They had blind obedience to whomever was paying them for their services. They never suggested an alternate plan, never expressed their opinions unless asked for them. They were incurious to the point of indifference about their orders. They didn’t care a whit about the whys and wherefores of a job. They were apolitical and nonreligious. They did what they were told to do without question or discussion.

Those attributes made them ideal for their current retainer’s needs. They’d been hired to disable Britt Shelley and kill Jay Burgess.

They’d been shown Britt Shelley’s photograph and had seen her on television. They’d picked her out the minute she came into the bar. The Wheelhouse itself had served their purpose because it was crowded and busy, and the waitresses were so rushed that trays of drinks were kept on the bar long enough for a sleight of hand to take place without anyone noticing.

They’d been given explicit instructions and had carried them out to the letter. They’d been told to neutralize the woman and leave it to look like she had killed Burgess, and that was what they’d done.

It had helped that Burgess was careless about setting his security alarm. Getting inside the town house had been a matter of opening a terrace door and strolling in. The drug had hit Britt Shelley hard, and when Johnson and Smith had ambled into Burgess’s living room, Burgess was anxiously asking her if she was all right. Clearly she wasn’t.

Taken by surprise, weakened by his illness, and more than a little intoxicated himself, Burgess had been easily overpowered. The two pros had then forced the couple to drink the bottle of scotch. Burgess had protested, but he’d complied. The woman was too far gone to care what was being done to her, so they’d funneled the scotch down her throat with no difficulty.

When both were incapacitated, Johnson and Smith had stripped them of their clothing, put them in the guy’s bed, then smothered the guy. They’d planted the empty condom packet on the sofa, all the while being careful not to leave any traces of themselves for a clever crime scene investigator to find.

The stage had been set precisely as they’d been told to leave it. Everything had gone as planned…until this morning, when it was discovered that Britt Shelley had up and disappeared. This had really pissed off their retainer, who hadn’t anticipated that development. Initial efforts to track her had rendered nothing.

So they’d been ordered to keep tabs on Bill Alexander, attorney at law. At first their client had considered having them torture the lawyer until he gave up the whereabouts of his client. But it was soon determined that his frantic nervousness was genuine and that, when he was seen in news reports averring to police that he had no idea where Britt Shelley had gone, he was telling the truth.

However, the assumption had been that he would be the first person she’d contact when she resurfaced-if she wasn’t found by the police and arrested first-so Johnson and Smith had been ordered to bug the lawyer’s phone.

Duck soup. He was a bachelor who lived alone and was too penurious to hire a maid. During the day, while he was at his law office, his house stood empty. The two-man team had been in and out in a matter of minutes and had spent the rest of the day monitoring their equipment, waiting for something to happen.

Finally it did. Their ears perked up when they heard the dial tone and the beeps of Alexander punching in a number. Johnson dropped his cards and made note of the time. Smith started the recorder.

Three rings, then a hello. Female voice, sounding hesitant and puzzled, then exasperated.

“Ms. Shelley! Thank God you answered!”

“Mr. Alexander?”

“Where have you been? Haven’t you heard the news? The police have issued a warrant for your arrest.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Where did you go?”

“I didn’t exactly…go. It’s a long story. I’ll explain everything when I get home. I suppose the police are watching my house.”

“Yes, you’ll have quite a reception committee. I must warn you, Ms. Shelley, that they obtained a search warrant this afternoon. Prepare yourself for a mess.”

“A search warrant? Why?”

“Because you’re a fugitive!”

“No, I’m not.”

“What would you call yourself then? When a person flees to avoid arrest-”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, that’s how it looks to the police. To everyone.”

“I know, but I can explain. I-”

“As you said, save the explanation until you arrive. And the sooner the better. Where are you now?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Not sure?”

“I’m an hour away, at least. I’ll be there as soon as I can get there.”

“If you’re not captured first. Both Twenty-six and Ninety-five are crawling with-”

“I’m not on an interstate. I’m in the boondocks, and the roads aren’t great. Do you know where Ye…Ye…”

“Yemassee?”

“Yes, this says I’ll go through there.”

“What says?”

“Long story. From there I take…uh, River Road to Highway Seventeen.”

“Okay, okay, get here as soon as you can. I’ll go to your house and wait for you there. When you arrive, do not say a word unless you’ve cleared it with me. Do you understand, Ms. Shelley? Not a single word.”

“I understand, but I have a lot to tell. Primarily, that Jay’s murder is linked to the fire.”

“The fire?”

“The police station fire five years ago.”

“He was one of the heroes. Everybody knows that.”

“Yes, but there’s much more to it. Jay was-”

The call ended abruptly.

Johnson looked at Smith, who shrugged and said, “Sounds like her cell went dead.”

They heard Alexander redial twice, but both calls went automatically to voice mail. With a muttered “Damn,” he hung up.

Smith reached for his cell and punched in a number that no one knew except him and Johnson. As soon as it was answered he said, “Her lawyer just called her. We’ve got a recording.”

Without further ado, Johnson started playing back the recording.

Their employer listened to it straight through, then when it ended, said, “She remembers that Jay told her something about the fire. Her memory wasn’t totally wiped clean.”

A bit defensively, Smith said, “Sometimes the amnesia is temporary. Each person reacts differently to the drug.”

“In hindsight, I should have had you kill her, too. You could have made it appear like a murder-suicide. But it’s too late for seconding-guessing, isn’t it? However…”

Apparently their boss’s mental gears were cranking.

“She ran, and that’s actually to our advantage. It makes her appear criminal, capable of killing her ex-lover. Also desperate and liable to say just about anything to save her own skin. If she starts casting aspersions on Jay Burgess and his heroism, who will listen? Or, better yet…”

Johnson and Smith could see it coming: Better yet was that Britt Shelley never have an opportunity to say anything to anyone, sparing their retainer more worry and trouble.

They left the hand of gin rummy unfinished, happy to have something more stimulating to do.

Raley noticed that his truck was almost out of gas. It would be an annoyance to stop and fill up but even more of an inconvenience for the tank to run dry between here and his cabin.

He wheeled into the first service station he came to, got out, and walked up to a small structure to prepay. The cashier conducted the transaction through a window with metal bars. Signs were posted saying that security cameras were in place, but Raley seriously doubted that. One thing he didn’t doubt was that a loaded shotgun was underneath the counter, out of sight but handy.

He returned to the pump and fit the nozzle into his gas tank. As he did so, he noticed Britt’s windbreaker lying in the bed of his pickup, where she’d angrily pitched it. Seeing it gave him a twinge of remorse, although it shouldn’t have. Admittedly, he’d acted like a bastard most of the time they’d been together, but she deserved no better from him.