“Sets you on edge, doesn’t it?” Jenkins asked.

It did.

In his gloved hand March clicked on a black light. The ultraviolet rays spectacularly lit up what had been a dull poster of a ship improbably sailing through the sky.

He shut the light off again.

A glance at a large peace symbol, reminiscent of the Mercedes-Benz emblem on his car back home. This icon was made out of shells.

On edge…

He told the Get to relax; it was, he suspected, still angry that the Asian family on the rocks had missed the opportunity to die spectacular deaths in the icy bay.

Somebody’s not happy…

You will be soon.

They had parked two blocks away and made their way to Scanlon’s house through woods, out of sight of any of the neighbors. March, the technician of the two, had examined the man’s place carefully from the distance. Then, convinced it was unoccupied, he’d slipped up and peered through the windows. No alarms, no security cameras. The lock had been easily jimmied. Then, ready to flee in case they’d missed an alarm, they’d waited. Then they’d begun preparing the room for the events tonight.

March now turned from the bizarre decor and looked over the cot they’d set up. TJ Scanlon’s final resting place. The young man would be tied down and tortured. You didn’t need much. March had his knife and he’d found a pair of pliers. Pain was simple. You didn’t need to get elaborate.

He’d also staged the scene rather well, he thought. They’d bought a bottle of rubbing alcohol, to enhance the agent’s agony, from a convenience store in the barrio of Salinas, a place known for gangs, and they’d picked up some trash and discarded rags from the area too. A little research had revealed the colors and signs of the K-101s, which was a crew that the CBI had had some run-ins with, arresting a few lieutenant-level bangers. March had tagged the signs on Scanlon’s wall, right above the spot where he would die. Presumably after giving up all sorts of helpful information about ongoing investigations into the gang.

March wondered what “TJ” stood for. He didn’t bother to prowl through paperwork to find out.

Thomas Jefferson?

Jenkins was asking, “What if he’s not coming home tonight? Maybe—”

And just then there came the sound of a car on the long gravel drive, approaching.

“That’s him?”

March eased up to the window to look out.

Which gave Jenkins a chance to put his hand on March’s spine.

It’s all right.

“Yep.”

Scanlon was alone in the car. And there were no other vehicles with him.

Suddenly the Get slipped a regret into March’s head that it wasn’t Kathryn Dance whom he was about to work on after all.

March kicked the idea away. No. This was the way to handle it.

Which irritated the Get and for a moment March felt inflamed and edgy.

Fuck you, he thought. I’ve got some say in this.