skull was punctuated by a sharp, pained yelp and the abrupt shuffle of feet stumbling and a body going down on the sand.
