LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter One

      2:35 p.m. Friday

      “It should have been me. Not them,” Quinn Mc-Clure told the solemn-faced lawyer who’d agreed to this cloak-and-dagger meeting in a fast-food restaurant. But then, never in a million years could Quinn have imagined himself, with two young children in tow, on the run from a hit man.

      Of medium height and average build, wearing a conservative gray suit topped with a black overcoat, Tom Parrish glanced up from the pages of the last will and testament of Quinn’s brother, Quentin Mc-Clure. Parrish was sharp, with a glint of ingrained caution evident in his hazel eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

      Quinn nodded. He’d never felt so numb. His thoughts seemed disconnected from his body, neither fully registering the actions of the other. Or maybe it was that the part of him which had always been linked to his identical twin brother, Quentin, was irretrievably severed. And yet, Quinn had to think. Had to resist sinking into the black whirlpool of grief that had opened in the pit of his stomach. He had to do what was best for the children before he hunted down the bastard who’d gunned down Quentin and Carrie in their sleep.

      A Mountie always gets his man. Even ex-Mounties.

      Parrish set Quentin’s will aside on the table and picked up Carrie’s. Quinn’s fingers trembled as he tried unsuccessfully to blot the horror of identifying his brother and sister-in-law’s bodies from his mind. Tried not to remember the last joking conversation he’d had with Quentin when his brother had dropped by Quinn’s office Wednesday evening to pick up the ticket Quinn had bought him for a Senators’ hockey game.

      Parrish’s narrow brow furrowed. “Both wills appoint a Charles Duncan as the children’s alternative guardian.”

      “That’s Carrie’s dad,” Quinn explained, struggling to keep his teeming emotions from his tone. “He had a debilitating stroke just after Christmas. He’s in a nursing home in Nova Scotia. I guess Quentin and Carrie never got around to selecting someone else—”

      Quinn swallowed hard, unable to continue. Heat seared the backs of his eyelids. He hadn’t called the nursing home yet. He couldn’t bear to think of Charlie being told such news by a stranger. Couldn’t bear to think of Charlie’s grief at learning his only child and her husband were dead. That his grandchildren were orphaned.

      Twenty-six hours had passed since Quinn had received the horrible call early yesterday afternoon informing him that Quentin’s and Carrie’s bodies had been found in their home. He told himself that he’d made it through the first horrific day and could make it through another. He’d been an RCMP officer too long not to immediately suspect the grisly truth when he’d arrived on the scene. It looked like a professional hit. Forced entry in a neighborhood that hadn’t seen a break-and-enter in over three years. Victims shot at close range with a .22 semiautomatic. None of the neighbors had heard a sound, and there was no sign of the spent casings, which indicated the hit man had used a silencer. Not a damn thing was taken. A quick in-and-out job. Quentin’s wallet and Carrie’s purse weren’t even touched.

      Damn. It was his fault.

      Every day of his life he’d live with the torturous knowledge that the hit man had followed Quentin home by mistake. Quentin hadn’t had an enemy in the world. But Quinn had a long list of enemies—all of them criminals, and not one of whom appreciated his efforts to toss their sorry asses in prisons all over the globe for counterfeiting anything from currency, credit cards, checks and travel documents to high-end designer clothes, salon products and stuffed toys.

      A forensic examiner specializing in counterfeit detection and prevention, Quinn had left the RCMP at the invitation of Oliver Wells, a forgery specialist who was ready to retire from the RCMP and wanted to open up a private consulting firm. Their clients were many and varied: government agencies, financial institutions, insurance companies, law-enforcement agencies, private-investigation and security agencies, and private companies all over the world sought out their technological expertise to deter fraud and their investigative skills to combat it.

      Once Quinn had realized his twin’s death was a professional hit, it hadn’t taken him long to provide the Ottawa-Carleton Regional Police with a short list of crime syndicates

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