If Chris had had a family, then things would have been just peachy. But life hadn’t worked out that way. The first woman he’d married had wanted kids when he felt he hadn’t been able to afford them. His second wife left when Chris left his dependable salary behind. Abby was the closest thing he would ever have to a child of his own. And it was because of that he found himself, on what should have been just another working morning in his sun-drenched apartment, wondering which countries didn’t have an extradition treaty with the United States.

He’d heard Costa Rica didn’t have an extradition treaty with anyone. He wondered if Abby would take to it. It sounded hot, remote, and a little backward. There had to be more than just one place without a treaty with Uncle Sam. Hell, just think of all the countries they’d pissed off. The entire Middle East for starters. Still, not an ideal choice. What about Russia? If the CIA couldn’t get that guy Snowden back, then they sure as hell wouldn’t throw out too many legal grappling hooks for Chris Wilcox and his gang of desperados.

He knew in his heart, though, that Abby would suffer in a country where English wasn’t the first language. Chris would be fine. People would still buy Thermo Booster Burn wherever he was.

And Spencer? Well, fuck Spencer, because as far as Chris was concerned, it was down to Spencer that he was now standing in his quiet hallway, his overly quiet hallway, holding a letter that caused his heart to pound so hard he could swear it was making the paper shake.

In the maelstrom that was a typical day in the life of an overworked DPD detective, things often went from bad to worse—and stayed there. Staffing issues had decreed Batiste spend the entire morning running base. Then a rejection email from his latest Michigan State Police application had come through. But just when it seemed the day was a goner, he’d received an urgent call from a teacher at McDade Elementary. She and Batiste had spoken several times, and Batiste was of the mind that she was extremely upstanding, highly efficient, and not someone to cross.

Now, through branches gently waving over cut lawns, Batiste and Scott watched the road outside McDade Elementary, where an endless stream of parents jockeyed for parking. Some had commandeered spaces in good time, and sat waiting in their cars. Spencer Burnham was one of them. Their new confidential informant had spotted a hip flask in use.

“Nearest school building’s got to be a hundred yards away,” said Scott. “Did she used to be a SEAL?”

A bell rang out.

Any moment now.

Spencer watched the horde spill out from the school gates. His phone started ringing again. It hadn’t stopped for the last hour.