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Chapter One
Nadia
Running a wilderness lodge meant that, occasionally, there were guests I'd like to kill. The fact that I subsidized my income as a hitman made that option so much more viable. Yet in the decade since I opened the Red Oak Lodge, I had never been as tempted as I was today.
I was out at the back of my property, a gorgeous chunk of wilderness northwest of Toronto. A perfect June evening, with a fully booked lodge, and a quartet of eager New Yorkers joining me for a lesson in distance shooting on my range. Four eager New Yorkers . . . and Tyrone Cypress.
"What exactly is the point of this?" Cypress said as I instructed guests at the shooting range.
He didn't mutter the words under his breath or murmur them to himself. Cypress had only arrived this morning, but I'd already concluded that his vocal cords were permanently cranked to ten. He wasn't just loud--he boomed every word as if making a vital pronouncement. When he boomed this, my students all jumped . . . four guests who'd never handled a gun in their lives, jumping while holding loaded ones.
I quickly told them to practice unloading. As I walked to Cypress, the other guests sidled away from him. The man stood almost a foot above my five-six, with a thick, sturdy build. Grizzled brown hair hung to his shoulders, and a thick beard hid half his face.
"If you aren't interested in shooting--" I began.
"I'm just asking why you're doing this."
"I'm teaching my guests the proper use--"
"Not you," he said with a dismissive wave. "I know why you're here. Making a few bucks off folks who want to experience the great outdoors but don't actually know the first fucking thing about it."
"Mr--"
"It's Ty. For you, anyway. These yahoos can call me Mr. Cypress. My question was why they're doing this? Do any of them actually plan to hunt? If they do, are they going to eat what they kill, or just take pictures to hang in their high-rise condos?"
"We don't offer hunting at the Red Oak," I said. "But for those guests who wish to do so, we subcontract with an outfit that donates the meat to charity. What I teach here is marksmanship."
He snorted. "And what's the point of that?"
I kept my voice calm. "Sport. We also offer white-water rafting and rock climbing. I do both of those in my free time, too, with absolutely no plans to ever be lost in the Alaskan wilderness and need to raft or climb my way to safety."
He peered at me. "You ever been to Alaska?"
"Once."
"You like it?"
I waved at the surrounding forest. "Oddly, yes, I seem to be a fan of nature."
"You're Canadian, though, right?"
"We are in Canada, and yes, I am Canadian."
"Then you should be going to the Yukon, not Alaska. Fewer people. Fewer"--he peered at the quartet--"Americans."
"I'm quite fond of people," I said. "Including Americans. But I appreciate the travel advice. Now, either you're here to shoot--"
"I don't use guns."
"All right, so you're not a hunter, either. Perhaps you'd rather--"
"I am a hunter. I just don't use guns. It's unsporting."
"If you like bows, we have a few of those."
"Don't mind bows. Prefer the hands-on approach, though."
"Uh-huh."
I really had to start screening guests. We'd picked up business enough in the last few years that I could afford to do that.
I continued, "Well, should you happen to encounter our local black bears, I'd strongly suggest you not try the 'hands-on' approach. Just run."
He chuckled. "If you think I can outrun any bear, you have a generous opinion of a big man's agility level. Nah, black bears aren't a problem. I've fought them off before. It's the browns that are trouble."
"We don't have any grizzlies here, so you're safe." I turned to the others. "Let's reload--"
"One more question," Cypress said.
I tensed. "Uh-huh."
"You've got a guy, right? Boyfriend?"
"Yeah," one of the Americans said. "She's definitely got a boyfriend. Sorry."
The others tittered, but Cypress wasn't hitting on me. Whatever vibes he gave off, that wasn't one of them.
