“Now listen up, I don’t want to shoot you. Far as I’m concerned, right now you and me, we’re even. But I have to tell you the truth—if I do have to shoot you, I will enjoy it.” He forced up both sides of his mouth in his phony smile. “Capiche?”

I capiched. As Corbin played Dirty Harry, I hunched my shoulders and didn’t look up, showing him I was as beaten up on the inside as was visible on the outside. But I had been genuinely affected by Laura’s willingness to risk her own safety to slip me a weapon, if you believe a plastic knife is a weapon. It was a wonderful gesture; she had no way of knowing it wasn’t necessary. I had laid out my plan a while ago. The only part that had been missing from it was the feral anger that once had made it possible for me to do brutal things without hesitation, to look some jerk with a bloated sense of self-importance in the eyes and pull the trigger. But I had it now. It was back.

Rollie Stone, journalist, was a different man. That was by necessity, but also by choice. Life was easier once you backed away from the edge. On some of those sleepless nights I’d had brief reminders; for an instant I was the trigger, walking down a rubble-strewn street, ready to snap. Jenny had caught me there once, asked about it, and I’d joked my way out of it. Rollie from my first life, I’d explained, paying a brief visit.

But he’d come back to stay on the floor of that motel room. Each kick, each punch had opened the door a little wider, and he’d rushed back in. Welcome home, baby.

The girl is gonna die too? Really? Fuck you very much. I was going to enjoy this a lot more than I had anticipated. I could feel the bulge of the Glock under me as I cowered. I wanted to make sure Big Dick was confident, even cocky.

“Now let’s get the fuck out of here,” Corbin finished.

While Mighty Chair slid into its rails and I locked down, Corbin belted himself into the passenger seat. To be extra safe he made a big show of taking his weapon out of his shoulder holster and putting it in the passenger door well, making it impossible for me to reach it while still keeping it easily accessible. He called Francis on his mobile to confirm he was “ready to roll with Rollie,” and advised him we would be stopping for gas within an hour. “We’ll stay in the right lane. Just keep up with us.”

We took the highway. No diversions, a reasonably straight shot to Washington. I didn’t even bother asking if he wanted to detour slightly to visit the Liberty Bell. It was a bright sunny day—it probably would be remembered as a good day for a hanging—and Corbin was enjoying the ride. He’d accomplished his mission and undoubtedly there would be goodies waiting for him. Regional assistant? Probably not out of the question. He played with the radio, settling on an easy listening station. Barry Manilow was singing a mournful arrangement of “On the Sunny Side of the Street.” Good, the boredom had gotten to him even sooner than I’d expected.