Staggering under the crushing futility of it all, she leaned against the windowsill and looked down at the street. The cheery glare of the morning sun seemed an affront. She felt tears streaming down her cheeks. She could not remember feeling this low in all her life.

What good am I? she thought. Who am I kidding? I’m useless. I might as well call it quits now and end this charade.

When she caught herself eyeing the cars below and wondering how it would feel to plummet toward them, she pushed herself away from the window.

Not yet, she thought. Some other time, maybe, but not today.

4.

4.

Jack had debated going home and changing, but Ernie had let him borrow a razor to shave and had made sure that his hair in the photo on the brand-new Ronald Clayton New York State driver’s license was combed a little more neatly than Jack’s usually careless look.

He’d passed the ID check, the bank officer had used her key along with Jack’s on the double-locked safe deposit door, and now he was alone with box 137.

He flipped up the lid and found a stack of bulging manila envelopes, maybe half a dozen of them, each sealed with fiber tape. As much as Jack wanted to rip them open, this wasn’t the place. It might take some time to sift through these and find the one that answered all the questions. Besides, he was double-parked outside. Better to bring them home and take his time.

He gathered them up, made sure he wasn’t missing anything, then headed for the street. The car was where he’d left it—not something one took for granted in the city—but a meter maid had stopped her scooter at the corner and was working her way down the street toward the Chevy. Jack dashed to his car, hopped in, and took off.

He was just congratulating himself on how smooth the morning was going when he sensed movement behind him. Before he could react, something cold and metallic pressed against the back of his skull.

Jack stiffened in shock and gripped the wheel. He wasn’t being car-jacked—he’d been followed, damn it! He raged at himself for being so careless. First getting caught flat-footed in the Clayton backyard last night, and now being in such a big hurry that he hadn’t bothered to check the backseat. He cooled as he seined his mind for options.

An accented voice said, “Please keep driving.”

Please?

Jack glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a thin Oriental face, clean-shaven, late thirties maybe, eyes hidden behind fashionably round lightweight shades.

“And please do not try to accident the car or attract the police. These are hollow-point bullets filled with cyanide. Even a scratch will murder you.”

Despite his weird verbs, the gunman’s English was pretty good. He had the L’s almost right.