Today he’s dressed to blend in with the locals. Khaki pants, L.L.Bean jacket, aviator sunglasses, black baseball cap. He holds up his Nikon camera and snaps a few shots of the protesters and the cordon of state troopers just to make the press pass around his neck look legit. He’s careful not to point his camera directly at the Secret Service agents. No need to attract their attention.

A podium is fixed at the bottom of the courthouse steps in case somebody important decides to make a statement. Doohan weaves through the crowd-control barriers, assessing his options.

He doesn’t like any of them.

His sponsor wants the hit to be public, which makes no sense. Why not just let him follow the subject to a dark street or empty hotel room? No witnesses. Easy exfil.

But for this kind of money, he’s not asking questions.

He could make the shot from here, easy. A high-powered pistol would do it. But all it would take is one solid citizen or plainclothes agent to spoil his getaway. And he can’t let that happen. Not on this job.

Doohan looks up at the roof of the courthouse. Too many professional snipers up there already. No other tall buildings in view. A bunch of trees line the parking lot, but most are evergreens. Not great for climbing. He sees a cell tower a few hundred yards back, but that’s a long shot with windage and an exposed position to boot.

Forget it. This whole place is negative for the operation.

Although he can’t wait to put crosshairs on a forehead again, it has to be someplace else.

No worries.

He’ll have no problem spotting his target.

In New Hampshire, a Black woman stands out.

CHAPTER
101

The State calls Felicia Bonanno.”

Every head in the courtroom swivels around as Felicia comes through the doors and walks down the center aisle. She’s wearing a plain blue dress and her hair is done up in a neat bun. I try to catch her eye, but she just stares straight ahead, biting her lip, looking sad and afraid.

I don’t blame her. What happened to Suzanne is something no mother should ever have to endure, let alone relive. Since Garrett’s murder, sadly, I empathize with her even more than I did when we began our investigation.

As a witness for the prosecution, Felicia hasn’t been allowed in the courtroom until now. I’m grateful that she hasn’t been here to see the photos of her daughter’s remains and burial spot projected on the large screen.

The clerk swears Felicia in. She sits down in the witness stand, then shifts forward in the chair until she’s a few inches from the microphone.

“Good morning, Mrs. Bonanno,” says the deputy attorney general.

“Good morning.” Her voice sounds shaky and nervous and very soft.

The courtroom stills as we all strain to hear her.