Excerpt from Killers of a Certain Age by Deanna Raybourn, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Oh shit," Mary Alice says suddenly.

Billie leans forward, pressing her nose to the glass. The bodyguards carry nothing, hands free should they need to draw their weapons. They look like bears, heavily bearded and shaggy-haired, unlike the secretary, with his neatly shaven face and slicked-back hair. He has a calfskin case in his hands, slim body hunched over it to shield it from the light greasy rain that has begun to fall. X himself is cradling a small dog in his arms, an apricot poodle with a tuft of hair gathered into a silk bow.

"Nobody said anything about a dog," Helen says faintly.

"I'm not killing a dog." Nat rears back from the window, eyes wide. "I can't do it."

"You won't have to," Billie promises her. The others stare, and she realizes the flaw in the plan. The four of them have their orders and are supposed to be under Gilchrist's command. But he will be secure in the cockpit, locked away from whatever happens in the cabin. And in the cabin, they are going to need leadership. It isn't like their organization to make such a basic mistake, and Billie wonders if it has been done deliberately, a way to test them on their coolness under pressure.

Billie steps up. "The dog is a complication. But it's not a now problem. It's a later problem. The now problem is getting our guests on board and settled. Stations. Let's go."

To her astonishment, the other three obey, hurrying forward to arrange themselves attractively as the principal starts up the staircase of the aircraft. He is the sort of man who should have been flying on a luxury jet, a Beechcraft or a Gulfstream, something with sleek teakwood interiors and the latest gadgets. But his dossier says he is old-school, preferring twin-engine turboprops, the bigger the better. This one has two engines mounted in front of each wing, and they rumble to life as the propellers begin to move.

The quartet of stewardesses smile at X, a dour-looking man in his fifties who snaps his fingers as he stands just inside the open doorway, shaking the rain from his hair. His secretary waits patiently behind him, still shielding the case with his body. One bodyguard brings up the rear, standing with bovine stillness on the stairs while the other moves into the cabin. His neck is thick and his gaze is flat and unfriendly as he pokes a head into the cockpit for a quick inspection.

The pilots turn and Gilchrist flashes him a genial grin. "Jesus, you should warn a person." He waits for an answering smile that isn't forthcoming. Then he shrugs and turns back to his preflight check.

"You are not Henderson," the bodyguard says in an accusing tone.

Gilchrist's reply is cheerful. "Nope. Poor bastard got food poisoning. I warned him not to eat the bouillabaisse, but he wanted to go native. Now he's crouched in the bathroom at the Hilton, spewing out of both ends." He finishes with a laugh and looks at Sweeney, who joins in laughing half a beat too late.

"You are not Henderson," the bodyguard repeats.

"Wow, you're quick," Gilchrist says, giving a good impression of a man whose patience is wearing thin.

"We don't take off without Henderson," the bodyguard tells him.

The principal pushes his way forward. "What's the trouble?"

The bodyguard makes a gesture. "This is not Henderson."

Gilchrist rolls his eyes. "Look, can we skip the rerun? No, I'm not Henderson. Henderson is sick and the agency called me. My credentials are right there," he adds, pointing to the laminated ID clipped to his shirt.

"Let me see," the bodyguard says, making a beckoning gesture with his hand.

"Christ," the pilot mutters, handing over his ID. It is a fake, of course, but a good one, and Gilchrist isn't worried. Sweeney continues to work methodically through the check, focusing on his clipboard and his instrument panel while the little drama plays out. The bodyguard scrutinizes the ID.

"Vincent Griffin," he reads slowly.

Excerpted from Killers of a Certain Age by Deanna Raybourn. Copyright © 2022 by Deanna Raybourn. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.