It smelled like a freakin’ setup.

Decker took his umbrella, yanked on the door handle, and got out. He made a dash for the house, trembling under the eaves of a wraparound porch. Hail continued to fall, little perfect balls of ice bouncing on the dead ground.

Thinking about his options. Not too much to think about because he didn’t have many alternatives. He could stay put… or he could run.

Heart going a mile a minute.

Then he remembered his cell phone. Extracting it from his pocket, he pushed the speak button and the satellites sprang up a dial tone—albeit humming with static. Quickly, he dialed Jonathan’s number.

Seconds ticked by.

“C’mon, you son of a bitch, connect!”

Another second passed. Then it started ringing.

“Thank you, God!”

One ring.

“Answer, brother, answer!”

Two rings.

“Hello?”

Never had Jonathan’s voice sounded so good. “Hey, it’s me and I got a big problem.”

“What?” Across the line, crackle threatened to break communication any moment. “Can I call you back, Akiva? The connection’s bad.”

“Don’t hang up!” Decker shouted. “I’m out in no-man’s-land— somewhere up in the hills between Quinton and Bainberry, about ten minutes out of Quinton. As you’re going toward Bainberry, you turn left off onto some barely noticeable turnoff; it’s a side road—”

“Akiva—”

“Shut up and listen, Jonathan. Follow it up and you’ll see a clapboard structure that looks like a broken-down bed and breakfast. If I’m lucky, I’m at a whorehouse. If not, I’m gonna be shot at really soon.”

“Oh my God!”

“Listen! If I don’t call you back in five minutes, come out and look for me. And whatever you do, don’t call the Quinton Police. Call up the State Police, you understand?”

“Akiva—”

“There’s my date. Gotta go.” He clicked off the phone and stored it in his pocket. “Hey, Plunkett! I’m over here!”

The cabbie turned around and came over to him. “Whacha doing out here?”

“I’m claustrophobic.” Decker’s voice shot bullets. “I’m getting pissed. Yes or no?”

“It’s a go,” Plunkett said. “Calm down, all right?”

Decker exhaled. “Sorry. Let’s go.”

The driver extended his hand. “Hey, my job’s done.”

“Wrong.” Decker grabbed him by the collar. “You go in with me. I like introductions.”

And then he heard the click. Something in his primal consciousness must have anticipated it because his autopilot instantly grabbed the offending wrist. In a smooth, sharp twist, Decker wrested the gun away, feeling the grip slip from the cabbie’s into his own hand. Then he nailed him against the wall, pressing the muzzle of the Smith & Wesson .32 snub-nose against the kid’s Adam’s apple.

Decker sneered. “That wasn’t at all polite.”

“What the fuck do you want from me?”

“Just what I said… an introduction.”

No one spoke, but the breathing was audible, both of them sputtering out big plumes of frosted air, chugging like an old locomotive.

“Why’d you pull a piece on me?” Decker asked at last.

“Why’d you grab me?” Plunkett retorted.