Wolf Laurel, Colorado,

High Rockies, September 1875

Silver and black spun through the man’s fingers in deadly pinwheels of steel under the lead-grey skies.

Charlotte Moreland froze in front of the Silver King Hotel, unable to take another step even though the young man was more than a dozen paces away.

Three years of playing poker in the West’s worst gambling dens had taught her much about the narrow margin between great shootists and the dead. She had no desire to join the latter in front of an establishment named Hair Trigger Palace.

Handsome and harsh as a Renaissance angel, he was utterly absorbed in weaving patterns of light as he spun his revolvers. His black broadcloth frockcoat, black trousers, and black boots were as finely made as if they too bore homage to the death-dealing implements he worshipped.

Her fellow stagecoach passengers streamed into the closest saloon to warm themselves with beer or whiskey. One headed swiftly into the hotel to claim his clean lodging, more priceless than a good meal in this hastily built town. A few pedestrians glanced at the effortless display of gun tricks, then walked swiftly past.

He flipped the heavy guns between his hands and they smacked into his palms like a warrior’s salute. He immediately tossed them high and spun them back into the holsters at his hips.

Last spring in Denver, she’d seen a shootist testing his pistols. He’d shot a can of peaches until it had exploded its innards across a wall, just like a person would. She’d been wretchedly sick in her hotel room afterward.

He slapped the leather holsters and, an instant later on a ragged beat, death looked out of the guns’ barrels.

His expression hardened to that of an angry fallen angel leading armies of destruction. He shoved his guns back into place, clearly ready to teach them another lesson.

Charlotte gave a little squeak and trotted onto the boardwalk in front of the hotel. No matter how flimsy its roof and planks were, it still offered more protection than the open street. Men, equipped with guns and a temper, were dangerous to both themselves and everyone nearby.

The shootist whirled to face her and his gaze drilled into her.

Heaven help her, it was the same man she’d seen in Denver—Justin Talbot, the fastest gun in Colorado.

Recognition flashed across his face. But not greed, thank God. Perhaps he hadn’t recognized her photo, flaunted by those skulking Pinkerton’s men throughout the mining towns.

Why had she dreamed about him for so many months?

He bowed to her with a flourish and she froze. Her heart drummed in her throat, too fast to let her breathe or think.

How should she acknowledge him—formally, with a bow or a curtsy? Heartily, with a wave inviting affection or perhaps intimacy? Or coldly, with an averted shoulder and gaze, as befitted such an experienced death-dealer, no matter what living in this town required?

He frowned and anguish slipped into his eyes. A man whistled from behind him.

Talbot’s mouth tightened and he bowed to her again, far more coldly. She gave him the barest of nods in return, all her drumming pulse would support.

He disappeared into the Hair Trigger Palace an instant later, his expression still harsher than an ice-etched granite mountain.

Truly, she should not feel bereft, as if she’d lost a potential friend.

Don’t miss DEAD ALERT by Bianca D’Arc, new this month from Brava.

Fort Bragg, North Carolina

“I’ve got a special project for you, Sam.” The commander, a former Navy SEAL named Matt Sykes, began talking before Sam was through the door to Matt’s private office. “Sit down and shut the door.”

Sam sat in a wooden chair across the cluttered desk from his commanding officer. Lt. Sam Archer, US Army Green Beret, was currently assigned to a top secret, mixed team of Special Forces soldiers and elite scientists. There were also a few others from different organizations, including one former cop and a CIA black ops guy. It was an extremely specialized group, recruited to work on a classified project of the highest order.

“I understand you’re a pilot.” Matt flipped through a file as he spoke.

“Yes, sir.” Sam could have said more but he didn’t doubt Matt had access to every last bit of Sam’s file, even the top secret parts. He had probably known before even sending for him that Sam could fly anything with wings. Another member of his old unit was a blade pilot who flew all kinds of choppers, but fixed wing aircraft were Sam’s specialty.

“How do you like the idea of going undercover as a charter pilot?”

“Sir?” Sam sat forward in the chair, intrigued.

“The name of a certain charter airline keeps popping up.” Matt put down the file and faced Sam as his gaze hardened. “Too often for my comfort. Ever heard of a company called Praxis Air?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“It’s a small outfit, based out of Wichita—at least that’s where they repair and maintain their aircraft in a company-owned hangar. They have branch offices at most of the major airports and cater mostly to an elite business clientele. They do the odd private cargo flight and who knows what else. They keep their business very hush-hush, ‘providing the ultimate in privacy for their corporate clients,’ or so their brochure advertises.” Matt pushed a glossy tri-fold across the desk toward Sam.

“Looks pretty slick.”

“That they are,” Matt agreed. “So slick that even John Petit, with his multitude of CIA connections, can’t get a bead on exactly what they’ve been up to of late. I’ve been piecing together bits here and there. Admiral Chester, the traitor, accepted more than a few free flights from them in the past few months, as did Ensign Bartles, who it turns out, was killed in a Praxis Air jet that crashed the night we took down Dr. Rodriguez and his friends. She wasn’t listed on the manifest and only the pilot was claimed by the company, but on a hunch I asked a friend on the National Transportation Safety Board to allow us to do some DNA testing. Sure enough, we found remnants of Beverly Bartles’s DNA at the crash site, though her body had to have been moved sometime prior to the NTSB getting there. The locals were either paid off or preempted. Either option is troubling, to say the least.”

“You think they’re mixed up with our undead friends?” They were still seeking members of the science team that had created the formula that killed and then turned its victims into the walking dead. Nobody had figured out exactly how they were traveling so freely around the country when they were on every watch list possible.

“It’s a very real possibility. Which is why I want to send you in undercover. I don’t need to remind you, time is of the essence. We have a narrow window to stuff this genie back into its bottle. The longer this goes on, the more likely it is the technology will be sold to the highest bidder and then, God help us.”

Sam shivered. The idea of the zombie technology in the hands of a hostile government or psycho terrorists—especially after seeing what he’d seen of these past months—was unthinkable.

“If my going undercover will help end this, I’m your man.” He’d do anything to stop the contagion from killing any more people.

Sam opened the flyer and noted the different kinds of jets the company offered. The majority of the planes looked like Lear 35’s in different configurations. Some were equipped for cargo. Some had all the bells and whistles any corporate executive could wish for and a few were basically miniature luxury liners set up for spoiled celebrities and their friends.

“I hoped you’d say that. I’ve arranged a little extra training for you at Flight Safety in Houston. They’ve got Level D flight simulators that have full motion and full visual. They can give you the Type Rating you’ll need on your license to work for Praxis Air legitimately.”

“I’ve been to Flight Safety before. It’s a good outfit.” Sam put the brochure back on Matt’s desk.

“We’ll give you a suitable job history and cover, which you will commit to memory. You’ll also have regular check-ins while in the field, but for the most part you’ll be on your own. I want you to discover who, if any, of their personnel are involved and to what extent.” Matt paused briefly before continuing. “Just to be clear, this isn’t a regular job I’m asking you to do, Sam. It’s not even close to what you signed on for when we were assigned as zombie hunters. I won’t order you to do this. It’s a total immersion mission. Chances are, there will be no immediate backup if you get into trouble. You’ll be completely on your own most of the time.”

“Understood, sir. I’m still up for it. I like a challenge.”

Matt cracked a smile. “I hear that. And I appreciate the enthusiasm. Here’s the preliminary packet to get you started.” He handed a bulging envelope across the desk. “We’ll get the rest set up while you’re in flight training. It’ll be ready by the time you are. You leave tomorrow for Houston.”

“Yes, sir.” Sam stood, hearing the tone of dismissal in the commander’s voice.

“You can call this whole thing off up until the end of your flight training. After that, wheels will have been set in motion and can’t be easily stopped. If you change your mind, let me know as soon as possible.”

“Thank you, sir.” Unspoken was the certainty that Sam wouldn’t be changing his mind any time soon.

And keep an eye out for SEVEN YEARS TO SIN by Sylvia Day, coming next month!

A listair Caulfield’s back was to the door of his warehouse shipping office when it opened. A salt-tinged gust blew through the space, snatching the manifest he was about to file right out of his hand.