by 

Rebecca Forster

PROLOGUE

Archer shot the naked woman at nine thirty in the morning; the naked man was in his sights five minutes later.

            Three more shots:  the front door and address, the woman’s car nestled in the shadows of an Acacia tree, the man’s car parked in front of the house as subtle a statement as a dog pissing to mark its territory. That’s when the camera choked, caught and started the rewind whir. Deciding he had enough to satisfy his client that the missus wasn’t exactly waiting for him to high tail it home, Archer reloaded, stashed the exposed film in his pocket and let his head fall back against the car’s seat. Cradling the camera in his lap his body went heavy as his eyes closed.  He was tired to the bone and not because he had another couple of hours to wait before Don Juan decided to pack up his piece and take his leave.  This tired was in Archer’s soul. This tired crept way deep into his heart and made it hard for that muscle to pump enough blood to keep him going. 

   He moved in the seat, put one leg up and tried to stretch it out. There wasn’t a comfortable place in the rental for a man his size.  Archer missed his Hummer but it was too noticeable to use on surveillance.  He could live in that baby if he had to. His brain was another matter. A rental, his car or his home, Archer couldn’t find a comfortable place in his mind for the thoughts that had been dogging him these many days. Maybe spying on wayward wives was making him uneasy.  No self-respecting cop would be doing this kind of work even if the wronged husband was paying big bucks.

  But, then, Archer wasn’t a self-respecting cop anymore.  He was a part-time photographer with a penchant for solitary trips to Mexico, a retired detective, a freelance investigator and a man who was running on empty when it came to making ends meet this month. And then there was the anniversary. Archer didn’t want to think about that either but it was impossible not to when California autumn had come again, a carbon copy of a day he would just as soon forget: bright sky-blue up high, navy in the deep sea, a nip in the sunny day air, downright cold at night.  Lexi, his wife, was so sick. And then there was Tim.

Tim. 

            Archer stirred and held the camera in the crook of one arm like a child.  His other one was bent against the door so he could rest his head on his upturned hand.  He moved his mind like he moved his body, adjusting, settling in with another position, another thought until he found a good place that felt almost right.

             Josie.

            There it was. The thought of Josie was always good.  She had saved him from insanity after Lexi died. They’d hit a little rough patch lately but that would right itself. It always did between them.  Sleep was coming. What was happening in the house was just a job.  The other was just a memory.  Josie was real.  Josie was . . .

            Archer didn’t have the next second to finish his thought. The door of the rental was ripped open, almost off its hinges.  Archer fell out first, the camera right after. Off balance already, he was defenseless against the huge hands that grappled and grasped at his shoulders and the ferocity of the man who threw him onto the asphalt.

“Jesus Christ. . .” Archer barked just before the breath was knocked out of him.

“Shut up, fuck face.”

Archer grunted as the man dug his knee into his back and took hold of his hair.

Shit, he was getting old. The guy in the house not only made him, he got the drop on him. That was damn humiliating. Don Juan was a suit. One seventy tops. He should be able to flick this little shit off with a deep breath.

 Hands flat on the ground, Archer tried to do just that but, as he pushed himself off the pavement, he had another surprise. It wasn’t Don Juan at all. The man on Archer’s back was big, he was heavy and he wasn’t alone. There were two of them.

While the first ground Archer’s face into the blacktop, the second found a home for the toe of his boot in his midsection. Archer bellowed. He curled. He tried to roll but that opened him up. This time that kick clipped the side of his face, catching the corner of his eye. The blow sent him into the arms of the first man who embraced him with one arm around his shoulders, the other at his throat. Archer’s eyes rolled back in his head.

 Jesus, that hurt.

 His eyelids fluttered. One still worked right. He looked up and stopped struggling. The guy who had him in a headlock knew what he was doing.  If Archer moved another inch, and the man adjusted his grip just so, Archer’s neck would snap. As it was he was doing a fine job making sure Archer was finding it damn hard to breathe.

His eyes rolled again as a pain shot straight through his temple and embedded itself behind his ear.  Archer tried to focus, needing to see at least one of them if he was going to ID them when – if - he got out of this mess. They could have the car. No car was worth dying for – especially a rental.  But he couldn’t tell them to take it if he couldn’t speak and he couldn’t identify them if he could barely see. There were just the vaguest impressions of blue eyes, a clean shaven face, a checked shirt.  Archer’s thoughts undulated with each new wave of pain. Connections were made then broken and made again like a faulty wire. The one that stuck made sense: these guys didn’t want his car but they sure as hell wanted something. Just as the choke-hold king tightened his grip, and his friend took another swipe at Archer’s ribs, one of them offered a clue.

“You asshole. Thought you got away with it, didn’t you?”

That was not a helpful hint.