Over the low rumble of the idling engines, they listened to car doors open but not shut. Footsteps in the gravel. He glanced cautiously over the lip of the window frame. Two figures approached, silhouetted in the bank of headlights that cast long distorted shadows. More men were behind them by the vehicles, but he couldn’t make out their number.

A voice of sandpaper and rust called out that they were FBI. There was an edge of Kentucky in his accent.

“Jenn Charles! Daniel Hendricks! Step out of the house. We have warrants for your arrest.”

A lonely minute passed. He could hear Jenn and Hendricks talking in hushed tones. Billy was banging his head lightly against the toilet seat. Gibson ducked down and put his hand on the back of Billy’s head to hold him still. The agent called out again, repeating his instructions.

Less warmly, if that were possible.

A hand tugged the hood off, and George Abe found himself kneeling on a dirt escarpment overlooking a valley that swept away to the south. The night sky was brilliant with stars. It amazed him how much sky you surrendered to live in a city. Why was it only in moments like these that a man noticed such things?

He rolled his head, hoping to unknot the muscles in his neck. His wrists were cuffed behind his back; his arms were zip-tied just above the elbows, which forced his shoulders back painfully. Try as he might, he couldn’t find a position that took the stress off his back, and his arms were going numb.

His interrogator had had only two questions. Where were Charles and Hendricks, and what happened to Abe Consulting Group? The questions got asked a lot of different ways, but it made no difference. The first he wasn’t answering. Not under any circumstances. They would kill him before he’d give up his people. As to the second, George didn’t know what they were talking about. Something about his offices being shut down and dismantled. It sounded insane, probably a ruse intended to get him talking. Through the pain and blood, he strove to keep his mind sharp.

The second round of “questioning” had involved an especially brutal beating. Titus’s thug had tuned him up pretty good. George’s left eye felt loose in the socket, his nose definitely broken. Dried blood was caked down his chin and shirtfront. The thug was right handed, and the ribs down George’s left side felt wet and pulverized beneath the muscle.

When they came back the third time, he was braced for things to take a serious turn, but instead they had thrown a hood on him and brought him here.