Contrary to expectations, Snake didn’t turn to go. The crop duster was staring into the display cases behind Brody, as though looking for something in particular. Brody had a feeling he knew what it was.

“Can I help you, Snake?”

“Is my rifle still down here?”

Brody smiled and pointed to the display case closest to the shooting stations of the firing range. Every case in this room featured polycarbonate glass for security, but the last case was unique in that it could be sealed with a wooden insert that concealed it altogether. Broader than the others, it held two scoped rifles mounted horizontally at chest height, and below them a German Flammenwerfer 41, the most advanced flamethrower of World War II.

Snake walked over to the cabinet and gazed at the rifles. As Brody stepped up behind him, Snake shook his head and whistled long and low.

“What you figure these beauties would fetch on eBay?” he asked.

The top rifle was a 1959 Remington 700, chambered for a .243 cartridge and mounted with a 7x Kahles scope. Beneath it was a 1962 Winchester Model 70, chambered for .30-06 Springfield and mounting a 5x Leupold scope. The Winchester was “Snake’s rifle.”

“Two million apiece?” Brody guessed. “Hell, maybe five. But we’d never see the money.” He chuckled at the thought. “Our kids would be spending it while we rotted in jail.”

Snake shook his head again. “You’ve got balls, Mr. Royal. Damn … I’ll give you that.”

Brody’s chest swelled. Before he turned back to the sofa, he read the engraved brass plaques mounted beneath the rifles. Each was decorated with a small, full-color American flag. The plaque beneath the Remington read: November 22, 1963. The one beneath Snake’s Winchester read: April 4, 1968.

OUT ON THE NARROW lane outside Brody Royal’s house, a sixty-seven-year-old black man wearing a Detroit Tigers baseball cap drove his pickup truck along the shore of Lake Concordia. He saw a guard with a rifle slung over his shoulder standing a few yards down the driveway. Sleepy Johnston waved happily with his right hand, playing the part of an elderly fool, and kept driving with his knee. His right hand held a Glock .40-caliber pistol. He’d have to go around the lake now, and drive out the other way. But at least he’d gotten a look at the pickup truck parked before Brody Royal’s garage door.

It belonged to Snake Knox. One of Albert’s killers …