When he could speak again, Cole whispered, "Bri, you are indeed a rare woman. I'm so lucky to have found you."

"The feeling's mutual," she said as she spooned herself against his back and dropped off to sleep. This time Cole joined her and they slept together until mid-morning when, after an enjoyable and stimulating shower together, they fell into bed again and continued their mutual quest of being one another's special treasure.

Sometime after noon, Cole dressed and went down to the lobby where bought a newspaper, which he brought back to the room and scanned for mention of a motorcycle accident on the N1. He knew that even if the cyclist had been killed, it might not make the news, but to his relief there was a small article on the inside of the front page. Four cars had eventually been involved, and that, together with the death of the motorcyclist, made it newsworthy. The police were looking for a driver who "may" have been involved, but without success. He sighed with relief, thinking that they were probably safe for the moment. But he knew the Cheetahs had long arms, and because in South Africa you had to record your I.D. when registering, he knew they should move on as soon as they could. He hadn't ever got a fake I.D., so had had to use his own.

They stayed in the hotel for two nights, basking in each other's glow and making plans. In the end they decided to head down to the Transkei in the Eastern Cape, where Brianne's family network would protect them and where he could find temporary work without questions being asked.

When they got there, Brianne was welcomed enthusiastically with open arms, and because of her endors.e.m.e.nt, Cole was accepted as well-though with a certain reserve. It didn't take long, however, for it to become clear that he was a white of a different color than most, accepting them as equals and treating them with African politeness, as S'bu had taught him to when he had visited soon after leaving Angola. The men were pleasantly surprised that he was willing to join them in physical labor, and he was able to contact S'bu, who lived just a few miles away and whose endors.e.m.e.nt eliminated any lingering suspicion the villagers might have been feeling.

They both tossed their cell phones and destroyed their I.D.s and Cole's pa.s.sport. Cole set about securing a false I.D., not difficult in the tribal areas, and as time went on without any sign of a successful pursuit, they began to feel safe. Cole found that he was as happy in the village as he'd ever been.

There were things he missed, but they were more than compensated for by the presence of Brianne at his side. African culture, he discovered to his surprise, was very like the Afrikaner culture he'd grown up with in Potchefstroom, and he felt privileged to have had a chance to realize this, as so many of his fellow Afrikaners never would. Once you were part of a group, it was a very forgiving and laid-back culture as far removed from the Cheetah culture as was possible, and that was a relief. There was a network of mutual dependence that sometimes chafed, but also protected and soothed. Cole no longer was a man who did what he wanted when he wanted, but he was glad for that-mostly.

Of course, it might be temporary. But what in life wasn't? And when Brianne told him a few months after they had arrived that she was pregnant, he thought back to the life he'd dreamed of when he was a Cheetah and knew he'd found it.

Masters of Menace.

Sophia Hampton.

Michael Lawrence. The name resonates in my head with all the intensity of church bells and with all the pain of a gunshot.

Michael Lawrence. I look at the coffin being lowered in the grave and I think about the vow I made early in my eulogy.

Michael Lawrence. I have never met this man, but I will make sure he is ended. I will make sure he knows what he has done, the pain he has caused.

Michael Lawrence. The man who killed the only father I ever knew, the man I swore to put behind bars.

Two years later.

I drove into the empty driveway and stared at the vacant house. Since the house was paid off I let it sit on the block while I finished my journalism degree. I always managed to find internships that would get me out of the state, or spend the summers with friends or boyfriends. Anywhere but here. But now I was back. I was back and Michael Lawrence would pay.

Many people considered my obsession with Michael Lawrence to be misguided. After all, he wasn't at the crime scene. But he didn't have to be. Dad had spent most of his life trying to put the vicious members of Michael Lawrence's gang behind bars. I had spent much of my teenage life leaving in the slight fear of death threats and being used as leverage against Dad. Although the man who pulled the trigger might not have been Lawrence, he had to be behind the crime.

The pain of that sunny day in the graveyard still wracked me and provided me with my motivation. Without that anger and hate I would have never gotten through college, I would have never come back here. But I made a vow to my father that day that I would bring Michael Lawrence to justice.

The police had never been able to prove he was connected to the crime directly. They brought some guy named Charley to court for his murder, but I knew Michael Lawrence was the one behind it. He ran the biggest motorcycle gang in the entire region-they were also criminal bodyguards and ran a security ring. His men were always for hire to make sure whatever your nefarious deed was got done without you being detected. It sickened me. Violence and death followed him everywhere. As, I reflected, it followed me.

Almost all my worldly possessions fit into two suitcases and a duffel bag. I left the suitcases for the morning, slung the duffel over my shoulder, and walked to the front door of the little house. I paused at the front briefly. The porch light wasn't on-probably didn't even work anymore-and night was falling quickly. I unlocked the door and went inside.

The house was roasting. Once a month I paid for a housekeeper to come out here and make sure nothing had been stolen and that wild animals weren't invading, and I came down every summer to give the house a good scrubbing, but for the most part no one had even entered the house since my father's death. And the A/C had definitely never been turned on in that time. The baking South Carolina heat had turned the house into a furnace.

Praying against all hope the A/C still worked I flipped on the thermostat and, mercifully, the whoosh of cool air flooded the ducts. Crisis averted, I turned my attention to the rest of the house. Nothing had even been moved in the past two years. Under the dust and disinfectant I could still smell Dad, his comforting musk. I slung the duffel bag on the couch and unzipped it, pulling out the flag I received at his funeral. Stoney-faced, I put the triangle on the mantle and stepped back. "This will always be your home, Daddy."

I wandered through the rest of the house, trailing my fingers across surfaces, remembering growing up here. When I stepped into the house for the first time as a scared and lonely seven-year-old; the smell of burnt food and the ding of the delivery man at the door; the sounds my dad and his cop friends playing poker and drinking beer while I watched cartoons; where my high school boyfriend broke up with and Dad held me while I cried.

Every good memory I had was in this house, and every good memory was of my dad. And he was gone now. Michael Lawrence took him away from me. I headed up to my bedroom. It was still decorated like it was when I graduated from high school. h.e.l.l, there was still a picture of Steve and I tucked into my vanity mirror. I laughed as I remembered the drama that was involved in that relationship, but it was high school. I pulled the picture out of the mirror. Maybe I would call him up and we could get coffee or something. Ask him how his baby is doing. A lot happens in four years.

I paused in front of my dad's door. The room where the Christmas presents hid, where I would bound every Sunday morning-no matter how old I was-and snuggle under the covers and we would watch cla.s.sic movies all morning while my dad told me about when he saw all of them when they first came out. I entered the room, curled up in the center of his bed, and pressed his pillow to my face, inhaling his scent. Tears started to leak out of my eyes and before I was aware of what was happening, I was sobbing into his pillow, tears of anger and regret and loss and grief.

Tomorrow I would start work.

Tonight I would grieve.

One year later The alarm went off at five, but I was already wide-awake. I had barely been able to sleep at all last night. Today was the day. I was sitting at my computer, continually refreshing the page, waiting for the article to go live. I was told it would be any time between five and eight. Three long hours waited for me.

I clicked refresh again, my knees pressed against my chest, my long chestnut hair pulled up in a sloppy bun. I was wearing nothing except one of my dad's old oversized t-shirts and a pair of boxers-AKA, my typical sleep and work attire. One of the great things about freelancing and working for a web-zine was working in whatever the h.e.l.l and wherever the h.e.l.l I felt like. And today that was curled up in the center of my bed in my pajamas, refreshing my screen every four seconds-approximately the amount of time it took for a page to load.

After three years of research, one of which was almost entirely devoted to the subject, I was finally going to be publishing my article on Michael Lawrence. I knew everything I possibly could about the man. I knew he had been active for the past five years after being elected-if one could grant such criminals the decency of democracy-president of the motorcycle gang known as the Confederate Cycles of America. They were often seen with ma.s.sive Confederate flags flying from the back of their bikes.

The group itself has been active for almost fifty years, but once Lawrence got his disgusting paws on the gang the crime had ratcheted up like this, increasing more every year. I could track almost every murder or unexplained death in the past year back to the CCA. My research and network were thorough, detailed, and una.s.sailable. I made sure every piece clicked together like Legos.

I pushed my black, horn-rimmed gla.s.ses up with my knuckle and refreshed the page again and again. I slammed on my keyboard in frustration. It was only 5:11. I still had endless hours to wait for my article to get published.

My mind drifted back to Lawrence, as I found myself doing more and more often. He was the worst humanity had to offer. He was vicious, violent, crude, and a brute. He took what he wanted, when he wanted, how he wanted, and refused to let anything as mundane as morals, ethics, or human decency stop him.

I grabbed my laptop and headed down to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, unable to stop myself from constantly reloading the page. What was taking so long? They had my article for almost a week now. They swore it would be up, and it was not up. The squealing noise of the boiling water matched my emotions almost exactly.

I was on cup four an hour and a half later before the article was finally posted. I quickly read through it, reminding myself of my shocking claims, re-experiencing all the emotions and turmoil of the past three years of research and grief. I felt a tear run down my cheek and I hurriedly brushed it away.

This was everything I had worked for so tirelessly since Dad's death-and, I realized, since the death of my mother. I let my mind flit back to that tragic night. The man who contributed so horrifically to my current existence had shown up again at the trailer my mother and I lived in. He wanted money. He started beating my mother, demanding it. I ran out of the house to the neighbor and asked for their phone, but by the time the police arrived he was gone, and so was she. One of the cops on the scene was Dad, and I couldn't have been a luckier girl for that.

My cell phone rang, shocking me out of reverie. I didn't recognize the number, but answered anyway. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Sarah Pruitt?"

"This is she."

"You better stay away from us, b.i.t.c.h, or you'll deserve what is coming to you."

The line disconnected and I pulled the phone away from my face. This wasn't the first time I'd received threats from the CCA, but this was the first time they had called me. All other threats had been through email. Every once in a while it would be on a social media site, but increased security prevented that from happening again. How in the world did they get my number? Unless one of my little spies spilled on me. I paid them good money to not do that. Next they would know where I lived and... I didn't want to think about that. I had known for a long time they were tracking my publications and research on them, but they had never been able to track me down to my house.

The threats kept coming after that call. I reported them to the police, but there wasn't much they could do. After all, they hadn't been able to get Michael Lawrence yet-how could a couple of anonymous threats change that? Dad had taught me how to defend myself when I was a teenager and I had a gun, but the thought of using it made me sick.

I would be doing exactly what I hated the CCA for doing: needless violence and killing. But no one had made any attempt to find me or contact me in any other way except through the phone threats. So I tried to push the matter from my mind and focus on the more positive results of my article.

I had some major news organizations contact me about doing interviews. I had some publishers ask me about book deals (obviously with some more research). My story was getting nationwide coverage, as it was shared through every single social media outlet. I enjoyed simply tracking the story as it spread. I wasn't up to speed on all the intricacies of the Internet, but one of my more tech-savvy friends was able to embed some sort of tracker on the post so every time someone shared my article online, it would pop up on a little map.

For a while I enjoyed watching new blips appear, but then the map of the U.S. was so densely covered I couldn't even tell when a new one appeared.

I was laying in bed one evening, almost two weeks after my article was published, binge-watching some Netflix and eating Chinese takeout-it is the glamorous life I lead-when my phone rang. I didn't recognize the number, so I silenced my phone and carried on with my current activities. My phone vibrated against my leg. The same number. I declined the call, annoyed. A few minutes pa.s.sed on and my phone vibrated again, this time with a text message.

We need to talk Michael Lawrence.

I paused my show and sat up, staring at the innocent black letters. What could this mean? How did you get this number?

I have my ways. That's not important right now. Where can I meet you?

Tonight?

Yes.

Should I meet him? My first thought was that this was a trap, but it could also have been my only chance to actually speak with the man himself. I had never met him or seen a picture of him, so although I knew a lot about his recent activities, I knew almost nothing about him as a person. I didn't even know his race. His cohorts made sure that no details about him slipped free. Some people didn't even think he really existed. Those people were, in my opinion, highly uneducated.

Taco Bell on Applewood, I texted back. I pushed aside my hanging clothes to reveal the wall safe Dad had installed shortly after I came to live with him. He kept all his firearms in there so there wouldn't be any unfortunate accidents, but as soon as I was old enough he started teaching me how to shoot and defend myself.

I loaded the gun and slipped it into my purse, throwing my cellphone in there as well. Then I pulled on a pair of jeans, a black bra, and a breezy teal blouse. I braided back my brown hair and put in my contacts, then slung my purse over my shoulder, keys jingling in my hand. I paused, looking in the mirror, staring myself in my blue eyes. "You can do this, Sarah. You are strong and capable. You can do this."

The drive to Taco Bell-the only place I could think of that was open this late at night-was full of anxiety. For all I knew, I could be walking straight into a trap. After all, his crew obviously had a bone to pick with me. They all felt threatened by my research. He could easily be waiting to take me out. I could feel the heavy presence of the gun in my car. Everything that thing stood for. I pulled into the parking lot and flipped my braid over one shoulder, checking my appearance in the rearview mirror. "You can do this, Sarah. Everything will go just fine and you will get the story you need," I told myself. "You will get the answers you need. They are waiting for you just in there."

I looked around in the parking lot and didn't see any bikes parked in the lot. He wasn't here yet. I ordered a drink and sat down in one of the booths, sipping nervously at the straw, watching the doors.

Where was he? How would I recognize him? I spun my phone around in my hands, wondering if I could get another text before he arrived. The door opened and a pack of college students wandered in, dressed in sweats and flip-flops. They chattered noisily about papers and tests, ordering a ma.s.s of cheap food.

Distracted by their clatter, I didn't notice that someone else entered and was coming over to my table. I jumped, staring up into a pair of chocolate-colored eyes shadowed by thick black locks of hair. "Can- Can I help you?" I stammered, both startled and overwhelmed by the intensity of his eyes.

"Are you Sarah Pruitt?"

I nodded dumbly.

"Pleasure to meet you." He extended one tanned, well-worn hand to me. I shook it with the same silence as before. "May I?" he asked.

"Please," I said, finally finding my voice. I couldn't believe this young, handsome man was Michael Lawrence. This must be some sort of lackey he sent in to get a "feel" for me or something.

The top three b.u.t.tons of his flannel shirt were unb.u.t.toned and I could see the top of some sort of tattoo, as well as the statuesque quality of his pecs that shifted under his skin every time he moved. His skin was tanned a dark brown, giving him a Native American look. His left ear was pierced.

He wore a leather vest over his flannel shirt and dark blue jeans that hung off his hips in a faintly suggestive manner. The smell of gas and oil hung on him like perfume, intoxicatingly manly. I found my gaze wandering up and down his body, openly ogling him as I hadn't done toward a man since I was in middle school.

"As you may have guessed, I am Michael Lawrence. And your life is in danger," He said with as much earnestness as my closest friends would.

"Yes, from you," I spat.

He sighed. "No, not from me. I'm trying to protect you, actually. Not that you would believe that, but it is true." He ran one hand through his carelessly tousled hair. "Look, I know you won't believe me, but I don't approve of any of this violence that is going on. There was a rumor, and it got out of hand, and now I have reputation, and..." He cut himself off. "Why am I even telling you all of this? The point is, you are in danger and I'm the only one who can protect you."

"If you wanted to kill me you should've just come to my house or something, instead of luring me our here and then to who knows where."

"Are you listening at all? I don't want to kill you."

"Right, sure." I narrowed my eyes, crossing my arms. "Why should I believe you at all?"

"When have I done anything to you?"

Images of my father being lowered into the ground, of people in black standing around six foot deep hole, flashed into my mind, but I kept my emotions under control. "You killed someone I love."

"I did nothing of the sort. I have never killed anyone-no matter what you or anyone else might say. Now, we need to get out of here soon before people realize where I am and who I am talking to. Your home should be safe, for now."

I laughed outright. "If you think I'm taking you to my house, you have another thing coming to you."

I couldn't believe this man's audacity. Did he really think I would just causally have him come to my house without any questions? Or believe this messed up story about him not killing anyone or endorsing violence? His whole life and livelihood revolved around killing people and creating havoc everywhere he went. If he thought I was that stupid...

"Look, we really don't have time for this. I've tried to hold off my men as long as possible, but they are going to take things into their own hands. Your latest article... incited them." He grimaced.

I heard the roar of engines outside and the low rumble of idling vehicles. They didn't turn off, but a group of burly, dirty-looking men burst through the door. They were dressed mostly in leather and ripped denim.

"s.h.i.t," he muttered, glancing over his shoulder. "Too late. You need to do exactly as I say, and you might live."

He stood up, motioning for me to stay seated. A thrill ran through me. This was just the situation I needed to be on sight for. I quickly memorized the scene: the people there, the innocent college students obliviously chatting in a large booth, the tired-looking employees behind the counter, the four gang members at the door, Michael Lawrence, and myself tucked against one of the windows. I reached for my purse and wrapped my fingers around my gun. If he thought I was going to sit here and play damsel in distress, he had another thing coming to him.

"Boys. I see you also were craving some of the cheap, craving-satisfying goodness that is Taco Bell. I will confess, you have found out my guilty pleasure. Don't tell the rest of the crew; they probably would never look at me the same way."

"Who you sittin' with boss?" one of the men asked.

"Oh, her? She was just here and I thought I'd be friendly and introduce myself. One shouldn't let beautiful women eat alone, especially not in a forlorn place like this." He gestured to his surroundings.

Was this guy for real? Who talked like that? These thugs actually were afraid of this fop?

"No, you ain't. This is her, the Pruitt b.i.t.c.h."

"Ray, it is rude to curse like that in front of ladies-and in public."

"I'll talk however the f.u.c.k I feel like."

"And I feel like you need to settle down a bit."

"Gentlemen, either take this off our premises or I'm calling the cops," someone from behind the counter said.

Michael stared down the group of men. "Yes. Let's take this outside." Even though obviously at odds, the men listened to Michael and even held the door open for him. He didn't make eye contact with me, but subtly motioned for me to leave through the other door as he walked away. I snuck out the side door and around to my car, ducking behind it to overhear the conversation. I was not going to let an opportunity like this go to waste.

"What do you plan to do? You can't just let her keep writin' this stuff about us!"

"Of course not, I'm going to get her to stop, but that doesn't mean ending her life."

"She deserves to have it ended, though."

"No, no she doesn't. She hadn't done anything to anyone. Except maybe damage your pride a little bit, and perhaps that deserved to be knocked down a little. You know how I feel about the killings."

"Killin' is how you get stuff done though, boss, and you know that. There ain't any better way of gettin' your message across or making sure there are no unpleasant surprises at the end of the day."

"You do realize we are in a public place and everyone can hear every word you are saying," Michael said in a low voice. He glanced toward my car and I ducked back down. He couldn't know this was my car. That would be impossible. Right? He had never seen my car before; I was just being paranoid. Although one look around the almost empty parking lot wouldn't make it hard to deduce which car was mine.

"You ain't tryin' to protect her, are ya?"