Suspense fiction’s most dangerous and unpredictable hero is back—with a vengeance. This time bodyguard-turned-fugitive Atticus Kodiak goes underground to protect the woman he loves and the country he may have to betray to defend. It begins with a brutal ambush and the murder of a friend. Now Atticus is taking lessons from the world’s premier assassin, a.k.a. Drama. If he’s going to survive, he’ll have to become exactly what they’re accusing him of being: a stone-cold killer. From Eastern Europe to the Montana wilderness, Atticus and Drama will uncover evidence of a secret so explosive, it could shake the foundations of a nation . . . so shocking, their ruthless pursuers don’t care how many bodies it takes to bury it forever. "Rucka is a sharp and original thriller writer."— Chicago Tribune "Rucka's Kodiak stories always read like wildfire." — Dallas Morning News "Rucka keeps the adrenaline level high throughout."— San Francisco Chronicle Born in San Francisco, Greg Rucka was raised on the Monterey Peninsula. He is the author of Private Wars , A Gentleman’s Game , and six previous thrillers, as well as numerous comic books, including the Eisner Award—winning Whiteout: Melt . He lives in Portland, Oregon, with his family. Chapter One Natalie Trent drove, speeding us away from Allendale and the body of the man I had been unable to kill. She drove fast at first, trying to put quick distance between ourselves and the place where Oxford's body now lay, but once we left the Franklin Turnpike for US 202, she slowed to the speed limit. From inside her coat, she pulled her cell phone, pressed the same button on it twice without ever looking away from the road, and then moved it to her ear. "About thirty minutes," Natalie told the phone, softly. "I've got both of them with me--yes, both of them. He's going to need a car." She listened for a moment to the reply, murmured a confirmation, then ended the call and dropped the phone back into her pocket. She checked her mirrors, left then right then rear view,  and when she did that, she met the reflection of my gaze. She tried a thin smile, and it looked as tired as I felt. "Dan says he'll have a car waiting for you," Natalie said, paused, then added: "You're still going through with it?" "I'm wanted for murder," I said. I didn't say that the murder I was wanted for was probably the wrong one, the death of an FBI agent named Scott Fowler. I didn't say it because I didn't need to. Scott Fowler had been a friend to both Natalie and me, a dear friend of many years, in fact. Had been, right until the moment he'd shuddered out his final breath while I tried to save him from the knife that Oxford had buried to its handle in Scott's chest. That was Oxford's revenge, the way he had worked. He'd killed Scott because he could, and because he knew it would hurt me, and he had been right. He'd killed Scott Fowler because Scott Fowler had been unlucky enough to call himself my friend. That he hadn't, for instance, killed Natalie Trent, or any of those other people who had the audacity to call me their friend, to care for me, wasn't for lack of trying. It was because we'd barely managed to deny him the opportunity. Natalie frowned, putting lines to her beautiful face, then shifted her attention back to the road and said nothing more. Beside me in the backseat, Alena shifted, turning her head to watch as a New Jersey State Police car raced by, lights and sirens running, heading the opposite direction. At Alena's feet, and mine, lying flat and forlorn, Miata pricked up his ears, raised his muzzle, then lowered it again, more concerned with the tension inside the car than anything that might be happening outside of it. He was a big dog, a Doberman, strong and loyal and silent as the grave. The first two were in return for the love Alena had given him; the last was because the man Alena had taken Miata from had cut the dog's larynx, to keep him silent. Alena watched the police car disappear into the darkness behind us, then turned back and glanced at me, then quickly away again when she saw I was watching her. With the back of her left hand, she wiped at her eyes, deliberately erasing the last of her tears. If they embarrassed her, I couldn't tell. I imagined they did. The last time Alena Cizkova had cried, she'd been locked inside a Soviet prison cell with men three and four times her age. She had been eight at the time. One shot would have been enough to kill Oxford, and God knew she could have put the shot where she wanted it to go. But Alena had used three instead, and the first two had been revenge, pure and simple. Until very recently, I'd been living with her and Miata at their home on the island of Bequia. Alena had brought me there to protect her life, and I'd succeeded, but with qualifications. Another woman, entirely innocent, had died at Oxford's hands. Then he'd taken the use of Alena's left leg with a blast from a Neostad shotgun that discharged while