Read chapter one of Her Own Best Enemy here.

Excerpt from Chapter Two:

Keith tipped his watch to the flickering neon pink light of The Cheshire’s sign.

12:30 a.m.

The cold rain seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt, wracking his body with shivers. He hunkered down and shifted the cap on his head so the drops of rain splashed at his feet rather than pelting him on the nose.

Where was Grace?

Ten more minutes. That’s as long as he’d wait. Then he’d have to haul ass. The rehab center had no doubt sent up an APB on him by now. He couldn’t afford to stick around the city for long.

He scanned the street. Empty. He could count on one hand the cars that had passed since his arrival—if he could get the damn things to work. He flexed them. The cold rain had made his fingers numb and uncooperative.

Even his waterproof boots weren’t standing up to the test of this monsoon. He blew out a breath through clenched teeth.

Where the hell was she? Grace couldn’t have changed her mind. He was far from an expert on the subject of mothers—yeah, if that wasn’t a major understatement—but she couldn’t have feigned that look of panicked determination in her eyes.

That woman would die for her boy.

Keith blew on his cold hands, trying, unsuccessfully to warm them with his frigid breath; maybe trying to warm his chilly heart as well. He’d never understand that kind of bond between mother and child. His own mother certainly wouldn’t have risked her life to find him. Hell, she probably wouldn’t have noticed if he’d disappeared.

Was Grace for real?

He shrugged. What did it matter? It wasn’t like he wanted to make nice with her. No matter how pretty she was, or how much those expressive eyes of hers hit him in the gut, he had a job to do. That was it. She was nothing more than a means to an end.

He checked his watch again. 12:40 a.m. He was out of time, damn it. He’d make one pass through the club in case he’d missed her. Then he needed to go.

He shoved the heavily scarred wooden door open with his shoulders, leaving his hands free to tug the brim of his cap lower to shadow his face.

The Cheshire had once been his stomping ground. He’d instigated more than a few scuffles with his fake I.D. at this seedy bar in the past. The club still sported a host of mirrors and neon lights. He grimaced at the drunks vying for the attention of gyrating strippers baring their assets. The loud bass of techno music pounded in his ears and the smell of stale beer mixed with cigarettes assaulted his nostrils.

Tables crowded the floor, overflowing with servings of booze. He weaved in and out of them, lifting his eyes now and again to scan the throng. The double doors behind the long, dark, paneled bar swung open and the portly bartender waddled through, his eyes fixed on Keith. Good old Mischa Patlovski. Some things never changed, unless you counted the man’s nose, which looked even more crooked than his shady policies.

Keith shook off the unease of the man’s glinting stare and prayed he wouldn’t be recognized. He reached the back of the room. Empty, except for two men trying to out-drink each other.

He squinted against the fog of cigarette smoke. No Grace. Now what?

A crash rent the air. He pivoted to face the front, tension spiking between his shoulder blades when two men shoved their way through the crowd and headed straight for him.

Cops?

He snorted. No way, baby. Cops didn’t carry submachine guns. He’d bet his lucky ace these boys were pros. Hired guns. The question was, hired by whom?

A shot splintered the ceiling above him. Screams reverberated through the air, glasses crashed to the floor and people dove for cover.

Keith certainly didn’t plan to wait and find out. Blood rushed through his veins, survival instincts kicking in. He sprinted to the men’s bathroom. The john used to have a door that led out back. He hoped to God the owners hadn’t sealed it for some reason.

He shoved the flimsy restroom door with his shoulder, crashing into the murky green tiled space. The dim fluorescent bulb overhead winked off and on in rhythm with his pounding heart. He blinked, searching past the urinals and chipped sinks, his nostrils flaring at the stench emanating from the stalls. And there, just beyond the last stall was the door.

Hot damn and hallelujah. Years of added rust caked the metal door and the doorknob was missing, but he threw his shoulder into the unyielding metal, ramming it again and again until, with a screech, it finally gave.

He dashed out into the night. The rain still pelted the pavement like small shards of ice. He scrambled across the parking lot and almost made it to the desert beyond. Almost.

The crack of metal against the brick building signaled the guns were on his tail. He pumped his legs faster, sweat beading across his lip despite the water that drenched him.

A shot whizzed past his ear. Oh, shit.

He hit the dirt and rolled. Somewhere along the way he’d lost his hat. Raindrops sluiced over his forehead and dribbled in his eyes. He swiped at them trying to clear his blurred vision.

Deep sucking mud covered the ground. He crawled, his body slogging through the clay like a tiny Gila lizard scrambling across the vast desert.

Damn. Cacti and juniper trees dotted the landscape, but the cover they provided was minimal. Sliding along on his stomach slowed him down. If he hoped to ditch the bastards, he had no choice but to run for it.

He hopped to his feet and shot off into the night. A jagged frisson of lightning burst across the night sky. He threw a glance over his shoulder and glimpsed two shadowy figures in the temporary glow. He’d put some distance between them. But not enough.

Thunder rolled across the sky. No, not thunder. Gunfire. He checked his position with another quick toss over his shoulder. Flash bursts lit up the night like fireflies.

Too far away. His boots pounded at the mud, the tightness in his chest, easing. They’d have to do better than that to catch him. Pitiful bastards.

His right foot caught a rock and twisted, slipping in the mud, and he planted his other foot to catch himself. His feet stopped, but his body kept moving, throwing him sideways. He hit the ground and—damn it all—still didn’t stop.

His fingers tunneled through the wet earth, barely slowing him as he slid down a steep slope. His feet crashed into something solid, halting him as if he’d kissed a brick wall.

He sucked in a deep breath and shook his head to clear it.

What the hell?

Lightning zigzagged across the sky once more. He narrowed his eyes. A ravine. He’d fallen into a damn ravine. Lucky him.

He slapped at the sticky mud, clenching his teeth and emitting a low growl. So much for his big lead on the gunners.

He made a quick evaluation of his surroundings. The scraggly gorge gave him no cover. He might as well paint a target on his forehead. Nope, not gonna happen. He pushed several deep breaths up from his lungs then dragged his mud caked body off the chasm floor.

Keep moving. The sludge sucked at his boots like quicksand. His legs ached, his chest burned. He clenched his hands and slogged through the muck. Sticks protruded from the clay like knives waiting for him to trip and poke out a damned eye.

He couldn’t hear the gunfire anymore, but edgy tension tightened his spine. They were out there. Waiting. For him to do something stupid, like pop his head up so they could take a huge chunk out of his brain.

Keith trudged on, his breath bursting from him in shallow pants, forcing his legs to move faster. The ravine walls rose higher, ominous mountains of mud, making it harder to distinguish where the ground ended and the sky began.

A low grumble rose above the rain and thunder. Not gunfire. He paused with a frown. What the hell was it?

The noise rolled through the night. Louder this time. His pulse spiked. Shit. What was that sound? It roiled closer. Like a waterfall. Or a—

He turned. An enormous wave of mud and water swelled like a giant sea beast down the middle of the ravine. Straight for him.

It was a friggin’ flash flood.

His heart skipped a beat. Or several. Oh, hell. His throat ached and made it impossible to drag in a breath. But he couldn’t let a little thing like no air in his lungs slow him down. He dashed down the middle of the gorge, praying to spot a low dip in the ravine wall.

There. About thirty feet ahead of him. Water lapped at his heels, making that thirty feet seem like a damn mile. A thick branch hung over the precipice like a rope. He lunged for it, wrapping his hands around the limb. It dipped from his weight, but held. He let out a tense breath, dangling from the branch for a moment’s rest before making fast work of climbing to the top of the mud wall. The rough bark ripped at his palms, stinging his flesh. He pushed the pain aside and pulled himself over the edge, crashing through the cluster of underbrush.

He lost his footing over the steep embankment and slid. His knees hit blacktop.

Blacktop? He blinked, wiped his eyes with the back of his hands to avoid crusting them with mud. Damn it all, he still couldn’t see.

He squinted. Sure enough, two lights winked back at him, steadily growing closer. Were those—? Clarity hit him with the force of a two by four.

Headlights.

A car was headed straight for him—with no sign of stopping.