“Somebody did. I’ll be staying until I find out what’s going on. If you don’t like it, take it up with Agnes.” He turned and walked along the edge of the property until he could see the bridge ahead to his right. He heard the sound of cars and moved to where he could see the road but be hidden by the foliage, his hand drifting toward the butt of his pistol.

Two cars appeared, a big white Lexus leading the way, followed by a baby blue ‘80s-era Cadillac. They crept over the wooden bridge and even at this distance, Shane could hear the creak of protests from the bridge supports. Both cars stopped in front of the house, and the driver’s door on the Cadillac opened first.

A curvy little platinum blonde wearing a fluttery blue dress got out and surveyed the place like she owned it, her hands on her hips. She turned and looked in his direction, and he recognized her despite the years: Brenda Fortunato. She was still a beauty, passing for early forties in full sunlight even though she had to be in her fifties. She tilted her head as she looked at the house, and she did not look thrilled, possibly because with most of its paint scraped off, Two Rivers looked like hell.

The other car door opened, and the driver of the Lexus stepped out. She was tall where Brenda was tiny, trim where Brenda was curvy, pale where Brenda was tan, tailored in beige where Brenda fluttered in blue, low-heeled where Brenda spiked, and she did not put her hands on her hips or look at Two Rivers as if it were hers; she just tucked her purse under her arm, nodded politely to Brenda, looked at the house and winced, and then began to walk toward the wide central steps. She oozed class and money, and Shane thought, Evie Keyes. Mother of the groom and First Lady of Keyes, South Carolina. Which was pretty much like being Queen of the Landfill, as far as he was concerned.

Then Agnes came out the front door and down the steps with a tray of drinks, dark curls bouncing and red-rimmed glasses sliding down her nose again, wearing some kind of red dress with straps that tied on her shoulders and a skirt that whipped around her legs in the breeze, and Shane’s thoughts jumped track until she led the other two women around the side of the house to the gazebo.

Agnes had damn good legs. And a great back. One pull on those ties- And she’d smiled at him, standing there in the morning sunlight. Might have been an invitation. Might not have been, too. Probably should make sure before he started untying things.

“You be a watchful sort of fellow,” Doyle said from behind him.

“Shouldn’t you be painting?”

“Shouldn’t you be doing something someplace else?”

Shane considered arguing, but since he was guilty of the thoughts that Doyle suspected him of, he called to the bloodhound and moved away, and Doyle headed back toward the house.

Rhett padded across the inlet on an old log and immediately lost himself in the palmetto on the other side, and Shane followed, so focused on what might be ahead that when the dog stopped suddenly, he tripped over him and hit the ground just as a branch less than six inches from his head exploded in splinters, the sound of the shot echoing through the vegetation.

From the prone, Shane fired twice in the direction of the intruder. Rhett bayed and charged forward, and Shane cursed, realizing the dog was moving into the line of fire. He squeezed off four more rounds as fast as he could pull the trigger, then lunged to his feet and sprinted after the dog, hunched over, not quite believing he was putting his life on the line for a dumb old bloodhound. He continued to fire, dropping the magazine out of the well as he moved, zigzagging, slamming a fresh clip home, firing once more. Then he dived onto Rhett, grabbing the dog’s collar as he rolled behind a log, holding the bloodhound to his chest.

Rhett bayed once more, then began licking Shane’s face. Shane stared up at the palmetto fronds above, half-expecting to see bullets whipping through them, but they were perfectly still. Since the initial shots, the intruder had not fired, which meant he was either waiting to ambush Shane if he got closer or else had split while the getting was good. Or Shane had hit him and taken him out, which he doubted, given he had fired mainly for cover not effect, having no solid target.

He waited, letting time tick away. He was in no rush and knew waiting put the burden on his opponent, if he was still around. If the guy was a pro, the wait could be long. After fifteen minutes, Shane turned to Rhett, who appeared to be sleeping, and poked him. Rhett opened one eye. Shane poked him again and the dog opened both eyes and took a deep sniff.

No baying. No alert.

Shane got to one knee, pistol still at the ready, and looked around. No sign of the intruder. Between his eyes and Rhett’s nose, he felt confident they were alone.

He walked forward, on alert, Rhett trailing him, and stopped when he saw his battered black Defender. He pulled out his remote opener and tapped the small status button and then watched as a small green light flickered green a dozen times, then surprisingly turned red and stayed that way. Shane stared at the Defender. Something or someone had set off the vehicle’s motion detector.

He slowly circled the truck, eyes going over every inch. Nothing seemed amiss, but given he had just been shot at, he wasn’t willing to bet his life on it. With a resigned sigh, he got down on his knees in the muddy ground, then lay down, sliding forward, feeling the damp soil ooze into his outer clothes as he angled himself so he could see the underside of the high-riding truck. Then he froze.

The shaped charge on one of the plates was easy to spot: it was directly under the passenger seat-whoever had put it there had not taken into account it was a right-hand-drive European vehicle. No wires. It looked like one of Agnes’s large mixing bowls painted black and stuck to the plate. A small red LED light glowed, indicating it was armed. Shane doubted it was on a timer since whoever had placed it wouldn’t know when he was coming back to the truck.

But no one should even have known he was here. At least no one who had the sophistication to make and plant such a device. The kid in Agnes’s basement wasn’t anywhere near this level of professionalism. But whoever had just shot at him obviously was.

Shane took a deep breath, then slid to where the bomb was right in front of his face. It couldn’t have been armed until it was in place, thus there was an arming mechanism. Which meant there was a disarming mechanism.

He placed both hands on the bowl and slowly twisted it counterclockwise. The bowl moved smoothly and Shane unscrewed it until he felt it give slightly. He carefully lowered the bowl of explosives inside the metal frame to the ground, exposing a small metal canister hung below the plastic top that had been glued to the bottom of the car and into which it had been screwed. He reached up and removed the battery that supplied power to the detonator.

He stuck it in his pocket, then ripped the plastic off the bottom of the truck. He pulled the entire contraption with him as he crawled out from under the Defender. He opened the rear of the truck and placed it all inside, then went around and opened the door.

“Come on,” he called to Rhett, who had watched the disarming of the bomb with no interest at all.

The dog jumped, feet scrabbling at the edge of the seat, and then he was in, moving over to the window, where he looked at Shane disapprovingly, a smear of snot on the dark glass.

“It’s bullet- and blast-proof glass,” Shane said, trying to explain why he wasn’t rolling down the window.

Rhett gave Shane a look that said, I just saved your life, but that’s okay.

Shaking his head, Shane violated standing operating procedures and lowered the passenger window. Rhett stuck his head out, a happy camper.


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