Hendricks sat in silence, digesting the implications. Jenn watched him work through it. They had kidnapped a man from his home, questioned him aggressively in an abandoned storage locker, and now that man was dead. The shooter had taken the time to frame Hendricks with one of his own guns. George Abe was in sufficient trouble to hit the panic button. Oh, and sometime in the last twenty-four hours, ACG’s phones had all been disconnected.

They were in uncharted territory.

There was a lot more at stake than a job now. Hendricks was going to have to decide for himself, and she was going to have to let him. She’d already made her choice.

“To go forward or to run,” he said. “That is the question.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Running makes sense.”

“Agreed.”

“I’m a little old to take up running,” he said. “I’d have to buy those ugly-ass shoes and those flimsy little shorts. I’m the wrong kind of black for that shit.”

“You do have bony legs.”

Each looked away out a window.

“So. Where to?” he asked.

“To Gibson Vaughn.”

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to look him up,” Hendricks said. “Where is he?”

Jenn showed Hendricks on her map.

“Why do I know that address?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“At this point, I’d believe it if you told me it was Hitler’s bunker.”

“It’s Terrance Musgrove’s old beach house.”

“Perfect,” Hendricks said. “But for the record, I preferred my guess.”

“Yeah, me too,” Jenn said.

George came to in a wooden chair, head down on a crude metal table. His wrists were handcuffed to a sturdy metal bar set into the center of the table. The surface of the table was cool on the side of his face, but he sat up grudgingly, and his chair swayed as if someone had taken a screwdriver to it, intentionally loosening the legs.

There wasn’t much else to look at; the room was a standard eight-by-ten-foot cinder-block interrogation room. The brittle hum of the fluorescent lighting made George’s head throb like a cruel dentist was excavating his eyeteeth. His throat was tight and dry, his back knotted and bruised. Judging by his hunger, he’d been out at least twelve hours, which would make it, what? Friday morning?

George checked himself in the wide mirror set in the wall. He didn’t look too much the worse for wear. Hadn’t had his ribs broken in transit. Thank you, gracious host. His tie was crooked, and it bothered him that he couldn’t straighten it.

A door opened to his left. A man entered and sat opposite George. He placed a cup and a pitcher of water on the table. It was chilled and condensation stippled the sides.