Brice expected a bull riding competition or football game on the country bar TV. Instead he got tabloid news. Nothing but gossip overlaid with country music in this neon-beer-sign place. The done-me-wrong songs went well with the juicy lies being told on TV. That bitch Sharon Waters from Celebrity Centerfold droned on as a beautiful picture of Ashley in front of his burned-down home came on the screen beside Sharon’s surgically enhanced face.

While Ashley Swan remains under protective custody on a Montana ranch, speculation mounts that the gorgeous DEA agent protecting her is much more than a bodyguard. Rumors circulate that her sexy rescuer is truly a knight in shining armor who swept her off her feet.

Brice fisted his hand, trying to control the rage that swept through him at the thought of that man putting his hands on Ashley. The image of her being carried in his arms into the hospital burned in Brice’s brain. He’d pay for touching her.

Sharon Waters dropped her voice, enticing people to believe the budding romance story. Why else would the DEA be involved in a kidnapping and murder?

Brice nearly spit out the single malt eighteen-year-old Talisker. He refused to waste the only decent drink he could get in this shithole bar.

Murder? No fucking way. Unless . . . No, they couldn’t know.

The body of a woman was found at Brice’s private ranch estate this afternoon as Ashley Swan took the sheriff’s team on a tour of the house of hell she’d been held in for nearly a year by the once-beloved talk show host. Authorities are searching for more graves.

Oh God, they know.

The body has been identified by authorities, but her name is being held from the press until next of kin can be notified. An unidentified source close to the case reports the woman once worked for Brice at the property. Could she be another victim of Brice’s sick and twisted games that turned deadly? Time will tell as the investigation continues and we learn more about the depraved acts Brice inflicted on Ashley Swan and possibly the woman who worked for him. Did she die when Brice’s torture went too far, or did she try to help Ashley and paid the ultimate price? Maybe Brice will give authorities the answer when they finally arrest him. If he hasn’t already fled the country and gone into hiding, though authorities believe he is still here as they have all routes out of the country on guard for any sighting of the famous and very recognizable Brice Mooney.

Brice’s hand clamped onto the cold glass. The ice clinked and dissolved into his single malt scotch, the only extravagance he had right now. If they found him, he’d never have a taste of the finer things in life behind bars. He needed to get out of here before they caught him. He should be out of the country, sitting on a white sand beach somewhere that didn’t extradite. He had money. Fame. Infamy, though he’d rather not have it for the crimes they wanted to pin on him because they didn’t understand what he’d done. He’d helped Jackie, the others, and Ashley become who they truly were meant to be.

He downed his drink, welcoming the sting down his throat, tossed a twenty on the bar for the bartender who actually knew and stocked good scotch, and stood from the torn vinyl stool. A hand clamped onto his shoulder and shoved him back down. Brice looked down at the dirty hand on his last clean shirt. Being on the run sucked. He either needed to buy new clothes, or find a place with laundry service. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, not likely.

“Someone wants to talk to you.”

“Not interested.” He pulled the Dodgers cap low, ducked his head so he wasn’t recognized, and tried to swivel and get off the stool the other way. He ran straight into another beefy man in a biker vest blocking him in.

Shit.

“It wasn’t a request, Mr. Mooney.” The low deep voice didn’t carry, but if they knew who he was, it wouldn’t be long before everyone else in this dive would, too. For all his trying to blend in with his unshaven face, jeans, simple black T-shirt, and jean jacket, he stood out among the work-roughened men.

Brice turned to face the men around him and had a moment to contemplate he might never see that beach or have his freedom if these four, no five, leather-, denim-, and tattoo-clad men took him out and shot him. For what, Brice didn’t know, but it seemed a real possibility.

“Now,” the tall white-haired man ordered. Premature gray was one thing for a guy in his . . . early fifties, Brice guessed. Sixties? Who could tell with that white hair? Brice had never seen anything like it. Except for maybe Betty White, but she was in her nineties.

“What do I call you?”

“Iceman.”

It fit. The hair. The cold attitude. Brice didn’t want to think what else it stood for. Certainly not a love for Val Kilmer’s character in Top Gun.

He grabbed one of Brice’s arms. Another guy with a dragon tattoo flying up his neck clamped his fat fingers around Brice’s other arm.

“Where are we going?” They led him out of the bar, not a single other soul bothering to look their way. One of the reasons he’d picked the place in the middle of nowhere. He’d hoped people would mind their own damn business. Getting noticed would get him arrested or killed at this point, so he went along with the men hoping to find an escape—from whatever this was.

“What do you want with me? There’s no reward for turning me in. I’ll make it worth your while to let me go.”

“Shut up and get in.” Iceman patted him down, took the gun from under his shirt at his back that Brice had taken from Deputy Foster, then shoved him toward a black Mercedes.

The wall of brute force behind him didn’t bode well for him if he disobeyed, but it grated to be ordered around like some menial gopher.

Brice opened the door, bent, and peeked inside. He’d never seen the man sitting on the plush, pale-gray leather backseat, but his dark brown skin and jet-black hair spoke to his Mexican heritage. The exquisite black opal on his pinky said money just as loudly as his designer suit. Brice didn’t need more than one guess to know how this man with the biker gang entourage made his money.

“Have a seat, friend.”

Brice did as he was told again. The door closed with a respectful click, leaving him and his new “friend” in quiet peace.

“I don’t believe we are acquainted.”

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend. You know this saying?” the man said, his words heavily tinged with his Hispanic accent.

“I do. But who is our common enemy?”

“Special Agent Beck Cooke of the DEA. He is known to me as Trigger.”

After Trigger shot at him on his property missing him by a mere inch, Brice understood why he’d been given the nickname.

“He’s caused me a lot of trouble and cost me a great deal of money. He is also responsible for the death of my cousin Marco.” The man squeezed his hand into a fist on his thigh, the black opal sparkling blues and greens in the dome light overhead. “He took my family. He took your woman. This is a man who needs to be taught a lesson about loss.”

Brice couldn’t agree more. “While we have a common interest in seeing this man put down, he’s out of reach. So is my Aurora.”

“She is Ashley Swan, no? The famous actress. Such a beauty.”

“Yes, but to me, she will always be Aurora.”

The man’s lips dipped into a frown of understanding, if only to appease Brice. It irritated him.

“You, my friend, were too easy to find. It is a wonder the police have not found you yet.”

Brice didn’t comment. He’d taken a calculated risk going into the bar. He was tired of hiding out in dingy motel rooms, and his own company, and wanted a decent drink.

“But you see I have resources they do not. I am a man who knows things and makes things happen.”

“How can you get to someone who has proven that anyone getting close to that house will be shot and killed?” It’s why he’d curbed his need to go after her himself, though he’d been racking his brain for a way to get to her. He wouldn’t be impulsive and stupid, like Darren.

“You will get your Aurora back and I will get my money and Beck.”

Brice doubted it, but played along. “And how will that happen?”

“He will come to us. This, I can promise and make happen.” The guy’s vague answer with no substance or details sounded like every politician promising voters results with absolutely no plan to back it up.

Brice narrowed his eyes. “That’s all well and good, but he’ll be armed. Reporters will follow them.”

“My men will take care of all that. It should spike the news ratings, no? You get this, yes?”

“Yes.” The photogs would get an up-close view of Beck’s takedown and Ashley being captured by a group of unidentified men. They’d speculate that Brice hired them to kidnap her. “So what, you take them—how do I get Aurora back?”

“I’m a businessman. This is a business deal. Trigger cost me two million dollars during the raid he executed on Marco’s land. If you want your Aurora, you will pay me two million dollars to get her back.”

Brice had to admit, he hadn’t seen that one coming. Anxious to have her back now, he asked, “When and where?”

The man handed over a black business card with a gold scorpion on the front and two sets of numbers handwritten on the back.

“Tomorrow. My man will meet you here at three and take you to the meeting place. If the money is not in that account by the time you arrive, you will be of no use to me, and I will kill you and keep the girl. I’m sure others will pay for her safe return.”

“You’ll have your money. Mr. . . .?”

“Guzman. Do not forget it, for if you cross me, you will know the man who will see you dead.”

Brice felt a chill of fear race up his spine along with the danger and excitement this man evoked in him. “You’ll have your money. I will have my Aurora.” He couldn’t wait. Tomorrow seemed so far away.

“If you come through, I have a shipment leaving the country on a private plane to Mexico. Perhaps you would like to take your lady on a trip?”

“Yes. Thank you for your generosity.”

“I have a soft spot for lovers. Another reason I want Trigger dead. He killed Marco’s girlfriend during that raid. If not for that, I’d have gotten him out of jail, and Marco would be alive today.”

“Sounds like the sooner I have Aurora away from Trigger the better.”

Mr. Guzman handed him one of the small snifters of brandy set on the narrow bar in front of them. He held his glass aloft and toasted with, “Tomorrow, we will both have what we want.”

Brice downed the shot. Two million was a small price to pay for his most precious treasure. The police would be watching his accounts. They’d see the transfer and probably figure out his location. By the time they tracked him and the money, he’d have Aurora back and they’d be out of the country.