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that while he'd been laying low in Cisco, Dylan had gone looking for help with those crates in the wrong place—the worst place, if it had put Roper Jones and his goons on Regan McKinney's tail.

C
HAPTER
    4

    J EANETTE.
    That's what he called his ugly car. Jeanette.
    Regan popped another ice cube into her mouth and stuck one more in her cleavage. Without the heat eating her brain, she'd decided she wasn't going to die.
    Quinn Younger, Air Force ace and national hero, may have fallen on bad times, but he wasn't a cold-blooded murderer. By his own admission, he'd had no intention of shooting those men. The boy wonder did his dirty work for him, and the boy wonder was headed to Denver, in his own car. God knew there wasn't room for him in the Camaro, not even if there had been another seat, not with the equipment Quinn had been throwing in the back.
    She was still sucking on the ice cube he'd given her when Kid Chaos burst back into the barn.
    “They've backed off another hundred yards, parked behind the bluff, the idiots,” he reported. “They can't see shit . . . uh, anything from back there.” He cast her a quick, almost guilty glance. He was carrying the stuff out of her car, all of the stuff, including her purse—which he began looking through.
    Great,
she thought. The boy wonder was too chivalrous to swear in front of a woman, but didn't give a whoopty damn about rifling through her purse. Lucky her, she'd fallen in with gentlemen thieves.
    “I saw them,” Quinn said. “Didn't Branson lose three of his fingers in an explosion?”
    Kid looked up from her purse, a sudden grin on his face. “Yeah,” he said. “A block of C4 blew up part of a meatpacking plant in Chicago where Roper was holding a load of Colombian cocaine. Branson was there. No wonder he's so damn nervous.”
    Regan listened, silent, a lump forming in her throat that didn't have a thing to do with her ice cube. Her Ford Taurus had been a good car, a great car. It had never had a name before, but for the last five minutes, she'd been calling it Quinn Younger's Big Mistake. He couldn't just order Kid to dump her car somewhere and get away with it.
    Her car. Gone. Just like that. Nobody stole Ford Tauruses. Her insurance agent had told her the Ford Taurus had a theft quotient of damn near zero, which had been a big selling point in its favor—for all the good it was doing her now.
    She would get her car back. She swore she would. Boulder was only half an hour from Denver. She could easily get home and go to the police and tell them about her stolen car and everything she'd learned in Cisco about Vince Branson and the guns and the cars and the two men in the middle of it all—and if they hadn't thought she was crazy before, that ought to clinch it for them.
    Damn. She groaned. This sort of thing was not supposed to happen to her. It was light-years worse than anything her globe-trotting parents had ever been involved in—except her parents had died in some godforsaken South American country, buried under a pile of pre-Columbian earthquake rubble, and she wasn't going to die, not here, not today, so help her God.
    “Who is Nikki McKinney?” Kid asked, and Regan's head jerked up.
    “Her younger sister,” Quinn answered, before Regan could think of a lie. “Why? What's up?”
    Kid showed him a letter he'd pulled out of her purse. “Nikki McKinney's address matches the one on Regan McKinney's driver's license.”
    Quinn ducked down to look in the Camaro's window, his expression grim. “Does Nikki live with you?”
    “It's no business of yours who lives—” Regan started defensively.
    “Listen to me, Regan.” He cut her off, his voice low and deadly serious. “Vince Branson is not someone to mess with. If he and his buddy picked up your tail at home this morning, then everyone in that house is a target.”
    Regan felt the blood drain from her face. She'd been so concerned for Wilson these last few weeks, it hadn't occurred to her that she or