Politics. He wasn’t interested in politics but his closest friend believed he’d discovered a path to a new future. And it was violent. His birth country had a brutal past that it’d tried to overcome for decades. His friend believed that violence was the only way to continue, and his friend’s vivid passion had held his attention.

Something new. A different direction in which to try his hand.

He didn’t care about the fringe group’s politics or its focus on skin color, but he was excited by its techniques.

It believed in using pain to convince and punish, a concept that excited him.

The group’s primary purpose was to be a thorn in the side of the current political regime, but he’d focused on the physical havoc the group created, not the beliefs. Essentially he’d been given a license to destroy. Instead of telling him to hold back and think before he acted, now people encouraged his anger. And it felt good.

For his first assignment, he’d worked with two other men who’d already proven themselves to the organization. Their target had been another young man; he didn’t know who or why and he didn’t care. Electricity had rocketed through his limbs as they waited for the man to leave his friend’s house. The prey had strolled down the street, a cigarette in his hand, appearing more cocky than anyone had the right to be. They’d pounced. The first swing of the bat to the target’s knees had knocked him to the ground. Adrenaline flowing, he’d stepped forward and swung his bat straight down into the man’s belly. The victim had gasped and heaved.

“In the head! Hit him in the head!” the others screamed at him.

He brought his bat up for another swing and met the gaze of the terrified man on the ground. He was on his side, his knees pulled up to protect his gut, but for one long second his eyes were visible between his hands clasped over his face. He swung at his skull and the shock of the impact shot up through the bat to his arms, jolting his shoulders. A split second later, the sound of the blow reached his ears—a muffled wet crack.

The other men cheered and the bats swung faster. Blood flew from their ends. He swung two more times and then stepped back, panting like he’d been sprinting. Power surged through him and slammed into his brain, an addicting high.

He needed more.

He stepped back into the circle, but the body on the ground had gone silent, its arms and legs no longer moving in reaction to their swings. A foul smell filled the air and the other men stepped back.

“What the fuck is that smell?” muttered one.

“Death,” said the other. “Let’s get out of here.”

He froze, his gaze locked on the still body as the smell assaulted his nose. He spun around and vomited away from the dead man.

“Pussy!” The other men laughed. “Let’s go!”

He wiped at his mouth with his shirt and tasted blood. He stared at his expensive shirt. Trails of blood had been flung across his chest from the swinging bats and he hadn’t even noticed. He looked at his friends and saw they were covered in the same. For a brief second terror replaced his exaltation. What if we get caught? The other men started to run, and he ran after them.

Days later he’d stopped looking over his shoulder, his worry replaced by an overwhelming need to feel that rush of power again.

Over the next two years, he’d had a hand in four more deaths. Each time, the exhilarating high had raced through his nerves. To give that level of pain. To watch. To destroy the life essence of another. It became an addiction.

He’d found success. With this group he was someone. His ability to act fast and not overanalyze made him a perfect addition. And he’d done it on his own. His father’s wealth and name hadn’t come into play; he’d risen in their ranks on his own skills.

Then the police got too close. His closest associate was taken in for questioning, and he realized he had to ask for help. Fighting every fiber of his new independence, he went to the most powerful man he knew. His father.

His father found out everything. About the women, his friends, their politics, and every beating he’d participated in. What he’d believed were secrets among friends were immediately revealed once his father waved his money around.

He took note; money buys anything and everyone has their price.

He’d had to sit and listen to his father rant and rave. Ungrateful, social pariah, sadist. The tone and utter disappointment more powerful than the words.

His father immediately sent him to the States. His words burning in his son’s ears. “Because you are my only son, I won’t turn you over to the police. I got you a job with a respectable company. This man owes me a favor. Don’t blow it, because no one will bail you out next time.”

Now he felt his body surge, craving the power.

He needed it again.

At home Chris enlarged Frisco’s photos on his big monitor. He’d loaded them into software that allowed him to examine every pixel in detail. Since four a.m. he’d studied a dozen photos, and he still hadn’t found anything at the scene that would help figure out who’d targeted Gianna. He agreed that the criminals had been sloppy, but they hadn’t left any clues behind that had been caught in Frisco’s pictures.

Not that I’ve found yet.

He still had several more to look through.

He hadn’t slept well. Gianna had been on his mind all night. Walking out of the hotel and driving home had been two of the hardest tasks he’d done in years. He’d wanted to sleep in the hallway outside her door. Something evil was circling around her and every cell in his body screamed at him for leaving her alone.