REDRUM: Bet it’s a job. HSK whacked the wrong guy. Now they’re going to whack him. Man, that would make a great movie. You sure it’s been done?

RIPPER: How about you go start writing it now?

REDRUM: Piss off.

He turned away from the monitor. His colleagues coming after him? There was something vaguely cannibalistic in that, something unfair, even treacherous. Yes, he had to admit, something hurtful. Why come after him? He hadn’t trodden on any toes, hadn’t stolen a job or offed a colleague. His attitude and behavior toward his fellow pros had always been respectful.

And yet…

True or not true, he’d have to take it into account. Maybe it was time to change gears. Consider the possibilities. Savor the power of choice.

One choice niggled at the back of his brain. The most intriguing of the lot.

In this game he’d created, he’d allotted himself a number of special moves. His trump cards. Perhaps it was time to play one of them, an ace he’d been saving in case things went wrong. The game had changed now, though, and it made no sense to play the card. And yet…

His father had been a gambler. Lost everything they owned. Yet his father always swore that Fortune had deserted him when he’d stopped trusting her, when he’d become nervous and started holding his cards too long. A smart gambler, he’d said, knows how to make a surprise play pay off.

A surprise play. He chuckled, then surreptitiously wiped down the keyboard with his sleeve, put on his coat, picked up his disposable coffee cup and left.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-ONE

Jack left early that morning. Evelyn and I ate breakfast, then headed out. I’d threatened to burn my Mafia-bait outfit. Now I wished I’d followed through. I was indeed dressed again as a big-haired tight-jeaned boob-plumped Jersey girl. Evelyn swore that what had worked with Little Joe would work with Nicky Volkv, but I suspected she just liked forcing me to do things I didn’t want to do.

After dropping Evelyn off on the way to talk to a nearby source, I stopped to call Emma at the lodge. It was Thursday now, the weekend coming and no sign that I’d be home in time.

Emma assured me that wasn’t a problem—we were only half booked, and they were all fall foliage tourists, most of them seniors, none of whom had booked my extreme sports “extras” or access to the shooting range. She’d just tell any drop-ins that these services were unavailable this weekend, and offer a discounted rate if anyone complained. Everything else—supervising hikes, doling out bikes and canoes, hosting the bonfires—she and Owen could handle. I should just relax and enjoy my time away…and whomever I was sharing it with.