Qurban sighed heavily. "I suppose you've heard—"

"I know. Barclay's sprung the joint."

"'Sprung the joint'? What is this, an Americanism?" The agent clucked his tongue. "I don't like it. It sounds—I don't know. Too Dashiell Hammett. Vulgar."

"Leave the critique for my editor."

The agent laughed. "Yes, okay. Listen, my friend. You know I would take the bullet for you myself, if I could. You know this, right?"

"You're being a little melodramatic, aren't you?"

"Okay, I wouldn't take a bullet. But I'd thrust you out swiftly of its path. I bet he's not even worried about you. He's on a bus to Tijuana right now. Over the border and out of mind, with any luck."

"With any luck," Martin agreed.

"Listen, Martin, I know this may sound opportunistic, but this situation could be the best thing to happen since you met that crazy prick with the mask."

"What do you mean?"

He knew full well what Qurban meant. He'd thought it himself less than an hour ago. If fresh blood were to run, it would mean more meat for his hungry public. Enough to fuel a sequel. Two books. Three.

Witch Hunter had been his most profitable book right out the gate, even somewhat well-received critically. Something about the murders of unborn children appealed to people on a gut level. Maybe because it was a safe space to continue the Great American Abortion Debate without provoking too much partisan fury on either side.

Only a psychopath could believe the deliberate murder of a child in utero without consent of the mother, and the murder of the mother herself, was anything less than an abomination. Atrocities like that put food on the table for a good many people, from journalists to lawyers to the people who built the caskets.

"Witch Hunter was a pretty successful book, Martin," Qurban said playfully. "Successful? Shit, it put braces on my youngest. It's paying my eldest's way through college. He'll be a doctor soon because of that fucking book."

"You must be proud."

"You're damn right I'm proud! I'll be even more proud when they finally make it into a movie. Several hundred-thousand dollars proud."

"And now you're hoping there could be a sequel."

"Hey, you said it, Martin. I didn't say anything, did I?"

"You do realize what he intends to do to me, right?"

"Not to you, my friend! Just a little murder. One or two." Martin could picture his agent bobbling his head from side to side noncommittally. "Maybe if we're lucky he kills himself when he's done, or perhaps the police gun him down in a shootout, and it's broadcast all over the networks and the video goes viral, you never know—"

A horn blast startled Martin. The road had been empty, but a black car with a monster grill crept up behind him during the call, and now it was riding his tail.

It moved jerkily back and forth like a big black insect. The headlights were off, but there was still enough light in the sky to see. The dome light illuminated the hooded silhouette of the driver through the tinted windshield. Its only occupant. Gloved hands gripped the wheel.