Falke’s Renegade

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“Son of the bitch.”

Lev Durchenko glanced into the rearview mirror to see the black Jag less than fifty yards behind his own much slower rental sedan. No mistake; the driver meant him harm.

How had he gotten so close without Lev knowing?

Damn him for believing he’d lost Montero weeks ago. He should’ve known better. The bastard was more like a bloodhound than a cat.

“Fucking bastard.” Lev pressed the accelerator, hoping to get into the nearest town. Montero would never attack him in public. From there Lev could blend into the crowd...make an escape...somehow.

Live to fight another day, and on his own terms.

He should have killed the shifter years ago, should never have left that house without finishing them all.

Taking curves too fast, he worked the car into the hills somewhere in the godforsaken wilderness of Washington State. And then it happened. The engine sputtered as he accelerated up a straight slope.

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