Kevin, the same men who killed Stein are after me.
Michael Ward’s fingers trembled as he lifted his hands from the keyboard. Because he didn’t have Kevin’s cell phone number, Ward had tried his home a dozen times, but he kept getting the damned answering machine. Leaving a message was out of the question. Even e-mail could be intercepted, so he’d have to choose his words carefully.
He needed a cigarette badly. His hand fumbled through his shirt pocket and removed the pack of Marlboros. Only one left. He’d have to get another pack on the way to the airport.