Maybe it was wrong, but I didn’t feel bad about plotting Delov’s death. Not bad at all. I knew exactly what kind of scum he was. The giant sold drugs, which was sleazy enough, but he specialized in getting kids hooked on the stuff. He had a whole network of dealers whose sole job was to push his product to the local middle and high schools. A few weeks ago, a thirteen-year-old girl had died after getting a bad batch of Delov’s drugs, and her nine-year-old sister had also gotten sick and almost perished. The girls’ parents had somehow reached out to Fletcher, and now here we were, about to get payback for the dead girl, her sick sister, and her grieving parents—permanently.

Fletcher gave me a hand signal. I nodded, understanding that I was to hold my position in the hallway and watch our backs, just in case there was anyone in the mansion who wasn’t supposed to be there. Fletcher palmed one of the silverstone knives he carried for jobs like these, slid into the kitchen, and crept closer to Delov.

I was so busy studying Fletcher that the faint click-click-click of toenails on the hardwood floor behind me didn’t register for a few precious seconds. When it finally did, I froze for a moment, then slowly turned my head to the side and looked down.

A fat, fluffy Pomeranian with golden fur sniffed my left boot like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

I bit back a curse. We hadn’t seen Peaches while we’d been skulking through the mansion, and I’d thought he must have curled up on another floor and gone to sleep for the night. I liked dogs, really I did, but they’d screwed up more than a few jobs Fletcher had taken me on. Still, I couldn’t kill the curious fluffball. Peaches was innocent, even if his owner wasn’t. No pets, no kids—ever. That was the code Fletcher had taught me and I was determined to live by it.

I eased down to my knees and held out my hand, hoping that would distract the dog long enough for Fletcher to kill Delov. He was only about fifteen feet away from the giant now and closing fast. Ten more seconds, and he’d be in range. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .

Peaches sniffed my fingers and gave them a tentative lick. And then he started barking—loud, yippy, there’s-someone-new-new-new-in-the-house barks.

Oh, no.