He’s in shock, Sebastian thought. But he quickly dismissed it because of how eerily relaxed Paul was, how the kid seemed to be waiting for more information. In that moment, Sebastian thought of his mother, an intensely religious woman who constantly quoted from the Bible, and he recalled a passage from Mark or Matthew about how the eyes were the lamp of the body, how if they were healthy your body was full of God’s light.

God’s light wasn’t in Paul’s eyes. There wasn’t any light, not even a flicker of one, because his eyes were dead. And they had always been dead, Sebastian realized—that was the thing that was off about him, what the kid was missing.

Sebastian pulled into his driveway and stepped out of the car, the memory still fresh in his mind when his phone rang. Frank again.

“More news from our guy on the inside,” Frank said. “A cop got a solid look at Paul. A female cop who was at the scene. Don’t have a name for you yet, but we’ll know soon, I’m sure.”

“Paul’s not going to come to you.”

“You spoke to him?”

“Not yet,” Sebastian said, staring into his backyard, at the pool. “He’s here.”

“Here as in your house?”

“Yep.”

“What the hell is he doing there?”

“Judging from where I’m standing,” Sebastian said, “I’d say the breaststroke.”

CHAPTER 7

SEBASTIAN HUNG UP and stared at Paul, trying to process what he was seeing.

Paul had killed five people—no, six, including Jolie’s unborn kid—just a couple of hours ago. He had just dropped an atomic bomb, creating the single worst cataclysmic disaster Sebastian had ever experienced in his business, and the prick decided to swing by here to take a dip in the pool?

Sebastian unlatched the gate, wanting to bolt into the backyard and leap into the water, on top of Paul, and then, after bashing his head in a few times, hold the stupid son of a bitch underwater until he drowned.

But Paul wasn’t a skinny teenager anymore; he was a man, and he had come back from overseas with an extra twenty pounds, all of it solid muscle. Then he had gotten heavily into bodybuilding and put on more. Sebastian was twice his age and while he worked out nearly every morning at the health club, doing weights and running on the treadmill, he was a far cry from the man he was during his boxing days—and a little soft, too, carrying an extra twenty pounds from indulging in too many expensive dinners.

In terms of pure physical strength, Paul outmatched him. But in a fistfight? Sebastian was sure he could take him.

Or maybe he would just shoot the bastard. Sebastian carried a legally registered subcompact 9mm Glock in a shoulder holster. California had eased up considerably on its gun restrictions when carriers started getting abducted from their homes at all hours, from schools and on the streets. Sebastian was just another card-carrying NRA member wishing to protect himself.