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during those three or four hours he slept, a part of him remained alert, always listening for danger, aware that just as he was hunting his enemy, the enemy could be hunting him. Because he was the only survivor left who could destroy the man who had escaped justice: Dr. Franz Müller. He’d memorized the name and face just as he’d committed the names and faces of Müller’s colleagues to memory: Andreas Schmidt, dead; Volker Brandt, dead; Mathias Arenberg, dead; and Erich Wolpers, dead.
    Zane’s hands curled tightly around the handles of his jump rope as he remembered their last moments. Brandt had squealed like a pig when he’d found Zane standing over him with murder in his eyes. He’d made sure that his victim remembered who he was and why Zane had come after him before he’d killed him. Not that Brandt needed much of a reminder: Zane hadn’t changed a bit since Brandt had seen him last, and it only took seconds for him to recognize his erstwhile prisoner. He remembered how he’d enjoyed the fear that had emanated from Brandt. He could smell it even now, and the scent filled him with satisfaction. But the four men he’d executed had played minor roles in his torture compared to what Müller had done. Their leader, Müller, was still on the run.
    Maybe it would be smart if Samson simply fired him. At least then, Zane wouldn’t be accountable to anybody and could devote every minute of the day and night to tracking down Müller. But as quickly as the thought came, Zane dismissed it.
    Scanguards was his rock. He wasn’t suicidal enough to let go of the support they provided him with. Just as he wasn’t going to admit to any of them that he needed them to survive, the way he needed blood.
    Zane hung the rope back in its place after counting one hundred jumps. He was about to lie down on the bench for more bench presses when a sound disturbed the silence in his basement.
    He listened, remaining motionless and forcing himself to stop breathing. A few seconds passed before the sound repeated: footsteps sounded on the front stairs leading up to the entrance door.
    Zane glanced at the clock on the wall. It was shortly past four in the morning and still dark outside. Snatching a towel from the rack on the wall, he hastily dried his upper body and headed for the stairs. His bare feet made no noise on the cold floor as he made his way to the main floor of his two-story house. He skipped the last step, knowing that it creaked, and planted his feet on the landing.
    He peered through the darkness in the foyer. Not wanting to draw attention to the odd hours he was keeping, he was in the habit of never switching on lights unless he needed them. He was glad for it now since the darkness around him protected him.
    The footsteps were gone. Had the person left, or was the unwelcome visitor still out there, planning to ambush him if he stepped outside to investigate?
    Zane moved closer to the door and inhaled deeply, trying to pick up the scent of the person who’d walked up his stairs, but the door was too thick and too well insulated to allow his sensitive nose to pick up anything beyond the smell of his own sweat. Fuck, he needed a shower.
    Not a sound came from the outside. Was he perhaps too much on the edge lately that he’d started hearing things? It wouldn’t surprise him. Hell, half the time he was in a world where the edges between reality and fantasy were blurred. Maybe he’d finally lost his grip.
    Cursing himself for his stupid thoughts, he reached for the doorknob and turned it. There was only one way to figure out what was going on out there: confront whatever fucking bastard was trespassing on his property.
    Zane jerked the door open and barreled down the five steps that led to the sidewalk. At the bottom, he pivoted, facing the house. The entire action had taken less than a second. His eyes assessed the situation instantly. No attacker was waiting for him. The area was empty. Only the faint smell of a vampire