He sighed and pulled himself up to sit straight against the pillows. He hit play, fast-forwarding until he came to the next vehicle that drove down the Sokolovs’ street.

It was an older-model Mazda and was filled with so many boxes that they obscured the view of the driver. He noted the license number, just in case, but a beat-up old Mazda didn’t seem like it would fit into the Sokolovs’ neighborhood. The residents here tended to favor BMWs and Teslas. Like the one that had just driven by.

He noted plate numbers for both the Mazda and the Tesla, then continued to fast-forward. And scowled. A gray Suburban approached the Sokolovs’ house but the windows were too darkly tinted for him to see inside. A few minutes later the Suburban reappeared, followed by an orange VW Beetle, and that driver’s face he could see. It was a face he knew.

He hissed a curse. “Her.” The woman who’d shot him after Amos had taken the shot he’d aimed at Mercy. Daisy Dawson. Gideon Reynolds’s girlfriend.

She was already on his list but seeing her face redoubled his determination to see her dead. He noted the license plate, paused the video, then opened a browser to check all three plates.

The Tesla was registered to the same corporation as the black F-150 he’d seen that morning. That was interesting.

DJ had googled the corporation’s name and had come up with a lot of nothing. But he had a hunch now and googled Karl Sokolov and Tesla. And, sure enough, a picture surfaced of Karl and his wife standing next to the fancy car, apparently on their way to a charity gala. The photo had been posted to the Facebook account belonging to Karl Sokolov’s marketing firm. The corporation didn’t bear the man’s business’s name, but it really didn’t need to. The connection was obvious.

Sokolov had loaned his truck to Amos. They’d regret helping him, just like they’d regret helping Mercy and Gideon.

He added the two Sokolovs to his list. If he could get Mercy and Gideon, all the others would show up to the funeral. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel.

He ran the plates on the Beetle and the gray Suburban, expecting to see actual owners’ names, but instead he got another corporation, this one based in Maryland.

The final plate belonged to the red Mazda that had been full of boxes.

“Oh my fucking God,” he snarled after its search results came up. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Another corporation. Which, of course, wasn’t tied to any one individual.

Weren’t any of these people normal, for fuck’s sake? Normal people registered cars in their own fucking names with their own fucking addresses.

The lawyers must be making a mint off these assholes. He fast-forwarded the video, noting the time and the other vehicles that passed by, all belonging to neighbors. Those had normal registrations. They were normal people.

Too bad they weren’t the people he wanted to kill.