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Alex asked in a hushed voice so no one passing by could hear him. "How her skull cracked like a ripe melon? Want me to tell you how her body crumpled, then slid off the hood before I ran over it?"
     
    "How about her eyes? You want me to describe how they widened in shock, then surprise, just before I plowed into her?"
     
    "No. Please. That's ... not necessary."
     
    Alex had figured the gory details would put an end to the questions. He wanted his payment. And he was weary of the chitchat. Patience was a virtue that was far overrated.
     
    But then, so was virtue as a concept.
     
    "Just tell me the damn locker number and the combination," he demanded. "Let's get this over with."
     
    Finally he got what he needed.
     
    Alex located the locker, spun the dial, and opened it up. It was a damn good thing the envelope was there. After counting out the bills, he pocketed them, wiped the locker clean of prints, and headed outside.
     
    "Pleasure doing business with you."
     
    "Wait. Don't hang up. I have another job for you."
     
    Alex shoved out the door of the truck stop and walked from stale, poorly conditioned air into what felt like swamp water. Now this was interesting. "Lotta people must have pissed you off, huh?"
     
    "Do you want the work or not?"
     
    Head down, he dodged a trucker walking a mongrel dog and headed for his car. "You got the money. I've got the means." He was, after all, a businessman.
     
    Five minutes later, he had the next target, the details of the job, and a nicely negotiated price. All was well in his world.
     
    Yet as he drove through the thickness of the southern night, a sharp, unexpected memory of his first kill surfaced with the clarity of a newscast. It had been almost ten years ago now. After the first gulf war. After he'd left the force. Yeah, that first professional job had been a rush, a real power trip. And yeah, he'd felt a trace—but just a trace—of guilt at the time. That was a long time ago.
     
    Now a kill was a kill. Now there was just power in the process. And in the cat-and-mouse game of evading the law he used to uphold.
     
    There was one other major perk. The money stockpiling in his Grand Cayman bank account went a long way toward making up for the occasional pang of guilt... and the recurring nightmares.
     
     
     
    Chapter 3
     
    Tuesday, July 11th, 3:00 p.m. Backstage dressing room, West Palm Beach
     
    "Ms. Perkins?"
     
    Janey was perched on the edge of the sofa in her dressing room, studying the blocking for a new number they'd added for tonight's concert when Jason Wilson poked his head into the room.
     
    "What's up?" She glanced up from her notes, trying to mask her impatience. It was almost time for sound check, and she still hadn't worked this number through in her mind. One look at Wilson's face, however, had her forgetting all about the concert.
     
    "Problem?"
     
    "Sorry to interrupt, but the police are here. They need to talk to you."
     
    She stood abruptly, tossed her notes aside. "Police?"
     
    Before she could ask him another question, Wilson opened the door wide, and two uniformed officers entered the room. She was barely aware of Wilson making introductions. All that registered were the dour and grim expressions on both men's faces.
     
    "What? What's happened?" Her heartbeat ricocheted around in her ears as she looked from one to the other. "Oh God. Is it Max? Did something happen to Max?"
     
    "Max?" The taller of the two shot a glance at Wilson.
     
    "Max Cogan. Her manager," Wilson supplied.
     
    At some point, Wilson had ended up right beside her. Janey wasn't sure how that had happened, but she was suddenly glad for his steady presence. Max had had a meeting across town this afternoon. All she could think was that he'd had an accident. Or that the recurrent indigestion he'd been fighting had actually been his heart, and he'd had an attack.
     
    "No. This has nothing to do with your manager."
     
    The relief was almost as crushing as her concern.