He perused clothing and shoes and personal items, and eyeballed distance between furniture, bathroom, and balcony, and closed himself inside and settled into the thick plush carpet. For two days he’d been on the go, pushing pieces into place, and all he had now was time to sleep and time to wait, and he drifted down, down, deep down into the oblivion of timelessness, and woke to the vibration of an alarm going off in one pocket and a minute later a pager going off in the other.

He pried his eyes open, glanced at the pager readout.

The technology, once big in the eighties and early nineties, had mostly vanished as cell phones became smaller and cheaper, but it still had a thriving niche among emergency personnel and was reliable in ways cell phones weren’t. Batteries lasted weeks, if not months, and more importantly, the old-school tech couldn’t be tracked. He’d collected the devices from their stuff in Houston, along with the X-Caliber and Jill’s knife.

His sister carried one.

Holden carried another.

The number on the screen, a prearranged code, told him that Jill had called Liv Wilson to request a meeting, and Liv Wilson had taken the bait.

She’d mobilized a tactical team.

All they’d find was Jill’s phone.

It’d ring, and rank would answer, and Jill would tell them they’d been very, very stupid, and Holden, who’d be in position long before the chase started, would put a bullet through the guy’s kneecap. And Jill would call Wilson again and say she’d try again tomorrow, and then she’d disappear. Barring some other emergency, there’d be no reason for Wilson to stay late at work.

He dozed and waited.

The pager vibrated again, confirming all moved forward as planned, and he slept again and woke to notification that Liv Wilson was in motion, vehicle last seen headed in the direction of home.

A minute later, the pager buzzed with Holden’s response.

Mr. Taiwan Markets was still at the office.

Jack stood and stretched, limbering muscles that had stiffened during sleep, and he upped the tempo to get blood moving through sluggish veins. He sucked on dextrose to compensate for too many hours without food, and right on cue, according to the traffic map in his head, the front door opened and the alarm pad sounded.

A number sequence killed the countdown.

Two voices—male and female—headed up the stairs.

That wasn’t right.

Inside Jack’s head, the mental maze shifted.

He hadn’t planned on Liv Wilson soothing defeat with angry, adulterous sex and had no doubt that’s what this was, because Wilson, now in the bedroom, confirmed it, telling Security Dude that her husband wouldn’t be home till early morning, because of something-something product launch, something-something time zones.

The bed groaned. Dirty talk turned vicious.

The noise of body slapping against body ramped up speed.