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This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, (living or dead), events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Dedicated to L.J. and Kat Martin

PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp. 850 Third Avenue

New York, NY 10022

Copyright © 1991 by William W. Johnstone

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

All Kensington Titles, Imprints, and Distributed Lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotions, premiums, fund-raising, and educational or institutional use. Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington special sales manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 850 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10022, attn: Special Sales Department, Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

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I never forget a face, but in your case I’ll make an exception.

G. Marx

1

The young man had been eyeballing the quiet stranger for several minutes. The young man stood at the bar, sipping whiskey. The quiet stranger sat at a table, his back to a wall, slowly eating his supper and sipping coffee. The young man couldn’t understand why the stranger didn’t take offense to his staring; couldn’t understand why the tough-looking stranger wearing two guns didn’t reply to his silent insults.

He just sat there, eating his supper and drinking coffee.

The young man concluded the stranger was yellow.

“Kid,” the barkeep finally said, “I’d leave that man alone. He’s got bad stamped all over him.”

“You know him?”

“Nope. But I know the type. Leave him be.”

“He don’t look like nothin’ special to me.”

“Your funeral,” the barkeep said, and moved to the other end of the bar.

Jack Lynch looked at the barkeep and snorted in disgust. Jack had four notches cut into his gun and was considered by some-in this part of the country-to be very quick on the shoot. He was considered by others to be a loud-mouthed punk who was going to drag iron on the wrong man one day.

That day had come.

Late winter in Utah. The stoves in the saloon glowed red and the winds were cold as they buffeted the building. Four men sat playing a quiet game of penny-ante poker, a few others stood at the long bar, talking and sipping beer or whiskey or, in a couple of cases, both. A gambler sat alone at another table, playing a game of solitaire, waiting for a sucker to come in. One man was passed out, his head on the table, snoring softly.

And the stranger sat alone, finishing his supper.

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