Alex's voice drifted up a notch. “I was with her when she died. I was holding her hand, not sleeping like a baby in a different time zone.”

“She was unconscious for a month before she died, and no one knew when she was going to go,” Ben said, the anger building, trying to get around him. “She wouldn't have noticed whether I was there or not.”

“She noticed,” Alex whispered, nodding. “She could tell.”

“She couldn't tell shit!” Ben shouted. “Her brain was shot full of tumors, she was doped to the eyeballs, the hospital could have burned down around her and she wouldn't have fucking known it! Why don't you just admit that you were there for yourself, not for her, and you wouldn't have been there at all if you ever had the balls to do anything else? Mom being sick was the best excuse anyone ever gave you to just stay at home and never go anywhere else!”

“Yes, I would have been with her! I was lucky I didn't need to take time off from school, but I would have, and that's more than you can say.”

“Tell yourself that. Whatever makes you feel better.”

“Listen to the way you talk about her,” Alex said. “You don't even miss her, you prick.”

“I miss her,” Ben said, automatically, but the truth was, he didn't. He never thought of her. Of any of them. What good would it do?

“Yeah? Do you miss Dad?”

“Don't go there, Alex. You're not going to like what happens if you do.”

“You ever wonder why he did it?”

“I'm warning you, Alex.” What the hell? He couldn't remember the last time he'd warned someone of anything. He hated warnings, real or bluff. When you're going to do it, you do it. You don't alert the other side so they can get ready. What was it about being with his brother that made him think and act like a teenager again?

“You want to know what I think?” Alex said.

“No. Not even a little. Just shut the fuck up now.”

“I think when you gave up, he did, too.”

Ben felt the blood drain from his face. He could see himself grabbing Alex's neck and smashing his face into the wall again and again. His muscles bunched with the urge-Do it just do it beat the smugness out of the little shit teach him once and for all what happens when you fuck with the wrong people-but something held him back. Barely.

He needed to get out. If he stayed, he was going to hurt Alex.

And that would be bad because…?

He turned and walked out of the room. Alex might have called from behind him, he wasn't sure. The hallway was rimmed with red and he could hear a ringing in his ears.

He'd never wanted to kill someone as badly as he did right then. Well, the night was still young.

Ben drove south on 280, the cruise control set for seventy because with the rage still coursing through him he couldn't trust himself not to speed. It was late and traffic was light. The hills glowed faintly under a high crescent moon.

He had already decided to do one more thing tonight, and he was going to do it. Most likely nothing would come of it anyway, but by God he was going to stick to the plan no matter how hard the little shit tried to get under his skin.

He forced all the bullshit out of his mind and concentrated on tactical considerations. He started to feel better. This is who he was. This is what he was good at.

They'd sent someone for Alex at the hotel. Meaning they knew he was moving around. Meaning they probably wouldn't bother making another run at his house. But there was a chance they might, depending on how healthy their numbers remained after they'd lost two at the Four Seasons. If they had no other leads, they might go with the only information they had: work address during the day; home address at night. He imagined himself in their shoes, whoever they were. He would know it was unlikely the target would reappear, but nor was it impossible. Alex was a civilian. It would be hard for him to break out of the patterns and habits of his daily life. He'd be in denial, too. Eventually the two could combine-an item left at home that he realized he needed, a moment of wishful thinking, and the target might reappear at a known nexus. Ben had seen it happen before, and had been there to take advantage of it.

He'd seen at the Four Seasons that the objective of their operation had changed. It was no longer about interrogating Alex first; now it was a straightforward elimination. Under the circumstances, the question then became: Knowing what you know about Alex, where would you lay an ambush at his house?

The answer was easy. The house and a detached garage formed an L at the end of the driveway, with a wooden gate separating them and leading to the backyard. Wait behind the gate. You'd have perfect concealment, and line of sight over the whole driveway. When Alex gets home, it doesn't matter whether he parks in the driveway or the garage. All you need to do is step out from concealment, blow his brains out with a suppressed pistol, and walk to whatever quiet side street you'd used to park your vehicle. Thank you for playing; next contestant.

If someone were waiting there, his attention would be focused on the driveway and, to a lesser extent, the street beyond it. He wouldn't be thinking about the backyard. It wouldn't occur to him that someone might know this terrain, and use it. Someone who, say, used to cut through the backyard, and the neighbor's yard behind it, on his way to and from school every day.

He got off 280 at the Portola Valley-Alpine Road exit and headed south on Alpine past the low-slung wooden buildings of the Ladera shopping center, where his mom had bought groceries and his dad made sure the cars were gassed up and the tires full. His parents’ house- Alex's house-was on a cul-de-sac called Corona Way, one of many such small streets in a neighborhood dotted with rambling houses and large, hilly lots. He made a right on La Mesa Drive, then a left on Erica Way, uneasy at how comfortable the turns were, how familiar the landscape.

There were some cars parked on the tree-lined streets, Lexuses and Mercedes and Volvos that looked like they belonged. He cruised by them slowly, checking the interiors. They were all empty, the windshields and hoods covered in evening dew.

He pulled over and killed the headlights, then opened up his bag and took out a pair of night-vision goggles. Night Optics USA D-321G-A, about six grand a pair if you could find them outside the military. And small and lightweight enough to make a perfect stocking stuffer. He adjusted the headgear and clicked on the unit, and suddenly the world was in sharp, green focus. Rock and roll.

He turned left on Escanyo Way, a cul-de-sac roughly paralleling Corona and separated from it by two winding rows of houses and yards and a thicket of trees. The street was empty of cars and there were no streetlights. He parked alongside a stand of redwood trees between two houses-the Levins’ and the Andrewses’, he remembered, if they even still lived here. Alex used to play hide-and-seek out here with their kids. He made sure the car's interior light was set to the off position and got out, easing the door closed behind him.

The air was cold and moist and smelled of conifers and peat moss. He closed his eyes and stood with his head cocked for a moment, listening. The wind rustled in the tops of the trees, carrying with it the faintest whoosh, whoosh of the thin traffic on 280. How many nights had he snuck out, or in, along this very route, nights that smelled and sounded exactly like this one? He remembered standing in this very spot, taking a drunken leak among the trees, hoping his parents were deeply asleep, coming up with stories in case they weren't. And then there was the time-

Enough. Focus.

Right. He eased the Glock out and headed up the grass at the extreme edge of the Levins’ front yard. He moved slowly, placing each foot carefully toe-heel against the damp grass, pausing after each step to look and listen.