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was rubbing moisturizer into his hands. Fucking moisturizer, for god’s sake. I was grinding my teeth. Jesus, Stagg, control yourself. You’ve been on this job for half an hour. Let’s have a little professionalism. I took a deep breath.
    “Okay, Mr. McMahon?”
    He pouted and said, “No,” as if explaining to an idiot.
    “Let’s hit the road, then.” He didn’t move. “Shall I carry your bag?” Like me, he had what the airlines call one item of hand luggage, only his was covered in logos and buckles and straps, and mine was a grungy old knapsack that still contained a few grains of Afghan sand.
    Stirling said nothing, just kept rubbing that scented goop into his hands.
    “Right.” I picked up his bag and hefted it over my shoulder. “The car’s in the basement garage.” He didn’t move. “After you,” I said. I held open the door that led down to the garage. “Go ahead.”
    If ever a manner of walking could express contempt, that was how Stirling McMahon descended the stairs to that dingy underground garage on 37th Street. He crossed his feet over each other with each step, shaking his ass in my face. Oh, he was going to get such a
spanking. Maybe that’s what he wanted. Maybe he likes to wind guys like me up to the point where we lose our cool and knock him about a bit. Spoiled brat like that—probably needs it rough. I wondered if he’d done the same to Ferrari, and if Mr. Neat-Suit-and-Side-Parting had lost his cool and tanned the kid’s hide.
    Nice thought. I’d be happy to help him. One of us at each end.
    Okay, I couldn’t let thoughts of sex distract me from the job. After being fired from the Panther Club, I couldn’t afford to fuck up again. With thirty grand in the bank I could start over, put the past behind me, forget Will, forget what happened in Afghanistan, forget the U.S. Marine Corps…
    Stirling’s ass kept swinging. Well, we had a long trip ahead of us, a lot of nights in cheap motels, and if fucking him turned out to be part of the job, I’d endeavor to give satisfaction. Never let it be said that Major Daniel Stagg refused a challenge.
    Stirling sulked all the way out of town, sitting in the backseat of the car with his shades on, fiddling with his nails, sorting through the contents of his bag and even at one point fixing his hair in a little hand mirror. Every so often he sighed and tutted. He didn’t speak until we were well on the way to Poughkeepsie.
    “Gimme your phone.”
    “No.”
    “I need to make a call.”
    “Sorry.”
    “I said I need to make a call.”
    “And I said no.” This was part of the agreement—no access to phones, nothing that would reveal our location.
Left to his own devices Stirling would have been texting, chatting and tweeting his whereabouts to anyone that cared to listen. Deprived of a phone he quickly ran out of things to do. He filed and polished his nails, brushed his hair, moisturized his hands about twenty times and pulled up his T-shirt to examine his abdominal muscles in detail; from what I could glimpse in the rearview mirror, they were nothing to be ashamed of.
    In the end he got bored.
    “You’re a lousy driver,” he said when a truck cut me off, overtaking us on the inside at about 80 mph.
    “Thanks.”
    “You almost got me killed.”
    “I’ll try harder next time.”
    “You’re only doing this because my boss is paying you.”
    “Correct.”
    “Why haven’t you got a proper job?”
    “Guess I’m not as smart as you.”
    He shut up for ten minutes and shifted around on the backseat, trying various positions—feet up to the left, feet up to the right, feet tucked under him. Finally he attempted to hook his legs over the back of the passenger seat. I swatted them down.
    “Hey! That’s dangerous!”
    “Don’t fucking touch me, man.” From the way he yelped, you’d think I’d just slapped him in the face.
    “Sit still and shut up. Let me drive.”
    More tutting and sighing, more rearranging of limbs and