The memory evaporated with the heavy thunk of the door closing behind him.

77

There were two more men inside of his house sitting in his living room.

They were both lean and clean-cut and wearing business attire.

They actually looked the way FBI agents were supposed to look, Gannon thought. In their crisp khakis and polos and Top-Siders, they could have been a couple of finance guys down to the islands for a corporate conference.

The one sitting in his leather recliner was older and taller and completely bald. There was a crackle of plastic as he reached into the bag of shelled peanuts that was in his lap. He had stolen them from his cupboard, Gannon realized.

As Gannon watched, the man cracked one of the peanuts open and picked out the nut and let the cracked shells spill from his palm almost playfully to the floor. He must have been doing this for some time because the Spanish tile between his size-thirteen new boat shoes was completely littered with shells.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Mystery Man,” the bald agent said, cracking open another peanut and licking it out of his palm.

“Mike, I’m FBI deputy assistant director Reyland,” the bald man said with a grin after he had chewed and swallowed. “And on the couch over there is FBI special agent Emerson.”

Emerson gave him a wave from the couch. He was dark-haired and younger and metro preppy. There was an open Apple laptop on the couch beside him.

Gannon looked back at the bald man. Then he looked back at Sunglasses, at the large bore of his Smith & Wesson trained three feet from his face.

“You’re not an easy man to catch up to,” Reyland said. “And we’d love to ask you a few questions. How are you doing this fine evening?”

Gannon watched as Reyland slapped bits of peanut shell off the lap of his slacks. After he was done, he smiled broadly as he crossed his long legs and placed his big hands onto the ends of the chair’s armrests. He settled back and raised his bald head high with a relaxed, ready-to-be-amused expression on his face. A king on a throne ready for the jester’s performance.

“Cat got your tongue?” Emerson said.

“Can I help you?” Gannon finally said.

“Oh, you’ve helped enough, I think, haven’t you, Mike?” Reyland said. “First by taking what didn’t belong to you. Then by killing our friends. Or maybe we have the wrong house? Tell me, you weren’t around Lexington Avenue this week, were you? With a gun in your hand? Killing four US federal law enforcement agents?”

Gannon looked down as a flash of the inside of the Escalade suddenly came to him. The reek of cordite and smoke and the three men shot to pieces with their blood splatter up on all the shattered windows.

He shook the memory away as he put a knuckle to his lip as if he were trying to remember.