Riordan McKenzie slipped into Mia Rowland's office well after business hours.  

I shouldn't involve Mia in this mess. She seems nice.

He already knew his fate and had almost come to accept he would die soon. He hoped to hell it would be quick, but knew the men he was betraying would take out their anger and frustration through torture, slow and thorough—long before they allowed him to die. He knew this because he had been warned of his fate should he ever do anything as unwise as try to stop his clients from continuing their illegal activities under the guise of charity.

He took a turn around Mia's office.

There had to be some place he could stash the file where no one would find it. He just needed time to figure out a plan to expose his clients—and save his ass.

He stepped behind her desk. On the floor, out of sight, was a pile ever accountant had—the "annoying client" clustered in an out-of-sight corner. Better chance of not being taunted by the little voice admonishing the procrastination.

Perfect!

Three files up from the bottom, Riordan slipped his rather voluminous file into the stack.

He stood, exhaled,  and wished there was a deeper sense of relief in dumping the documents. A picture frame on the credenza caught his eye. Mia standing on the beach, smiling, with her arm around another woman. They both looked happy.

What I'm doing is sure to get her killed.

A lead ball of guilt sunk deep in his gut. His little act of betrayal had likely signed her death warrant. I should take the file out of here, and just deal with the consequences on my own. His hand hesitated just above the stack of files, the trepidation rising the longer he remained.

Visions of his kids, his house, his wife—everything he had worked so hard for the last twelve years—assaulted him. What would he be if he didn't have the money he was making now? What if everything he had sacrificed, his ethics and morals, were all for nothing? He couldn't let his family pay for his sins, no matter how much they were enjoying the fruits of his illegal labors.

"Fuck it," he muttered under his breath, turned, and stalked to the door. Flipping off the light switch, he stepped out, and closed the door behind him.

"Riordan?"

His head jerked up at the sound of a woman's voice. Mia Rowland stood a few feet away from him. "What were you doing in my office?" Her head tilted slightly to the side as she tried to peer around him.

"Hey," he said, his voice shaky. This is an unfortunate turn of events. He ran his hand through his hair and stepped away from the door. "I was coming to see you—didn't realize you had left for the day."

Her eyes narrowed on him. She was a pretty woman. Those penetrating green eyes were her best feature, although now, he seemed to wilt a bit under their scrutiny. "Why were you coming to see me?"

"I—uh—was hoping—well, I wasn't sure if you would have any, but I know you work with some of the hockey players—and I wanted to see if you might have any tickets to the Caps game?" He smiled, aware of how forced it was and likely coming off as creepy stalker. "My son is a big Oshie fan, and I thought I might take him to a game." He looked back at the closed office door behind him. "You weren't here, so I was going to leave you a note—" Lie.

Mia stepped around him, pushed the door open, and flipped on the light. "I don't get tickets from the players," she said, as she looked around her office, no doubt observing there was no note on her desk.

"No worries," Riordan said, and backed away from her, wanting desperately to turn tail and run. "I'd already decided I would go ahead and buy tickets for us. Sorry to bother you, Mia. Have a nice night." He walked away before she could see his lying eyes.

The guilt in his stomach was a bubbling ball of molten lava, scorching him from the inside out. Coward. He never should've involved Mia.

Riordan scrubbed the growth along his jaw. He would come in early tomorrow, retrieve the file from her office before she got in, and turn the information over to the FBI. By the end of the day, he would have new identities for his wife and kids, and be on his way to a new life somewhere far away from Washington DC.

* * *

Riordan pulled his Mercedes C300 out of the parking garage and headed toward his home in the Virginia countryside. Well, countryside may be pushing it. The country club community north of DC offered Riordan a beautiful home with the best private schools, successful (but perhaps not the friendliest) neighbors, and priority tee times.

What he hated was the long commute everyday. One hour into DC, one hour back home. It wasn't all bad, though. He could listen to sports talk on the satellite radio and avoid his wife bitching about having ESPN on the TV when the kids wanted cartoons. And once he crossed the bridge out of DC, the landscape changed from urban city to narrow roads lined with tall trees. He could almost feel the history of the land, the ghosts of thousands that staked their claim in this country over the past two-hundred years. Away from the traffic congestion and atmosphere that exists only inside the beltway, to a simpler life where family came first.

Of course, when he worked as a CPA for legitimate clients he would not have been able to afford the lifestyle he was living now. The "bonuses" from his client paid for the house, cars, and tuition for his sons. At the time, Riordan had believed the benefits outweighed the risks. What he hadn't considered was the toll his conscience would take providing his client the optics of legitimacy. And while he knew the risks could be dangerous, he had never fully considered how lethal men with extreme power and money could be.

When Riordan started asking too many questions, he was warned to do his job, and keep his inquisitive side in check. So, why had he decided to dig into CALICO?

That had been the proverbial straw that broke the camels back. He had been warned. He had not heeded it. Now he was going to pay the cost for his insolence.

Riordan glanced in his rearview mirror at the car that had come up fast behind him. Not unusual along this stretch of road. Many people misjudged the tightness of the curves, and took them at high speed. The occasional roadside memorial was a grim reminder of the ones who thought they were Mario Andretti and discovered they were James Dean.

The car was way too close to Riordan. He tapped on his brakes to get the guy to back off. The driver of the other car answered with a bump to Riordan's back end.

"Goddammit!" There was no shoulder on along this stretch of road, so pulling off to assess the damage was not an option. Instead, Riordan sped up. There was a shopping center about five miles up the road. He'd stop there and deal with the jackass that was in too much of a hurry.

Increasing his speed only encouraged the other car to follow his lead. Did this asshole not know that going any faster was guaranteed to wrap one—or both—of them around a tree?

A jolt threw Riordan's car forward, as if an answer to his question. Riordan pulled to the right side of the road as much as he dared. Hopefully, the guy would get a clue and pass him on the next straightaway. Instead, the man hit him again.

What the hell!

This was not someone trying to check the performance of his high-end vehicle. This was personal. Riordan pressed on the gas pedal and prepared to pull back into the center of his lane. His clarity came a little too late. Keeping his eyes on the other vehicle in the rearview mirror, Riordan missed the curve in the road.  

The Mercedes careened off the road. The large oak grew more ominous the closer the car got to it. Everything was moving in slow motion, but he was powerless to stop the events unfolding before him. The crunch of metal against a hundred year old tree was louder than he had expected. The impact propelled Riordan forward. The airbag in the steering wheel deployed, exploding into his face. Pain spread through his cheekbones and blood flowed from his nose into his mouth.

The world was spinning. Was the car still moving or had it stopped? What should he do? Get out? Call for help? Where the hell was his cell phone?

He leaned his head back against the head rest. Pain shot like an arrow through his nasal passages straight into his brain. No doubt his nose was broken. He would have to deal with dark circles under his eyes and bruising across his nose and cheeks. Attractive.

Blindly running his hand along the door, he searched for the handle, but couldn't seem to find it. He caught sight of the blue button on the rearview mirror. He stretched his arm out, barely able to reach it.

"Roadside assistance," a female voice filled the interior of the car. "Can I help you?"

"Yes." Riordan choked on the blood in the back of his throat. "I've been in an accident."

"Are you hurt?"

"Yes. I think I hit a tree."

"Are you still in the vehicle?" The voice was calm and steady, and slightly melodic. He pictured a pretty young woman with golden hair, and a bright smile.

"I am." He took a deep breath and regretted it. Stabbing pain seared through his lungs. Great, broken ribs, too?

"Mr. McKenzie, I have your GPS coordinates. Police and ambulance on their way to you."

"Thank—"

The driver's side door flew open with a loud screeching groan. A black gloved hand reached inside, punched the blue button, and disconnected Riordan from his one lifeline. He turned his head to the left and was met with dead eyes as black as the mask covering the man's head and face.

A chill hit Riordan's spine and settled deep in his bones.

The muzzle of a gun leveled in Riordan's sight.

"Please, I—"

The bright flash blinded Riordan. He jerked his head away in a feeble attempt to move out of the bullets trajectory. It was an impulse—

And it failed.

"Mr. McKenzie," the female voice filled the car again. "We were disconnected. Are you there?"

"Mr. McKenzie?"

"Hello? Mr. McKenzie?"

Riordan's eyes stared into death, as blood seeped from the hole in the back of his head.