Present Day

THE REDHEAD WITH the camera was spying on him again.

Nick Walker glanced into his rearview mirror and saw the woman skulking around the corner of the church across the square. Every once in a while, she lifted the big camera that hung from one shoulder, swinging it in front of her face to snap off a shot of the trees. The birds. The sky. The church.

All of which was to hide her real photographic subject. Him.

He sighed deeply, shaking his head, wondering how long he could wait — and how far he could let her go — before his cover was blown. Not too much longer, that was for sure.

He hadn't figured on going unnoticed when he'd started this undercover assignment a couple of days ago. Nobody dressed in his ratty clothes, with the shaggy beard, and twodays-past-needing-a-shower hair wouldn't be looked at in old Savannah. Not to mention the car. It was a standard, cityissued, undercover P.O.S — Piece Of Shit — the color showing through the rust falling somewhere between puce and putrid.

But the cover was still a good one, considering the eclectic nature of the population in this area. There were just as likely to be panhandlers as millionaires moseying around some of the city's famous squares. This getup was noticeable, but quickly forgotten by the busy residents who really didn't want to think too much about how the "other half" lived.

So yeah, he'd been prepared for some attention. What he hadn't expected was a frigging Nancy Drew out with her camera, snapping clandestine shots of a suspected bad guy and his license plate. She was about as clandestine as a tank.

"Lady, go home," he pleaded softly, willing