Reece had always had a powerful imagination. He could look at a woman and know how they would be together, whether she wanted it or not. If the target was a man, he knew exactly how the man would scream, and what bribe or debasement he might offer up to make the pain stop. For Sara, he imagined the time she would need to adjust and accept. If it took weeks, that would be fine. Even months. It wasn’t just her looks. It was the way she moved and smiled, something about the soul, and Reece had never cared about the soul. It would require patience, and for Reece that was hard.

For Sara, though …

He played it out: the carrot, the stick. Almost blissful, he opened his eyes.

Amber lights were flashing in the silence.

Someone was on the grounds!

In a sudden panic, Reece spun from the two-way glass, crabbing sideways in a mad dash for the security room. He took the next corner too fast, tore skin on a nail, ignored it. At the monitors, he bent over the controls.

He’d been so careful!

But the cameras didn’t lie: three men over the wall, and moving fast, single file as they neared the house.

Not cops, though …

If cops knew about Reece, they’d have come in tactical squads.

Simple thieves?

He discarded the thought as soon as it surfaced. The house was lit up like Christmas, three cars in the driveway.

Private contractors, then.

A three-man crew.

Reece’s first thought was X, but X didn’t know about the girl. He couldn’t.

Other enemies?

Reece did know violent men, but, like him, they ghosted in the cracks, and killed in quiet places. So maybe it was X. In the end, it didn’t matter. This was Reece’s home, and his home was a killing place. So he watched them come, three men, moving like pros, one directing the others. They drew down in a patch of cover, but there was no such thing as cover, not here. Every camera was night-capable, with intersecting lines of sight. Reece watched for another moment, then thumbed a switch, unbolting the side door.

Byrd was feeling cocky. An easy climb, up and over the wall. No dogs or automatic lights. When Wilkinson and Pugh settled into the darkness beside him, Byrd gestured with an open hand. “West-side corner.”

He went first, and the others followed, crossing a final stretch of open ground, then settling into darkness beneath a pair of French windows. Pugh grinned in the gloom. “Walk in the park.”

But Byrd had checked the windows, and knew better. “Polycarbonate windows. Steel frames and armored hinges.”

“Bulletproof? Come on, man.”