If it hadn’t been for that bitch blocking his shot at the eye doctor last week, he’d have finished her off already. He’d put her on the list, too, just because.

DJ checked the time. “Three, two—” The explosion was audible from where he sat, the windows in his car rattling for a second before settling down. Perfect.

Except . . . He frowned. People were coming out the front doors of the building, but the two radio personalities kept talking as if nothing had happened.

Could the booth be that soundproofed? He hadn’t expected that.

“—come out this weekend,” the male show host was saying. “What do you think, Poppy? Will we have good weather for the festival? Poppy?”

“I’m sorry, Jake,” Daisy Dawson replied, her tone having changed to one of concern. “I wasn’t listening. There’s been a small explosion at KZAU.”

“What?” Jake exclaimed. “How? Why?”

“Nobody knows yet. They’ve evacuated the building,” Daisy said. “If you’re not sleeping in on this holiday morning and are out and about, you should avoid the area around the station.”

“Come out,” DJ growled. “Now.”

Sirens were already blaring and the station employees were standing on the curb, wringing their hands. Smoke had started billowing already.

“We’re broadcasting remotely,” Daisy said, “so we’re safe. Please, we’re asking you to stay away from KZAU so that first responders can take care of our people and put out the fire.”

DJ stared at his car radio in shock. “Remotely?” he whispered. Then his temper exploded. “Motherfucking sons of bitches.” This had all been for nothing.

His attack on Gideon last week had done this. You’re a goddamn fool, Belmont. He’d shot at Gideon and now Daisy was being guarded, her location kept secret.

Hands shaking with rage, he backed out of his parking space and drove past the fire truck speeding toward the station. Getting the second package to the Sokolovs was even more important now, but he’d have to be smarter. They’d be on their guard.

He had to think of another way to get the second package into the Sokolov home. “Fuck.”

WALNUT CREEK, CALIFORNIA

MONDAY, MAY 29, 9:30 A.M.

The Kitson home was nice. Not as big as the Sokolovs’ house, but fancier. “What if she slams the door in our faces?” Liza asked, nervous now that they were here. She’d driven while he’d continued to monitor the Sunnyside communications he could see.

“We’ll get a subpoena to get her to tell us about Pastor’s banker.” Tom took her hand, giving it a squeeze as they walked to the door. “Let me talk for now,” he murmured before he knocked.

The door was opened by the woman who’d worn the evening gown in the photo. Marcia Travis—a.k.a. Marcia Hampton, a.k.a. Margo Kitson née Holly—smiled at them politely. “This neighborhood has an ordinance against soliciting.” She started to close the door.

“I’m Special Agent Tom Hunter, FBI.” He showed her his badge and the woman’s face froze. “This is my associate, Miss Barkley. We’d like to talk to you.”