Turner's phone, the one dedicated to calls from clients, pinged with a new voicemail message.

The calls didn't go straight to this phone, going to a mailbox instead, which then sent him a notification that he had a message waiting.

He always explained the system to new clients to prevent future complaints about why he couldn't be reached on the phone without them having to leave a message first.

The standard explanation was that he was often on missions and couldn't accept calls, which was the truth but not entirely.

The system he'd devised ensured that his location couldn't be traced using the connection. In addition, the calls were recorded to prevent future disputes and misunderstandings.

Turner dialed into his voicemail and listened to the recording.

"Hello, Turner. This is Arturo. I'm in Los Angeles and I have my idiot nephew with me. I want to invite you to dinner and have him thank you in person for saving his worthless life. Meet us at seven at La Gracia. If you can't make it, you know where to leave a message."

Damn it. He could do without a thank-you from Arturo's sniveling nephew, and he could definitely do without dinner at a restaurant for the very rich. What he couldn't do without, was seeing Bridget.

Yesterday, he'd had an emergency mission to plan, and it had taken him until the small hours of the night to finish. He'd pushed through the fatigue, mental and physical, to clear the evening for Bridget. Dimly, he was aware that she was becoming an addiction. Twenty-four hours without her felt more like twenty-four days.

He didn't have a choice, though. Sandoval was too important of a client to refuse an invitation to dinner from.

Using his personal phone, he dialed Bridget's number.

"Victor. What's up?" she asked in her no-nonsense, get to the point tone.

"I can't make it over this evening. An important client, whom I cannot brush off, called and asked me to join him for dinner at La Gracia."

"Fancy. Come after you're done with him. I have a surprise for you."

"What is it?"

"If I tell you, it wouldn't be a surprise."

"Give me a hint. You know how I am with mysteries."

"Like a dog with a bone. Fine, I'll tell you so you don't obsess over it all during your dinner. I got the entire Chariots of the Gods series. We can watch a couple of episodes."

Turner cupped his hand over the phone. "Sounds like a plan. But I have different ideas for the first part of tonight's entertainment."

She chuckled. "Me too. Try to finish as early as you can."

"I'll do my best."

Ten minutes to seven, clad in one of his better suits, Turner pulled up to the valet, stepped out and tossed the guy the keys to his rented Lexus, an upgrade from his usual more modest transport. The Tesla was only for private use.

"The name on your reservation, sir?" the hostess asked.

"I'm meeting Mr. Arturo Sandoval."

The girl checked her screen and smiled. "Yes, table for three. Mr. Sandoval is not here yet."

It struck Turner as odd that Sandoval had reserved a table for three. The man never traveled anywhere without a cadre of bodyguards. Then again, the guy had probably reserved a separate one for his goons.

She grabbed a menu. "Can I offer you a drink while you wait?"

"I'll have a bottle of sparkling water, whatever brand you have is fine."

"Of course." She pulled out a chair for him.

"Thank you."

It always made Turner uncomfortable to have a woman pull out a chair for him. He wasn't old-fashioned, and he wasn't a chauvinist either, but it just felt wrong.

A waiter arrived with a bottle of some Italian sparkling water Turner hadn't had before, popped the cork as if it was a champagne bottle and poured it into Turner's glass.

"Would you like some bread while you wait, sir?"

"No, thank you."

The guy bowed. "Enjoy your dinner, sir."

In a place like that, the waiter pouring the drinks was not the one taking the order, and the one taking the order wasn't the one to serve the meal. There was a hierarchy of servers to justify the outrageous prices.

Turner wished the evening was over already. Between tolerating Sandoval's overinflated ego and the pompous servers, he would be pulling out hairs he didn't have.

Fifteen minutes later, the waiter in charge of the pouring stopped by his table and refilled his glass. When another fifteen minutes had passed, Turner started to lose his patience. He'd expected Arturo to be late, but this was bordering on rude.

After ten more minutes, Turner pulled out his phone, which he'd put on silent mode before entering the restaurant, and checked his messages.

There was one from Sandoval.

"Turner, mi amigo, I apologize but something came up, and I can't make it to dinner. Please, stay and enjoy yourself. It's paid for. Again, my sincere apologies."

Turner removed the napkin from his lap, got up, and threw it on the table. Then pulled out his wallet and put forty dollars on top of the napkin. Sandoval could shove his dinner where the sun didn't shine. Turner's time was more valuable than the damned dinner.

The good news was that he could head straight for Bridget's.

"Is anything wrong, sir?" The hostess rushed to intercept him.

"Not at all. My dinner companion had an emergency and couldn't make it."

"I'm so sorry to hear that."

He nodded and strode outside, not giving the girl a chance to try to lure him back inside.

As he handed the valet his ticket, Turner debated whether to call Bridget and tell her that he was coming early, or surprise her. He didn't like surprises, but that didn't mean Bridget didn't like them either.

Except, the guard downstairs was going to call her and let her know Turner was there to see her. It wouldn't be much of a surprise even if he didn't call. A good alert system. She would have enough advance notice to brush her hair and do whatever else women did to get ready.

As a car pulled up into the valet station, the three men in business suits who got out were talking loudly about some stock taking a nosedive and its chances of recuperating. Turner moved a few feet away to put some distance between himself and the noisy bunch. The men must have had a few drinks already because they sounded nothing like their expensive suits suggested they should.

But then this was the USA, where anyone could make it no matter how humble his or her origins. Same as Turner, these men might have grown up in tough neighborhoods.

As his car pulled up to the curb, Turner reached for his wallet, fishing for a five-dollar bill while waiting for the valet to get out. One of the guys stumbled unto him, his bulk pushing Turner against the car. As he lost his footing, the wallet tumbled down to the pavement.

"Sorry about that." The man tried to steady Turner by grabbing onto his shoulders, while his friend bent down to pick up the wallet.

"Let me," the third one said and opened the rear passenger door.

Alarm bells going off, Turner prepared to punch one and kick the other, when the third plunged a knife into his back.

"What's going on?" he heard someone say.

"Our buddy here had too much to drink," one of the men said while his friend helped Turner into the back seat.

"This is for Xavier," he whispered into Turner's ear before closing the door.

Who the hell was Xavier? he thought as the car peeled away with a screech of tires.

With the knife still embedded in his back, Turner ignored the excruciating pain and lunged forward to grab the driver by the neck, but the guy anticipated his move and jerked the wheel, hitting the brakes at the same time.

As Turner's body was rammed against the back seat, the knife got pushed an inch deeper.

Turner blacked out.

The car door slamming shut jolted him awake. A moment later he heard another car door open and shut, and then the screech of wheels as the vehicle peeled away.

That he was still alive surprised him.

He wasn't afraid of dying. In a way, it was a relief. No more worrying about the cancer looming over him, and no more dreading the chemotherapy his doctor had suggested.

It was game over.

The only thing he regretted, was not having had more time with Bridget. Would she mourn his death? Would she miss him? How soon would she move on to her next lover?

Turner closed his eyes, painting the image of Bridget's beautiful face behind his closed lids to accompany him on the last journey he would ever take. What he couldn't understand, though, was why they had gone to all that trouble— setting the trap, ambushing him in front of a famous restaurant, and stabbing him—only to dump him somewhere without verifying that he was dead?

Was it a message for Sandoval, or for him?

True, they had been interrupted by some random passerby, the one who had asked what was going on, but the driver could've finished the job instead of leaving Turner alive.

Whoever had planned the sting was incredibly clever, but the hired thugs weren't. Unless he was missing some vital component, this hadn't been a job professionally executed. His best guess was that the brain was somewhere in South America, and he had hired local muscle.

Obviously, the message Turner had received hadn't been from Arturo Sandoval. It had been done either by using a talented voice mimic or pieced together from actual recordings of Sandoval's conversations.

Another thing he was certain of was that the breach in security had been in Sandoval's organization and not his.

Sandoval was too heavily guarded, and after what had happened with his nephew so was the rest of his family. But his communication network was apparently not secure enough.

Turner's communication network was impenetrable, but he himself was an easier target than Sandoval, provided that he could be found. His name and what he had done for Sandoval could have been obtained from hacking into Arturo's phone and email communications, but since Turner was nearly impossible to locate, they’d had to lure him into a trap.

Turner's only mistake was not verifying the invitation by calling Arturo back. If he survived to live another day, he would be sure not to make that mistake ever again.

Still, why had they let him live?

Were they hoping he would call for help and expose more people in his own organization?

Fat chance. He was going to call 911.

With a grunt, Turner reached into his jacket's inner pocket to retrieve his phone. The pocket was empty, as were the others. No phone and no wallet and by the end of the search he was close to blacking out again.

He needed a few moments of rest.

Closing his eyes, Turner took several shallow breaths. The good news was that they'd somehow missed his lungs. He would have been choking on his own blood by now if they hadn't. And if they hit the heart, we would have been dead already.

Perhaps this was why they had just left him, hoping he would bleed to death or choke. A knife to the back at such proximity should have been lethal. It was a miracle that the attacker had somehow missed. Perhaps he'd gotten distracted by that passerby.

Taking Turner's phone and wallet was either meant to make it look like a robbery or to ensure that he had no way of calling for help.

His only other option was the Onstar button on the dashboard. Or maybe even honking the horn and hoping someone would come to investigate.

With a herculean effort, Victor heaved himself up between the front seats and tried to reach the button. But his arm wasn't long enough. He had to twist sideways and wedge himself deeper. Grating his teeth against the excruciating pain, he tried but blacked out again.