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room, breaking the silence.
    At that, the others gave way a little, telling her that he was the boss of this outfit. Wearing a charcoal suit with the slight awkwardness of someone who did better in jeans, maybe six six, two thirty, he was built like a bouncer and had killer blue eyes, dark, shoulder-length hair, and a jawline beard that made her think of a Renaissance fair. And he was vaguely familiar, but not from her present life.
    Oh, shit. Again, her new self said to run. Again, she stayed put. “Do I know you?”
    He gave her a once-over with those brilliant blues. “Where’s all the black leather?”
    She was wearing low boots, trim pants, and a subtly studded blazer, all in muted earth tones. Professional, grown-up clothes. “Dog’s show turned it into a cliché.” Tipping her head, still not placing him, she said, “I could dig up the boots if you’re interested.”
    “He’s not.” The smaller blue-eyed blonde moved up beside him and shot her a narrow-eyed glare.
    Reese knew that look. Fallon hit her with it often enough. “You’re a cop.”
    That intel eased her nerves a degree. Granted, there were cops who crossed the line, but fewer than the TV made it seem. More, she wasn’t getting the “bad guy” vibe off this crew, and her instincts might not be infallible, but they had a damn good track record. So who were these guys? A task force working the wrong side of the border? If that was the case, why did they need her? And why not go through channels?
    Unless they had, and Fallon had told them to fuck off. That, she could believe.
    The cop nodded. “And you’re the bounty hunter.”
    Most of the others relaxed a smidge at that one. The bride’s mouth went round in surprise and, Reese thought, recognition.
    Filing that, she stayed focused on the boss. “I used to be a bounty hunter. Now I’m strictly private.” She paused. “Where do I know you from?”
    “Three years ago. A burned-out warehouse in Chicago.”
    “Three—” She broke off as her stomach knotted. Keeping the poker face that had saved her life more times than she wanted to count, she nodded and made herself breathe past the stab of pain. “Right. Strike. I remember.”
    Would’ve been better if she could have forgotten. She still had nightmares where she was back in the burned-out shell of Seventeen, breathing stale smoke as she crept up on the two men, one far too familiar, one an unknown who had a gangsta name—Strike—but wore normal duds and had shown up in a rented minivan.
    With the other hunters closing in faster than she had anticipated, she had nailed her target from behind with her souped-up Taser and had her two quasi bodyguards drag his ass back to lockup. After that, she had chased the other guy—this guy—back to his rental, labeling him harmless. Then she had locked herself in her hotel room, binged on Ding Dongs, and cried herself empty. Which wasn’t the point right now. The important part was where she had filed Strike under “harmless” back then, now her instincts said that the man facing her was deadly dangerous in his own right. Which meant that either he’d changed over the past three years, or he’d been playing her before.
    What the hell was going on here? And why did it have to be that day? The coincidence sucked.
    A chill skimmed along her skin as a dead man’s voice whispered, There’s no such thing as coincidence. It’s all just the will of the gods. Mendez had been big on quoting his writs when they made his point, especially toward the end of their time together.
    Keep your head in the real world , she told herself. That part of her life had ended long before his death. Shifting the small black carryall so she could get to the gun tucked at the small of her back, she said cautiously, “I don’t do find-and-grabs anymore.”
    “All you need to do is locate him,” Strike said without a shift of expression or inflection. “We’ll take care of the rest.”
    She should turn him down.