He didn't budge.

"That wasn't a request."

He inched to the middle of the bed.

"Good enough. Now, I've been sent here to kill you, Mr. Payne."

His mouth worked like a fish's, eyes bulging as he blew nothing but air bubbles.

"I-I have money," he said finally. "Whatever they're paying you, I can pay more."

"I'm sure you can. Selling babies is a very lucrative business, isn't it? Especially if you don't need to pay off the mother."

"N-no, you don't understand. It wasn't my idea."

He babbled on, sounding remarkably like Ron Fenniger in the moments before his death. It wasn't his idea, so while he'd taken part in the scheme, he couldn't be held accountable.

"Like I said, I can pay. Whatever they're offering, I'll double it. Triple – "

"Do you think we'd be having this conversation if I planned to kill you?"

"What?"

"This isn't a James Bond movie, Mr. Payne. In real life, if someone wants you dead, they aren't going to chat you up first, explain their motivations, whine about their lousy childhood forcing them to a life of crime. Kind of a waste of time, don't you think? Explaining yourself to a guy you expect to be dead in five minutes?"

He huffed a few breaths, cheeks puffing as he calmed himself. "Okay, okay, so it's about money, then."

"I'm not interested in money."

He blinked, trying to assimilate that concept.

"I want the people you're working for. Like you said, this was their idea. Tell me everything you know and, if it's enough to put them away, I'll walk out and give you twenty-four hours to decide whether you want to pack and run with the money or turn state's evidence and hand it over."

He nodded, working it through as his head bobbed.

"Remember, though, that I've built a decent case. That means I already know most of it. I just need proof. So if you lie, I'll finish the job, collect my pay, and get that proof another way."

"Okay, okay."

He licked his lips and seemed to consider asking for a glass of water, then thought better of it, and started his story. As it unfolded, I saw that, once again, I'd been wrong. Very wrong.

"Thank you," I said as he finished.

Payne let out long shuddering breaths of relief.

I stood, lowering the gun. "You're going to give me fifteen minutes to download those files and leave. Then you can get up and decide what you want to do."

"O-okay."

"Fifteen minutes. Start watching the clock."

He rolled over to do that. I took three steps toward the door, then shot him in the back of the head.

I left Payne where he fell, facedown on the bed. I downloaded the files from his laptop onto the drive I'd bought, then stole from the darkened house into the yard. Staying along the fence line, I cut through three yards and came out on the street behind an apartment building. The rental car was in the lot.

Once on the road, I called the client: Palmer MacIver, as I now knew him. He answered on the second ring.

"Done," I said.

"And you have the proof?"

"I wouldn't be calling you if I didn't."

A soft sigh rippled down the line. "Good. And the files?"

"Destroyed."

He gave me an address and told me to meet him there in thirty minutes. Along the way, I disposed of Payne's gun. Then, as I drove, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the item that was supposed to prove I'd killed Payne.

I lifted my hand over the steering wheel and turned the ring over, the silver glinting against my dark driving gloves. Payne's high school class ring. How this proved he was dead was beyond me. Maybe MacIver had always seen Payne wearing it, but what was to say he didn't take it off at night? What if he'd taken it off, and I hadn't been able to find it?

Amateurs. Probably saw it in a movie, like everything else about this job.

Speaking of which… When I saw where the address led, I let out a curse.

A cluster of warehouses. Abandoned warehouses.

I idled near the entrance, then shifted into reverse to find a place off-site to park. As I tramped back to the warehouses, I swore under my breath the whole way.

The problem with abandoned warehouses? They're abandoned. That means if anyone sees you near one at one-thirty in the morning, they'll remember it. They might even call the cops.

The yard held a quartet of warehouses, long narrow blocks illuminated by a haphazard scattering of area lights, the buildings themselves black against the night. Water slapped against the distant breaker and the air was damp and icy, stinking of Lake Erie. A ship sounded its horn, long and mournful, making me stop a moment, peering into the night.

A dog barked by the row houses a block west; just a lonely call for attention, no one paying it any. Between the houses and the warehouse yard was a cushion of industrial buildings in better condition and with better lighting, presumably still owned by someone who cared about security. The lights inside were all off, the parking lot empty.

I continued on, shoulders hunched against the lake wind, one hand resting on my gun. I could see no sign of a car near the warehouses, which I hoped meant MacIver had the sense to park elsewhere, but probably only meant he hadn't arrived yet.

I contemplated walking away from this. If MacIver's car squealed around the corner, lights on, radio blasting, I'd go… and be happy for the excuse. I didn't need anything from him. But skipping the meeting would let him know something was wrong, and I wasn't giving him and his coconspirators the chance to fold their operation and run.

I unholstered my gun. Unit three, MacIver said. The one nearest to me was marked with a dingy white four. Beside it was one, which made perfect sense. I continued on to the next, to find the number half missing, only a top loop remaining, which could make it a two or a three, but when I checked the last one, farthest out and behind the others, it bore a clear three.

I slid the gun under my jacket, keeping it at hand, but hidden. MacIver might come armed, and I didn't want to spook him. I'd already killed tonight and wasn't eager to do it again. But if I had to? I wouldn't regret it.

Earlier I'd pondered where I drew the line. Now I realized it wasn't that simple. Payne hadn't been a murderer, rapist, or pedophile – just a guy whose moral compass valued money over life. Someone who, when given the chance to join a plan to sell babies by hiring a hitman to kill their teenage mothers had apparently said, "Cool, sign me up!"

Payne's role at the agency had been exactly what we'd expected. He searched for wealthy and desperate couples with personal black marks that made adoption difficult. Then he contacted them. After a long interview process, he made them an offer. Only he didn't make that offer without approval. As it turned out, Payne was only a cog in this wheel, and a low-level one at that. Well paid, he took all the risks – contacting the prospective parents and playing point man with Fenniger – while others made the decisions.

Because he wasn't in charge, though, he insisted he couldn't be blamed. The scheme hadn't been his idea. He didn't pull the trigger. If he'd said no, they'd have found someone else. Classic criminal justification, just like we'd heard from Fenniger.

Did Payne deserve to die for that? No.

But did I have a problem killing him when he could tip off his colleagues? Or run and escape justice? No. And that's what it came down to: circumstance.

Half the marks the Tomassinis gave me didn't "deserve" death. What they deserved was to be locked up. But if that wasn't about to happen and the Tomassinis wanted them dead, I had no problem executing the writ.