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denied him by his wealthy English family for the inconsequential fact of hisbastardy . That power was
what he craved. To rewrite an old cliché, it was dog-eat-dog in his adopted world, and he had a truly
terrible hunger.
Now thatLombardwas in the open, the outcome was in no doubt. It had taken seven years to reach this
point years of sweat and poverty and bowing to the demands of that cultured pig, Delgado.Years in
whichLombardhad been cloistered in his beloved seclusion, sitting in rich comfort behind a desk,
surrounded by bodyguards and administrators and the unearned fruits of his legitimacy growing richer,
growing soft, whilehe , Egan Harper, grew ever more powerful.
This time there would be no mistakes, no distractions. Soon he would have access to technology he
could sell to a stable of wealthy bidders.
Soon there would be no moreGray Lombard.
He smiled at his own punch line, once more reaching for that effervescent high, but this time the power
didn't flow, the warmth didn't enfold him, and the faint tremor in his hands transferred itself to his belly. It
was as if that glorious burst of feeling had burned him out, like a fire-work exploding in a shower of
flaming sparks, then plummeting to earth in darkness.
He strode quickly across the road. The demeanour of a gentleman dropped from him like the cloak
sliding off an illusionist as he became what he was: a cold predator on the prowl.
A Polynesian with tattoos and a gang insignia emblazoned on his black leather jacket made fleeting eye
contact, then walked on by, granting a gratifying width of pavement.
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Harper barely noticed. The subtleties of predator and prey were second nature to him. The young thug
had acted on instinct, and it had been the correct one: Harper would have killed him in the blink of an
eye, and barely broken his stride into the bargain.
The shaking in his belly was deep-seated now, insistent. Sweat trickled down the side of his face as he
turned a corner and found his car. He shoved his key into the lock.
An alarm screamed. Harper sprang back, spun into a crouch. A knife appeared in his right hand as if it
had grown from his very flesh.
He moved in a rapid, crouching circle, his blade a silvery arc slicing shadows. His pulse hammered; fresh
sweat broke out on his skin.
He stumbled backward, ran a hand over his face, pinching his burning nostrils. His stomach dipped
nauseously. His left arm was throbbing where the knotted flesh pulled at tortured nerve-endings; the
badly healed wound on his thightwinged , protesting the sudden violent grace of his movements. His head
swivelled, and for a dizzying second he thought he might go spinning into the night.
He whirled, almost failing on the fender of another car. His gaze fastened on the briefcase that sat at an
angle on the rear seat, the coat draped next to it.
Thiswas his car.
He glanced back at the almost identical model that was still wailing into the night and forcedhimself to be
calm as he unlocked the door, folded himself behind the wheel and pulled away from the kerb.
He had made a mistake.An understandable mistake. The sedan he had rented was very common, as
was its dark blue colour. That was why he had chosen it. He had been the victim of his own caution.
There was no danger; he'd simply tried to unlock the wrong car.
Minutes later, he pulled into the parking space beside his motel room. With tense, jerky movements he
locked the car and entered the perfectly average motel room, heading directly for the bathroom, drawn
by its only remarkable feature, the shiny, deep green surface of the vanity unit.
The two white lines of powder he carefully constructed looked pristine, almost innocent, against the
pseudojade , and he paused for a moment to admire hishandywork before bending down and applying
the straw.
The power surge, when it came, wasn't impressive, certainly not enough to blot out that momentary loss
of control,the mistake he had made , but Harper wouldn't allow himself any more. He was meticulous
with his dosage of the drug, had been ever since he'd had to resort to using it in the months he'd been on
the run, tending his wounds, trying to save the wreckLombardhad made of his arm and the bullet wound
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