Ridgeway backed away from the young man, unable to respond. He felt the cold metal of the limousine pressing against his back as he leaned against it, hoping the icy calm and old instincts that had saved him so many times as a policeman would not fail him this morning. Ridgeway looked desperately around, his eyes searching for help, for a weapon, for an exit.

The rattling of the machine gun’s bolt drew his attention back to the man who stood professionally in front of him, out of Ridgeway’s effective reach yet close enough to make running hopeless. “Don’t try to escape,” the man said as if he’d read Ridgeway’s thoughts. “You and I need to have a talk.”

“A talk like you had with… Benjamin,” Ridgeway said, trying not to look at the grim butchery in the front seat

“If necessary,” the man said.

Consciously Ridgeway forced himself to focus on the man, on his words, to divorce his thoughts from the sight of the butchered man, from the cold, from the danger.

“I don’t think you’ll need to use that,” Ridgeway said, pointing at the man’s knife.

“Keep your hands to your side,” the man snapped. And then, with a flourish, he folded the knife and stowed it back in the pocket from which it had come. “We’ll see if you need that sort of convincing or not in just a minute. Now get inside—in the back.”

The thought of getting inside the car with its warm sweet smell of death set Ridgeway’s stomach churning harder, but he had no choice. The man moved around toward the rear of the car to cover Ridgeway as he opened the limo’s rear door. The warm, nauseating smell billowed out

“If you will look inside, you will see two handcuffs, one fastened to the handhold over the door on the other side and another attached to the front seat brackets. Take your seat and I’ll show you how to put them on.”

Ridgeway sat down on the blood-soaked upholstery.

“Look on the other side,” the man said as he moved closer to keep Ridgeway covered. “You’ll see that the free end of each handcuff is open. I want you to attach the upper handcuff to your left wrist, and the lower one to your left ankle.” Ridgeway realized that the young man enjoyed his surgical skills and would carve him open regardless of how much he cooperated.

Benjamin chose that moment to unleash a long low groan of exquisite pain from deep inside his tortured body that grew in pitch and intensity until it expanded and blocked out every thought of Ridgeway’s head save that of escape. Ridgeway flew at the door on the opposite side, preferring a bullet to slow death by dissection. The door wouldn’t open. Ridgeway smashed frantically at the door, then at the window, cracking it with his fist.

Behind Ridgeway, a burst from the machine gun put a stop to Benjamin’s unholy screaming. Ridgeway recoiled as a yellowish white blob of the guard’s brain smeared the side of his head and splattered against the window. Then, after an instant, he heard the killer’s voice.