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large oak tree.
    Mason checked Sabrina. She was still out cold, but appeared to be okay. He hopped out of the Hummer and slammed the door. “Keep going south for another quarter mile, then head due west about three hundred yards. That’ll get you to the parkway. I’ll hike the rest of the way to the cabin and meet you there after I take care of Ace.”
    Buchanan still looked like he wanted to argue, but headlights flashed over the rise behind them. He glanced at his wife, as if to remind himself of what was most important, then he maneuvered the Hummer around the oak tree and floored the accelerator, rocks and dirt spitting up from beneath the tires.
    Mason rested the end of his bow on the ground and cocked the string back into the firing position. Then he hefted up the bow, notched the arrow into place, and waited for his prey.

 
    Chapter Three
    Day Two—­12:00 a.m.
    M ason sprinted through the woods, arms and legs pumping. He leaped over a fallen tree and skirted around a boggy patch of ground more lethal than quicksand. Barely visible through a break in the trees off to Mason’s right, Ace gunned the Chevy. The engine whined in protest as it chugged up an incline.
    Headlights danced crazily through the bushes, illuminating an upcoming sharp curve that Mason knew would force Ace to slow down yet again. Mason pushed harder, faster, cutting across a ditch, back toward the car. With seconds to spare, he reached the turn ahead of Ace and hid behind a tree. Chest heaving as he drew deep breaths, he pointed his crossbow up at the sky and edged out just enough to watch the approaching headlights.
    Closer, closer, almost there. Now!
    He leaped in front of the car, dropped to his knees, and aimed the crossbow directly at the driver.
    The car’s brakes locked up. It skidded sideways, hop-­skipping to a halt as the tires slid, then held. Before the Chevy stopped bouncing on its springs, Mason was at the driver’s side window, pointing the business end of the bow directly at Ace’s head.
    Ace blanched and slowly raised his hands from the steering wheel.
    Feigning surprise, Mason frowned, as if he hadn’t known that Ace was the one driving. He’d decided to play this very carefully, to keep up the pretext that nothing had changed, that he was still a loyal EXIT enforcer. After all, if the proof Buchanan had promised turned out to be bogus, Mason fully intended to go back to his life the way it had been. But that was only possible if he could convince Ace that he hadn’t gone rogue, that he wasn’t a threat to EXIT or the very ­people he was supposed to be saving. Because going rogue meant putting a target on his back, with every enforcer in the company gunning for him—­not exactly the type of future he wanted.
    “Lower the window,” Mason ordered.
    Ace complied then put both hands back in the air. “Point that thing somewhere else, Mason.”
    He kept the bow steady, his finger resting on the side of the trigger. “Not until you explain why you were shooting at me out on the parkway. And why you’re following me now.”
    Ace’s jaw tightened. “I’m just doing my job. You’re the one who went off-­mission and didn’t call in. Miss Hightower should have been dead hours ago.”
    “Things happen. Missions get delayed. Are you telling me our boss sent you to terminate me, because I’m late making a phone call ?” It was a legitimate question. Cyprian might send an enforcer to check on him, to help him if things had gone wrong. But it was unlikely he’d immediately assume the worst and declare war on Mason—­not without some other reason.
    Ace looked away, as if dismissing him.
    Mason tapped the crossbow, regaining his attention. “Meet my lie detector. Unless you can duck faster than four hundred feet per second, you’d better tell the truth. Who sent you after me tonight?”
    Ace’s face reddened as if he were struggling to control his temper. But after another glance at the bow, he said, “EXIT. They