She feels the spark of competition in his psyche, but she’s already made it to the bottom of the stairs and has a clear shot of him in the kitchen. She has one gun in hand, one holstered, both stolen.

The guy in the kitchen is wearing a cowboy hat.

There’s no way. No way. How could he have known? Had her handlers called him, warned him, told him to check?

It can’t be him.

“Hands up,” Athena says, her voice calm and cold and undoubtably familiar. It hasn’t gotten less feminine or more intimidating since the last time they spoke.

“Weapon on the floor, hands up, as soon as I see they’re empty I want them laced together against the back of your head. Capiche? I’m going to turn on the light provided you’re about to do as I say.”