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Hurley paced.

She’s trying to use you, he thought. She’s going to use her guile to try to trick you, and the second you let your guard down, all those Mounties out there are going to come rushing in here and end this thing.

You need to take back control. Kill one of those cows in the bedroom. Show that woman out there you’re in charge.

Hurley knew the smart play was to assert himself, fast, protect his stronghold and prove to the cops outside he was for real. Knew the smart play was to prevent Windermere from entering the house at all costs. But the FBI agent’s words had set an itch in Hurley’s mind, and he couldn’t resist the urge to scratch it.

Win or lose, you can punish this bitch. If she’s offering herself up to you, brother, you should damn well take advantage. What better way to prove you’re superior than to face down this dumb beast head-on?

Hurley walked back to the master bedroom. “Got another one of your kind coming over,” he told the Fontaine women. “I know she’s thinking about trying something foolish, but you’d better hope she behaves. Otherwise . . .”

He drew his finger across his throat. The Fontaines stared back. They were through begging. Through crying. They just looked exhausted.

So be it. They’ll be crying again soon enough.

—

Windermere had done many dumb things in her life. This was probably the dumbest.

She double-checked her Kevlar. Gave Stevens a smile—cocky, like, Giddyap, partner. Then she stepped out from behind Lynn Cronquist’s Crown Victoria and started down the Fontaines’ driveway toward the house.

She could feel eyes on her, every Mountie standing guard along the property line, Stevens and Cronquist behind her. The other officers had been briefed; there’d been more than a few words of protest. But Windermere didn’t have time to debate. Something had to be done to keep Hurley from hurting those women.

He was watching her, too; she was sure of it. Might even have her lined up with that rifle of his. He could blast her head off right now, she knew, and that would be the end of the Carla Windermere story. But Windermere was reasonably certain he wouldn’t. Say, eighty percent certain.

Seventy-five.

Windermere was banking on the fact that Leland Hurley would want a better chance at proving his superiority. He’d want her to look in his eyes as he hurt her. So she walked up the long driveway, the world quiet around her, tense, everyone waiting for Hurley’s rifle to crack.

But Hurley didn’t shoot her. Windermere made the side of the farmhouse, stepped up onto the porch, paused in front of the door, calmed her heart, and dried her hands on her pants. She was scared, though she would never have admitted it. But she wanted to meet this bastard about as bad as he wanted to meet her, she suspected.

She took a deep breath. Then she knocked on the door.

—

Hurley unlocked the front door. Pulled it open a couple inches. Then, quickly, he stepped back, raised the dead deputy’s pistol, and aimed it at the doorway as the FBI agent pushed the door wide open.

“Get in here,” he told her. “Fast. Close the door behind you.”

The agent obeyed him. She was attractive, even more so now than in the forest, where her coat had been drawn tight and her hood pulled up, concealing everything but her face. Now, up close, Hurley could see she really was beautiful.

Probably had the whole world given to her, he thought, grabbing her roughly and pushing her against the wall. The agent let him frisk her, didn’t tense or fight as he patted her down with his free hand, his gun hand pressing the pistol up against the underside of her jaw. She was as good as her word; she hadn’t come armed. But that only made Hurley more suspicious.

What kind of crazy bitch throws herself into a situation like this without protection?

A crazy bitch who thinks she can talk her way out.

Satisfied that she wasn’t carrying any weapons, Hurley stepped back. Kept the pistol leveled at the back of her head.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now,” he said.

“Kill me?” The agent turned around slowly, smoothly. Calm and unflappable, no trace of fear in her eyes. “Leland, honey,” she said. “You’ve only just met me.”