“I’ve got you, Agnes,” Taylor said, not fazed in the slightest.

“You had me, Taylor,” Agnes said. “Now you’ve got Brenda, you poor, doomed sap. And Joey ‘The Gent’ and Shane after your ass. You better go now. Your flunky is out in his van, and his feet are turning to ice while you wait. At any minute now, he’s going to tear up that report and go somewhere far away until the wedding is over.”

“Nah, he-”

“And Shane’s coming home any minute.” Taylor looked over his shoulder.

“Yeah, well…” He looked back at Agnes. “You give me back the ring and I’ll go.”

“What?”

“The engagement ring.” He nodded at Agnes’s hand. “Give me my ring back and I’ll go.”

Agnes looked down at the ring he’d given her. She’d actually forgotten about it. Five thousand dollars he’d said it’d cost him. That could buy some stuff for the house. Like landscaping maybe. Wonder if Garth can landscape?

“No,” she said. “Go away.”

“I want the-”

“You broke the engagement, I get the ring.”

“You stabbed me with a fork!”

“You married another woman first,” Agnes said. “Go away. I have things to do.”

“You won’t get away with this,” Taylor said.

“That’s the best you’ve got?” Agnes said. “Beat it or I’ll have Doyle take a hammer to the Cobra.”

“Hey!” Taylor said, and then evidently realizing his ride was vulnerable, he left.

Agnes looked at the ring and then at the basement door. “Why can’t anything this week be simple?” she said, and went to call her lawyer.

“We’re about five minutes from the bridge,” Carpenter said. “I can see the towers.”

Shane checked his watch. Ten minutes till the payoff. He poked his head in the opening to the front of the van and saw two suspension towers straight ahead on the horizon. Left and right was swamp as far as the eye could see.

“Ideas?” Shane asked.

“I would think a direct approach is needed here, which is your specialty. It’s not like we’re going to be able to sneak up on the drop site.”

“Pull off before you hit the on-ramp for the bridge. I want to see if I can get an over-watch position with a clear shot with the long rifle.”

“Roger that,” Carpenter said, “but it’s going to be a tough angle up to that midspan.”

Shane saw what he meant as they came around a slight curve, and the road rose precipitously toward the nearest tower. “Pull over here,” Shane said before they got so close that he wouldn’t be able to see the midspan.

Carpenter waited until they crossed a concrete bridge over a creek, then pulled over to the side of the road.

“Open the sunroof,” Shane ordered as he placed his M21 sniper rifle in the passenger seat, muzzle up.

Carpenter did so, and Shane stood between the seats, putting a small spotting scope on the roof of the van.

“Not inconspicuous,” Carpenter noted.

“Feel free to contribute Plan B,” Shane said.

“We grab the consigliere and the money before the exchange. Maybe Casey Dean will work a deal with us or break off the contract.”

“Wilson wants Dean terminated.”

“Did he say so?”

“He doesn’t send me out to talk to people.” Shane leaned forward and looked through the spotting scope, adjusting the focus. “He’s testing you.”

Yeah, and I fail if I don’t shoot Casey Dean.

Shane saw a black Lincoln Town Car pulled over in the breakdown lane, right side of the bridge, center span. These goombahs were nothing but predictable, he thought. He checked his watch. Three minutes before two. Casey Dean was a professional, which meant the drop would be made right on time. Shane slid back down in the van, crouching between Carpenter in the driver’s seat and the sniper rifle in the passenger seat, taking the spotting scope with him.

“The consigliere is there.” He held the scope as he peered through the windshield. The view wasn’t quite as good, but he could clearly see the black Town Car.

“Two minutes,” Carpenter said. “And we’ve got flashing lights coming down the road behind us.”

“Cops?” Shane could hear the sirens now.

“Looks like, followed by an ambulance.” Carpenter reached forward and turned on the special radio, tuning it to the local emergency band, the volume turned low while Shane kept his focus on the bridge.

“There’s a report of an accident on the bridge,” Carpenter relayed from his position, leaning close to the radio speaker.

“Bullshit. There’s no accident up there. Dean called this in as a distraction.” Shane was shifting, trying to find where Dean was.

“One minute,” Carpenter announced.

The door on the Town Car opened, and a tall, thin man with gray hair stepped out, holding a shiny metal briefcase. He was looking about, obviously unsure which direction Dean was coming from.

The sirens were getting closer as Shane reached out with his free hand and grabbed the rifle.

“You’re not going to shoot with cops around?” Carpenter asked.

Shane could hear the sirens go by and saw the flashing lights reflected in the windshield. But his focus was on the bridge. The consigliere suddenly reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone and answered.

“Dean’s making contact,” Shane said.

“One state patrol car and an ambulance, reaching the ramp for the bridge,” Carpenter reported. “And I’ve got another police car in the side mirror coming this way.”

This was definitely cramping his style. He couldn’t pop out the sunroof and blow Casey Dean away with one shot while the police were driving by. He squinted as the consigliere walked over to the side of the bridge and looked over the edge.

“Oh, shit. Dean’s underneath.” Shane slid into the passenger seat and put the rifle across his lap. “Drive!”

Carpenter threw the van into gear and pulled onto the road just as a sheriff’s car blew past. “Which way?”

“Ahead and then-” Shane thought fast. They couldn’t go onto the bridge with all the cops around. He still had the scope to his eye and he saw the consigliere drop the case over the side of the bridge and get back in his car. There was one exit before they hit the on-ramp.

“Take that exit,” Shane ordered.

Carpenter turned hard right. The road curved around and then under the ramp, but there was dense, impenetrable vegetation between the road and the Savannah River.

“We’ve got to see the water,” Shane said, powering down the passenger window.

“Hold on.” Carpenter jerked the wheel hard and they skidded onto a dirt trail. The van’s specially built suspension grappled with the ruts and rocks as Carpenter accelerated down the narrow track.

“Whoa!” Shane yelled as the Savannah River suddenly appeared ahead of them, a rusting chain-link fence indicating the end of the trail.

Carpenter had hit the brakes even as Shane gave the warning, and the van skidded to a halt, the front bumper less than two feet from the fence. Shane was moving as it stopped, throwing open the door and jumping out, the rifle in his hands.

He brought it up to his shoulder in the ready position, the muzzle resting on top of the fence, but he kept the eye closest to the scope closed, while he scanned with the free eye. There were three boats visible. An old tug chugging upriver, and two personal craft heading downriver. Shane put his gun eye to the scope and checked the farthest boat, a cabin cruiser about a half mile away. An old man and woman were visible in the flying bridge.

Not Casey Dean.

He shifted to the second boat, a smaller, faster craft that was kicking up quite a wake and expanding the distance between it and Shane’s gun at a rapid pace. A figure dressed in black, hood pulled up over the head, was at the center console.

Shane aimed at the figure and his finger caressed the trigger. He could feel his heart beating and begin to slow down as he got in the rhythm for the shot.