Reece was behind the wall when she made that first sound. And the angle was perfect! The light on her face. Small darkness where one leg pressed against the other. It would happen soon, he thought.

She would stop pretending.

She would open her eyes.

When the moment came, Reece felt a pounding in his chest; and when she moved, he was behind the walls. She was not panicked as she’d been before, no tears or drama as she drifted from room to room touching the walls or opening drawers. In the kitchen, she filled a glass with water and drank it down. In the bathroom, she splashed water on her face, and he was there for that, too, behind the mirror, and close on the other side, watching as she stared at her reflection, bare inches between them. She would submit, in the end—they all did—but would she choose to do so? His was such a simple desire: to know as other men knew, to be drawn down, invited, to close his eyes and stab out the sorrows. He saw how it could be with Sara, the yes in her throat, and a needful rise, the velvet hinge of her un-scissored legs.

She was perfect.

She would be different.

He closed his eyes to imagine it better.

In the darkness beyond the walls of Reece’s house, three men sat in the back of a windowless van. Zachary Byrd was in charge. He had the scars, the clients, the money. The other two were hired hands, good with knife or gun, and willing to kill anything for the right price. Wilkinson and Pugh charged five thousand apiece, and Byrd was happy to pay it. His contract with X was for a half-million dollars, plus a fifty thousand kicker if he made Reece beg, and got it on tape. Of course, Reece was supposed to be some kind of tough-nut killer. He worked for X, so maybe he was. Either way …

“Why can’t we just shoot this guy?”

Wilkinson had small eyes and a wound of a mouth. Frowning at the question, Byrd said, “You know why.”

“The client says slow and bloody, I get it. But why does he care?”

Byrd thumbed a knife’s edge, and sheathed it. “I guess this Reece guy stepped on the wrong toes. What does it matter?”

“The wrong toes. Ha!”

That was Pugh, as thoughtful as a murdered cat, but good with locks and alarms. Byrd sheathed a second knife, frowning. “Listen up, and let me be clear. We do this like I said. Screw it up, and I’ll peel your face like a potato.”

Wilkinson was smart enough to nod, but Pugh was still grinning like his dick was a jack-in-the-box and Miss America was turning the crank.

Byrd scowled at them both, but on the inside was smiling.

One night’s work …

Half a million plus …