The Naked Edge Read Free Page A

lodge. The target and the woman were out of sight behind a barn
    Interesting that I want to objectify him by calling him “the target” instead of using his name . Doesn't seem a day older. Kept in shape. Picked a damned good-looking wife.
    You son of a bitch.
    The spotter unclipped a polished ebony knife from his pocket, thumbing the blade open and closing it. “Target practice,” he said in response to the gunshots.
    “A handgun,” the sniper commented.
    “Yes. Sounds like a nine millimeter. Must be a metal target. Hear the bullets hitting it?”
    “Accurate shooter.”
    “Oh, he's definitely an accurate shooter,” the spotter said. “That's why we're up here and not down there.”
    The sniper counted. “Nine, ten, eleven, twelve.”
    “Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.”
    “Large magazine. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. Hell of a large magazine. You know any handguns that hold that many rounds?”
    “No,” the spotter said. “After ten, a slight pause. Hard to notice. That's when the magazine got changed.”
    “Damned fast magazine change.”
    “Twenty-two. Twenty-three. After twenty, another slight pause.”
    “Yeah, a super-fast magazine change,” the sniper agreed. “Well, I'm here to blast his eye out at seven-hundred yards, not have a gunfight with him.”
    Amid the shots echoing across the canyon, they heard an approaching rumble.
    7

    Ear guards muffle sounds but don't eliminate them. Cavanaugh listened to the rhythmic thunder and peered toward the southern rim of the canyon, from behind which a helicopter appeared, its dragonfly shape getting larger, silhouetted against the cobalt sky.
    Jamie lowered the pistol and glanced at her watch. “He's early.”
    “Yeah.” Cavanaugh took off his ear guards. “A half hour. I was hoping he wouldn't come at all.”
    “You still don't know what he wants?”
    “Only that he said it's important. But I can guess. He plans to offer me a job.”
    As the helicopter roared closer, Cavanaugh was able to read the name stenciled in red across the side: Global Protective Services. Memories rushed through him . . . the clients he'd protected, some wealthy and powerful, others ordinary people whom he'd persuaded GPS to help, all sharing the common denominator that they were prey . . . the protective agents he'd worked with, all of them linked by their hatred of predators and their devotion to being guardians, even at the cost of their lives.
    Jamie said something, but the growing din of the chopper prevented him from hearing her. Or perhaps it was the memories.
    “What?” he asked.
    “Are you going to take the job?”
    Preoccupied, Cavanaugh reached under his loose denim shirt and removed his knife from its sheath on the left side of his belt. A rugged utility knife, useful for work around the ranch, it was a gift from his friend, Gil Hibben, commemorating Gil's induction into the Knifemaker's Hall of Fame. It had the balance for what Cavanaugh did next. Releasing the emotions that memories of his dead friends had caused, he drew back his arm and hurled the blade toward a post fifteen feet away, expertly judging the number of flips the knife had to make.
    It struck solidly, the force of his throw and his emotions embedding it.
    “No,” he said. “I won't take the job.”
    “I think you should.”
    The chopper was nearer, louder.
    Ignoring it, Cavanaugh turned toward Jamie. “Five months ago, you nearly died. I still have nightmares about it.”
    “You didn't force me to go along. I made a choice. It wasn't your fault I was shot.”
    “I'm never going to put you at risk again.”
    “But a lot of people need help.”
    “Somebody else will have to give it to them.”
    The helicopter hovered over a section of grass between the barn and the lodge.
    “We'd better not be rude and keep him waiting,” Cavanaugh said.
    “In other words, you're changing the subject.”
    Cavanaugh shrugged. He retrieved his knife, then followed her to the weathered table, where they