“I was stupid, that’s why,” Dan told him. There was no trace of his usual humor in his eyes or his facial expression. “Thought I was a hotshot. I was going to prove I could make a real difference. Run with the big dogs, and take down my share of the sons of bitches who think it’s their God-given right to trample anybody who gets in their way. Kidnappers. I had a real justice boner for them—the ones that stole children and did the rotten things they do to them. I wanted to be their own special boogeyman.”

He felt silent. Looked away for a long moment.

Then he said. “I still feel that way. I’ve got two daughters, Eli, and if anybody tried to hurt either of them—”

“I know,” Eli said quietly. “What changed your mind, made you take up private security?”

“Turns out, the Bureau was all stocked up on superheroes. They wanted paper pushers, mostly. Computer guys. It wasn’t one damn bit exciting—in fact, all it did was make me regret leaving Melba and our kids even more than I already did.”

“So now you hack your way through jungles and tangle with drug cartels? For the excitement?”

“Hell, no,” Dan answered. “I did it for the money. Now I’ve got enough put aside to give my lady and the girls everything they could possibly want. I’m ready to retire—at least from the kind of work I’ve been doing for the last few years. Ready to get married to Melba again, maybe father a couple more kids.”

“Melba isn’t buying that scenario?”

Dan sighed. “She told me what I could do with my ‘blood’ money,” he said. “She doesn’t want to get pregnant, either.” He leaned forward, his face earnest. “Just tell me one thing, Bro. What the devil do women want?”

Eli laughed. It was a raw sound, revealing more than he would have liked. “Whatever we don’t happen to be offering at the time, I guess,” he said. A long pause followed, then Eli tapped his fingers on the surface of his cluttered desk. “Tell me what Freddie Lansing’s been up to out there in cyberspace.”

Dan took a fairly thick sheaf of papers from his briefcase and pushed them across the desk to Eli.

“Read. We’ll talk when you’re done,” he said.

Eli took a bracing sip of coffee and read.

As he scanned out the printouts of Freddie’s emails and random posts on various websites, he felt a combination of pity, disgust and horror.

Freddie hadn’t been just bad, he’d been downright evil.

Like most incels—or “nice guys” as many social misfits called themselves—Freddie had had no interpersonal skills whatsoever.