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sent me to check on you.”
    “Who specifically? Cyprian?”
    He shook his head. “Bishop, Cyprian’s assistant. What difference does that make?”
    Probably none. Mason had heard of Bishop—­Cyprian’s replacement for Kelly who’d been killed a few months ago—­allegedly by Buchanan. But he’d yet to meet Bishop. As a new assistant it was unlikely the man would make unilateral decisions about something as critical as a mission. Which meant that Cyprian personally knew that Mason’s mission had encountered some kind of problem. But could he have known about Buchanan contacting Ramsey, and then contacting Mason?
    He motioned with the crossbow. “Keep talking. I’m still waiting for that explanation.”
    Ace’s eyes flashed with anger. “I saw your tracks behind the Hightower house,” he snapped. “I figured your mark got away and you were chasing her through the woods. I drove behind the property and waited, thinking to help you. Then Hightower ran to the road, very much alive, and you put her in that Hummer and rode off with her instead of taking care of business. I knew Cyprian wouldn’t want her to get away so I made an executive decision.” His gaze fell and he lowered his hands to the steering wheel, one small act of defiance to let Mason know he couldn’t completely control him.
    The “executive decision” claim didn’t ring true. One of Cyprian’s few, written-­in-­granite rules was that enforcers couldn’t kill other enforcers except in self-­defense, or if an enforcer had been declared rogue. So, what was Ace’s reason for firing at the Hummer? If any tourists had been on that parkway and heard the shots they would have called the police. Cyprian would be furious—­to put it mildly—­if any enforcers attracted the attention of law enforcement by doing something so blatant. No, something else was going on here. And unless Mason was totally misreading Ace’s body language, the motive behind tonight’s shooting rested squarely with Ace.
    Mason studied him. With his short dark hair and tall, muscular build, Ace could almost pass for Buchanan—­except for the eyes. Ace’s were darker, almost black. If eyes were the windows to the soul, then this man’s soul was an empty, dark crevasse. And right now, judging by the whitening of Ace’s knuckles against the steering wheel, that crevasse was filled with hate and anger.
    Why? Or, at least, why tonight? Mason tried to picture what Ace would have seen on the parkway. He’d probably parked his car back in the trees down the road but he must have had some high-­powered binoculars. With the Hummer’s headlights on, and the full moon, he should have been able to see fairly well. But when Sabrina collapsed into Mason’s arms, could Ace have realized he’d only drugged her, instead of killing her? Doubtful. Mason could just as easily have given Sabrina a lethal dose of some toxin instead of putting her to sleep. Then what else could Ace have seen? What could have upset him so much that he’d reacted the way he had? Besides Mason, Sabrina, and the Hummer, there was just . . . the Buchanans . Of course. That was it.
    If Ace realized the ­people driving the Hummer were the Buchanans, and not just some low-­life thugs Mason had hired to help him out with the mission, then Mason’s pretext of still being a loyal EXIT enforcer was blown all to hell. “Why didn’t you ask me who was driving the Hummer?”
    Ace’s obsidian gaze bored into him. “What?”
    “You said you saw me put Sabrina in the Hummer and ride away with her, not drive away. Why didn’t you ask who was driving?”
    Ace smirked, his mouth twisting savagely. His earlier mask dropped away and he was no longer even trying to hide his contempt. “Since when is she Sabrina instead of Miss Hightower? Is that something Buchanan taught you?” He spit out the name like it was a bitter poison he was trying to get out of his system. “To get cozy with your marks? To care about