Viper (Falcon’s Rest MC #2)

Chapter 1

1

L ina Kato smiled and waved as her client pulled his ten-year-old Toyota out of the parking lot and into traffic. The sixty-two-year-old widower had made millions in tech, but flash cars weren’t his thing. No, as he moved toward retirement, two things interested Eric Boudry: ensuring his kids and grandkids were taken care of—although not too taken care of—and supporting the charities important to him and his deceased wife. Both the family and the charities would benefit from his abundance when it came time for him to leave this mortal coil.

Smart, practical, and kind, he was easily her favorite kind of client. As a CPA, she couldn’t say that about everyone who hired her. If all went according to plan, though, in a year, business would be good enough for her to pick and choose who she kept. And who she didn’t.

When his car disappeared around the corner, she walked to her customized 1200 Sportster Harley-Davidson. Living in Seattle, she didn’t get to ride it as often as she liked. But that morning, when bright blue skies and barely a hint of fall in the air greeted her, she bypassed her SUV without a second thought.

Opening the saddlebag, she shifted the black backpack she kept stored and slid her client file in, tucking it securely against the side. Then, pulling her leather jacket and helmet out, she closed and relocked it. Slinging her leg over the saddle, she started the engine.

She grinned as the bike rumbled underneath her. Not the most powerful she’d ever ridden, but for city driving—and short hops out of town—she liked its weight and agility.

After zipping her jacket, she gathered her hair, then pulled on her helmet. Years of habit had her scanning the lot, but as expected, she saw nothing out of the ordinary—a young father walking with a baby in a stroller, two women power-walking with hand weights, an older man and his elderly dog sitting in the sun, enjoying drinks, coffee for the man, water for the dog.

A car pulled into the lot, passing behind her. Lina watched as a young woman slid from the driver’s seat. Phone to her ear, she laughed, then said, “Nice, Dad. As amazing as an anniversary trip to Italy is, with how much Mom loves surprises, I’m sure she loved having that dropped on her.”

The young woman flashed her a smile as she continued into the coffee shop, laughing again as the door closed behind her. Lina’s chest tightened. Cancer had taken her mom three years ago, and Lina missed her like crazy. And to say she and her father, Dr. Alistair Kato, were not close would be like saying the sun was hot—an obvious and immutable fact. At least for the next billion years or so.

Lina took a deep breath, setting her feelings about her father aside. She’d promised her mom that she’d look after him. And because she loved her mother, once a month, she dutifully checked in on the man who’d contributed 50 percent of her DNA. Lucky her, today was that day.

Rolling out of her spot, she turned north and headed toward Montlake. She didn’t have to think about what streets to take or turns to make as the miles ticked by. She’d grown up in Seattle, in the house her dad still lived in. At one time, it had been home. But since her mom’s death, she’d felt less and less connected. She still knew it like the back of her hand, though, and without the need to worry about directions, she let herself enjoy the rare sun, the wind on her face, and the feel of her bike vibrating through her body.

Thirty minutes later, she pulled to a stop at the curb, killed the engine, and let the kickstand down. The sudden quiet felt heavy and deafening. Not unlike her feelings about the upcoming visit.

She stared at the door of her childhood home. It had been a home once. When her mom was alive. Eugenie Kato loved life and lived big. The two of them had adventured all over the world together—skydiving in Zimbabwe, rock climbing in Norway, rafting in Vietnam. They’d had quieter, no less meaningful moments, though, too. Her mom helping her study for the SATs, the two of them making shepherd’s pie every Sunday, decorating for Christmas. She’d stood at Lina’s side for every milestone in her life—big or small. Her father…had not.

He wasn’t a cruel man, just a disengaged one—his wife and only child little more than roommates in his space. She had no idea if he had a favorite food or watched TV shows. Or if he preferred tea or coffee or sweet or savory. And she really had no idea what he thought of her. She vaguely remembered asking him these things decades ago. He hadn’t so much as rebuffed her as simply not answered.

At some point, she’d stopped thinking of him as her dad in any way other than biological. And up until her mom died, it worked for her. Presumably for him, too, as she no longer pestered him.

Now, they each suffered through her monthly check-ins. She reviewed his finances, ensured his bills got paid, checked his fridge and pantry, set up food and grocery delivery, and generally kept an eye on the house. Alistair Kato might be a brilliant scientist, but he was hopeless when it came to anything outside the lab. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He could figure out how to take care of all the things her mom, now she, managed. But he chose not to. Not out of pique, but because he simply couldn’t be bothered. The story of her relationship with him—he just couldn’t be bothered.

And yet she’d promised her mom.

She sighed as she dismounted, sliding her helmet off at the same time. Twenty minutes. That’s all it would take. And then she could get back to her regularly scheduled life. Not that she had a lot to get back to.

Her thoughts flittered to a man she met three months ago in Mystery Lake, California. Viper. His call name, not his real name. Easy smile, a mischievous glint in his eye, and a build that told her he hadn’t cut back on training despite having left the military years earlier. A mutual friend had introduced them, and neither had questioned where the night would end.

Only it hadn’t.

She didn’t regret anything about that night, even if it meant she never so much as kissed Viper before riding off into the sunrise the next morning. That didn’t mean she didn’t think about him, though. And wonder about the opportunity they’d missed.

With a shake of her head, she considered a more realistic afternoon as she stowed her helmet in the saddlebag. Her friend Geneva was in town. Maybe they could meet at one of the oceanside bars with outdoor seating. A cocktail and a healthy portion of fried seafood was as exciting as she got these days.

Walking up the familiar path to the front door, she eyed the foliage with satisfaction. She’d hired a new gardener earlier that year, and the young woman was doing an excellent job. Clean beds lined the walkway, and eye-catching, though minimalist plants ringed the tidy, sharply edged lawn. Her father disliked clutter and thankfully, the restrained landscaping complemented the lines and texture of the mid-century home.

Out of courtesy, she knocked on the door as she pulled the key from her pocket. She’d called her father the day before to tell him she’d be by, but it was anyone’s guess as to whether he listened to the message. Or if he did, if he remembered.

The door swung open, and she waited for the familiar beeping of the alarm system. When it didn’t echo in the empty hallway as expected, she frowned. Yet one more thing to talk with him about. It wouldn’t be the first time she reminded him about setting the alarm. Montlake was a nice area, but Seattle was still a city.

“Dad?” she called, walking down the hall toward the dining room and kitchen at the back of the house. She passed the living room on her right, its big picture window facing the street, but she didn’t expect to see him there. To the best of her knowledge, he limited his habitation to his room, his office, and the kitchen.

“Dad?” she called again.

Ten feet from the dining room, a faint, familiar smell teased her nose, and she slowed, then stopped altogether. Quietly, she inhaled again, her senses twitching with recognition. Copper mixed with a hint of dry sweetness. Blood.

Fear burst through her, and she rushed toward the kitchen. Images of her dad having cut himself while attempting to cook assailed her imagination as she closed the distance. His interest in food generally stopped with assembling sandwiches or heating something up—she would know since she bought his groceries. But if he’d taken it into his head to cook, his lack of experience wouldn’t stop him.

She gripped the doorframe into the dining room and, using it for leverage, spun around the corner. Her attention locked onto her destination, the entry to the kitchen on the other side of the room. Once again, she called his name. Or started to.

Abruptly, the words cut off and she skidded to a halt. Afternoon light streamed in from the sliding doors to the backyard, reflecting off the light ash wood floor, highlighting a dark streak, cutting across it like a chasm. No, not a streak, a smear coming from the kitchen. She took two stumbling steps forward before halting again.

She blinked, forcing herself to follow the gruesome trail—to trace the uneven lines. Denial clawed at her consciousness even as somewhere, deep inside her, she knew exactly what she looked at. And what it meant.

Finally, less than eight feet in front of her, her eyes landed on her father. One khaki-clad leg stretched straight behind him, the other slightly bent. His left arm extended above his head while his right hand lay tucked halfway under his unmoving chest. As if he’d fallen mid-crawl. Dark stains marred the pale brown of his pants, but his black sweater showed nothing of the trauma he’d suffered.

Nausea rose swiftly and, instinctively, she inhaled to quell it. Her father hadn’t cut himself cooking. This was no accident.

Needing confirmation of what she already knew, she shifted her gaze. His face was so battered and beaten as to be barely recognizable. She didn’t need to check for a pulse to know he was gone. Murdered.

Guilt swooped in swift and sure as she stared at him. What if she hadn’t lingered over lunch with her client or if she’d taken the highway rather than the surface streets? Would she have made it home in time to stop what had happened?

And what had happened? Her father had suffered a brutal and violent death, but who would do this?

She needed to call the police. She didn’t have a lot of faith in their ability to find the answers, but somewhere in the back of her mind, a tiny voice reminded her that family was always the first suspect. If she didn’t call and report it herself, they’d waste their time wondering why.

Still, she hesitated. Her gaze swept the scene, noting every detail from the path her father had crawled from the kitchen into the dining room, to the blood gathering on the bridge of his nose, to his lack of glasses.

She clenched her jaw as her eyes darted to his hands. Had he fought back? Would she find any defensive wounds?

The knuckles on his right hand were swollen, but she couldn’t tell if the injury was defensive or if whoever attacked him had gone for his hands as well as the rest of his body. Refusing to let her imagination piece the details of the scene together—at least for now—she shifted her attention to his left hand.

Resting on its side, all she could see was his palm. It appeared untouched, still soft and clean. Except for the tip of his index finger. Frowning, she took a step closer. He seemed to be pointing. Her eyes jerked in the same direction to find a small pink bag lying under the table two feet in front of him. Her childhood backpack.

She took another step closer and knelt to get a better look. Yes, it was most definitely her backpack. It even still had the Hello Kitty patch she and her mom had ironed on it.

She hadn’t seen or thought about it in decades. If asked, she would have assumed her parents had thrown it away. But there it was, lying in front of her dead father.

Her attention strayed back to him. Alistair Kato didn’t do anything on a whim. So what did the backpack mean? And why had he thought of it as he lay dying?

Her eyes drifted to his stained index finger. A beat passed before her breath caught and she realized what the stain meant. Scanning the floor beside his outstretched hand, her heart jerked when she found what she sought.

Right beside his pinkie was a word. One word meant for her. She didn’t understand what had happened or why, but those questions could wait. For now, the only thing that mattered was following the message staring back at her. The one written in his own blood.

“Run.”