The Shadow Hunter

direct way to Burbank.
    He figured she had an appointment to keep. It would occupy her for a half hour or longer. By the time she reached the studio, he would be positioned near the entrance to the parking lot.
    In his car, he had his duffel bag. And in the duffel, he had the shotgun. He imagined holding it now, feeling its sleekness, its smoothness, pumping the action and then the trigger, and the satisfying recoil as the spray of lethal shot fanned wide.
    “Blammo,” Hickle said. He was smiling.

2
    Abby Sinclair was late and walking fast as she came out of the elevator on the eighteenth floor of the Century City high-rise where Travis Protective Services housed its office suite. She had fixed her hair as best she could in the elevator, but in T-shirt, jeans, and Nikes, she wasn’t exactly dressed for a business meeting.
    At the end of the hall she paused before the double doors emblazoned with the TPS logo. The doors were mirrored, and she was able to ascertain that she looked okay, despite her ensemble. Her reflection stared back at her with cool hazel eyes that revealed little of what she felt inside. Lately, it was just as well that no one knew what she was feeling.
    She entered the reception area, passing through a metal detector, then handed a carry-on bag to the security officer at the front desk. “Came straight from the airport. Keep this nice and safe for me, okay?”
    The guy frowned at her. “I didn’t know you were still working for Travis.”
    “I’ve been away for a while. Now I’m back in the saddle.”
    His frown didn’t waver. “Well, ain’t that great news.”
    She wasn’t surprised at his hostility or at the cool stares that greeted her as she hurried through the maze of corridors. Only a few people at TPS knew exactly what role she had played in the Devin Corbal disaster, but throughout the firm it was common knowledge that she had been involved somehow, and that her involvement had cost Corbal his life.
    She walked past conference rooms, workspaces partitioned into cubicles, and private or semiprivate offices. Roughly half the offices, she noted guiltily, were empty now. TPS was thinning out its staff, making massive cutbacks to stop the hemorrhage of money. Only the most essential employees had been retained, performing the services that were the backbone of the company—threat assessment, personal protection, and investigation. Before long, maybe they would be gone as well, and this office suite would be occupied by insurance salespeople or stockbrokers. She didn’t want to think about that.
    She reached Travis’s corner office and nodded at his assistant, Rose, receiving a squinty glare in return. “You’re late,” Rose said, her tone implying that this was the least of Abby’s sins.
    “Just buzz me in.”
    “Hold on.” Rose took her time activating the intercom. “Mr. Travis? Miss Sinclair is here.”
    Over the cheap speaker, Abby heard Travis’s tinny voice grant her admittance.
    “Yes, sir.” Rose looked at her. “You can go in.”
    “Thanks a lot.”
    Abby crossed the anteroom to Travis’s door. She was turning the knob when Rose said, “This client’s important to us. You might try keeping her alive.”
    Various rejoinders ran through Abby’s mind. She swallowed them all. Sometimes the best thing to say was nothing at all.
    She entered Travis’s office and found him in conference with a blond woman instantly recognizable as Kris Barwood and a somewhat older, heavyset man who had to be her husband.
    “Better late than never,” Travis said as he rose from behind his desk.
    Et tu
, Paul? she thought, but all she said was “My plane was delayed.” Her gaze widened to include everyone in the room. “Sorry to keep you all waiting.”
    Introductions were made. Howard Barwood had a firm handshake of long duration. Kris, no surprise, looked exactly the same in person as she did on TV. Having met a number of celebrities over the past two years, Abby had learned that the beautiful ones really were beautiful. The notion that the camera performed some alchemical transformation of ordinary folks into superstars was a sop to the envious multitudes.
    “You just flew in from out of town?” Howard asked.
    “Yes—which explains my less than professional attire. I only brought casual clothes with me on the trip.”
    “I hope we didn’t interrupt your vacation.”
    “No, I was working another case, actually. Got done last night.”
    “I thought TPS only