Mike stepped out of the airport, wondering what awaited him here. It had been almost fifteen years since he had left the country. And he had not bothered to find out what might have been happening here. He had not stayed in touch with anyone. After Annie’s death, when he fled the country, he had been in a hurry.
He knew the years had changed him, but not beyond recognition. He still did not know why he came here, but when the doctor had diagnosed his condition as fatal and told him he had only a few months left to live, he thought it was time to end his self-imposed exile.
He had informed no one he was coming. Not that there was anyone he could inform. He had no friends left here. There was none he could trust. All wanted his blood.
He hailed a cab and directed it to the hotel where he had booked a room under his new name. He had assumed a new identity in the country he had taken refuge in. He hoped none would associate Michael Leighton with Ray Steven.
He did not fear them. After all they could only kill him. And he was already a marked man. No, what he feared was that he might be forced to remember all that he had forgotten. He might be forced to remember how he had killed Annie.
The cab came to a halt. He looked out in confusion. They were not in front of the hotel. He wondered why the driver had stopped and was about to ask when the man turned. There was a gun in his hand.
“Neil!” His brain refused to function.
“Welcome home Mike!” Neil’s eyes were hard.
The gun spoke.