A chill goes through my veins. Why am I here? What would he want me here for? He could have simply brought me here without the pretext, so why trick me?

I get out of the car and stand there a moment, waiting for one of the men to motion to me to come up the steps or for Clint Stryker to come out from inside, but neither of those things happen, and I’m left standing there in his massive cul-de-sac driveway as the Maybach pulls away.

Feeling jittery, I glance beside me at the McLaren, parked in front of a garage, its doors closed. This may be Clint Stryker’s...