“You sure?”

“No,” I said. “I'm not sure. But that's what my gut tells me.”

“They're killers, Alex.”

“Professional killers. Don't worry, they'll pick their spot.”

“Oh, I'm not worried,” Sampson said. “I'm just anxious to get it on with these boys.”

As the afternoon progressed, we talked casually to some more H and K employees and their families. The people were easy to talk to and we were real friendly. Most of them said they liked where they worked a lot. Sampson and I passed ourselves off as new to the company and nobody questioned it. In fact, most everyone was cordial and welcoming, almost to a fault. Hard not to like the folks in Rocky Mount, most of them anyway.

Lunch was followed by team sports and other competitive games: swim races, volleyball, soccer, softball, and organized contests for the kids.

Starkey, Harris and Griffin eventually headed off toward one of the adjoining softball fields.

Sampson and I followed at a distance.

Let the games begin.

Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

Chapter Eighty-Two

I eed a couple more to fill out this team. You big fellows play any ball?“ asked an old man wearing a dusty Atlanta Braves shirt and ball cap. ”You're welcome to join in. It's a friendly little game."

I glanced over at Sampson. He smiled and said, “Sure, we'll play some ball.”

The two of us were put on the same team, which seemed the more ragtag and needier of the two. Starkey, Harris and Griffin were on the other team. Our worthy opponents for the friendly game.

“Looks like we're the underdogs,” Sampson said.

“We're not down here to win a softball game,” I said.

He grinned. “Yeah, and we're not here to lose one either.”

The game was good-natured on the surface, but everything was heavily stacked against our team. Starkey and Harris were good athletes, and everybody on their team seemed decent and knew how to play. Our group was uneven, and they exploited our weaknesses. We were behind by two runs after the first inning, and four runs after the third.

As we jogged off the field to take our turn at bat, Sampson patted my butt. “Definitely not down here to lose,” he said.

Sampson was scheduled to bat third that inning. I would be up fourth if somebody got on base. A skinny, older Mexican man led off with a bunt single and got razzed by our macho opponents for not having any cojones. The next batter, a big-bellied accountant, blooped a single just over the second baseman's head. More semi-good-natured razzing came from our opponents.

“Rather be lucky than good,” our guy yelled back from first base as he slapped his big beer belly.

Now Sampson stepped to the plate. He never took a practice swing, just touched the rubber base with the tip of the longest and heaviest bat he could find on the rack.

“Big power hitter. Better move back those fences!” Starkey called from shortstop. He looked like a ballplayer, moved easily and fluidly at bat and in the field, bent the peak of his cap just so.