At exactly fiv e minutes to noon, Goyette’s chauffeur-driven Maybach pulled up to the front guard gate and was promptly waved through to the clubhouse entrance. Two blocks down the road, a man in a white panel van watched the Maybach enter the grounds, then started his own car. With a magnetic sign affixed to the side reading COLUMBIA JANITORIAL SUPPLY, the van pulled up to the guard gate. The driver, wearing a work hat and sunglasses, rolled down the window and stuck out a clipboard that had a printed work order attached.

“Delivery for the Victoria Club,” the driver said in a bored voice.

The guard glanced at the clipboard, then passed it back without reading it.

“Go on in,” he replied. “Service entrance is to your right.”

Trevor Miller smiled faintly as he tossed the clipboard with the phony work order onto the passenger seat.

“Have a good one,” he told the guard, then sped on down the lane.

Trevor had never imagined that the day would come when he would be compelled to take the life of another. But the death of his brother and countless others in the wake of Goyette’s industrial greed was tantamount to murder. And the murders would continue, he knew, accompanied by continued environmental devastation. There might be public retribution against Goyette’s entities, but the man himself would always be protected by a veneer of corrupt politicians and high-priced attorneys. There was only one way to put an end to it and that was to put an end to Goyette. He knew the system was incapable of doing the job, so he rationalized that it was up to him. And who better to carry out the act than a nondescript state employee who aroused little suspicion and had little to lose?

Trevor pulled the van around to the back of the clubhouse kitchen, parking next to a produce truck that was delivering fresh organic vegetables. Opening the back door, he removed a dolly, then loaded four heavy boxes onto the hand truck. Wheeling it through the back door, he was apprehended by the club’s head chef, a plump man with a lazy right eye.

“Restroom and cleaning supplies,” Trevor stated as the chef blocked his path.

“I thought we just had a delivery last week,” the chef replied with a puzzled look. Then he waved Trevor toward a set of swinging doors at the side of the kitchen.

“Restrooms are out the doors and to the left. The storage closet is right alongside,” he said. “The general manager should be working the reservations desk. You can get him to sign for it.”