From the Author
From the Inside Flap
The man at the table straightened. Nine years vanished as they locked gazes. And into the howling wilderness of those nine years stepped the two men chasing Sadie.
She didn't even see Marcus move. She blinked and one suit lay on the floor, unconscious.
The second man flew back from a kick to his stomach. He hit a table and then the wall--the biker in between lifting his beer out of the way--and collapsed into matching unconsciousness.
Nine years ago Marcus couldn't have fought a feather duster. Tonight, he'd taken out two quietly terrifying men.
Then he surveyed the bar filled with bikers.
Big, tough guys with more muscles, illegal guns and lethal knives than anybody needed froze, barely breathing, careful not to challenge Marcus in what had been their bar.
They watched in silence as he pulled money out of his wallet and dropped it on the table.
The bird perched there pecked a peanut from a bowl before fluttering up to land on Marcus's shoulder. Its golden tail lay along his arm. It cracked the peanut and whisps of shell floated down.
Marcus held out his hand to Sadie. He wore a black leather jacket dulled by age and scratched at the shoulders. It swung open over a navy-blue t-shirt that hung over a flat stomach. His jeans were old and faded. His boots were worn-in combat boots. But it was his face that had changed the most.
His mouth was a hard line. His jaw was chiselled one fraction from gaunt. He was lean, stripped to his essence, and that essence was powerful.