4:41. How long would they last? Under normal circumstances there would be no hurry, but this was a fling and they couldn’t tarry. A proper warm-up, the deed, some pillow talk, perhaps a postcoital cigarette. He’d take the under at forty minutes.

He lost. At 5:28, forty-seven minutes after entering the house, Romeo emerged, closed the door behind himself—no sign of her—and sauntered, perhaps a step slower, to his car. When he touched the door latch, the sniper pulled the trigger. At about the same split second, a six-millimeter bullet from the .243 caliber rifle entered the target’s head just above his left ear and exited through a gaping hole on the right side, taking most of his brain with it. Blood and brain matter splashed against the windows and doors of the car as the target fell hard to the ground.

The sniper extracted the bullet casing from the chamber, reloaded the semiautomatic, and trained his sights on the patio door. With the distance and density of the woods, he had no idea if Mrs. Higginbotham heard the shot, but he suspected she did. He saw a silhouette race through the den. Moments passed, then the patio door opened ever so slightly as she looked at the shocking scene near the Porsche.

Decisions, decisions. What does one do in these situations? To call for help would be to initiate a scandal that would dramatically alter her world, and certainly not for the better. The police would bombard her with questions, but she would have no answers. Her husband would probably beat her and then hire every lawyer in town to make sure she was left in the streets, penniless.

What was a girl to do? She had no idea and she wasn’t thinking clearly.

Her lover was obviously dead. Or was he breathing? She made the fateful decision to sprint out, take a look at him, and then try to think of the next move. But there would not be one. She opened the door, took one step, and the sniper fired. A millisecond later the bullet hit her in the teeth and rocked her head back so violently that she fell into the brick wall beside the door. She was wearing a short white bathrobe, black string panties, nothing else, and as the sniper scanned her with his scope he thought, Such a waste. She was tanned and toned without an ounce of extra body fat. Her fatal flaw had been a penchant for illicit sex, though she never dreamed she would die for it.

The sniper quickly unsnapped the scope, unscrewed the barrel, and with a few precision moves had the rifle back in its case. He strapped it to his back and began his descent from the white oak. There was no hurry. It would be hours before the bodies were discovered. He and his partner had big plans for a steak dinner in a few hours at Harvey’s Rib Shack in downtown Dayton. Over champagne and fine wines they would replay the perfect kills and drink to a two-million-dollar fee. They would check the newspapers in the morning for the shocking story, perhaps see a quote or two from poor Higgs out in Vegas as he reacted with shock to such cold-blooded killings, then they would separate for a few months until their next job.

But a rotted limb changed everything. For an ex–Special Ops known for his sure-footedness, back in the day anyway, such a mistake was unbelievable, though he would not remember it and never have time to analyze it. Head down, he fell fast and hard with nothing to grab onto and no time to brace for an ugly landing. He hit the hard ground with his forehead, and his neck snapped with such force that he knew he was dead. He blacked out and had no idea what time it was when he opened his eyes again. It was dark. He wanted to check his wristwatch but he couldn’t lift his hands. Nothing was moving. The pain in his neck was so excruciating that he wanted to scream. Instead, he stifled a groan, then another. He was on his back and twisted at the waist in an awkward shape that he wanted to adjust, but nothing, not a damned thing was moving. Except for his lungs, and they were labored. He couldn’t see the case with his rifle. His cell phone was in a rear pocket but nothing was within reach.

When he wore a real uniform and stalked enemies around the world, he had always kept a cyanide pill in a pocket to end things quickly if the situation called for it. He closed his eyes and dreamed of a pill now. This was not the way he wanted to die.

Even if she found him, his spinal cord was crushed. Trying to move him would just make matters worse.

4.

She heard the groans before she stumbled upon him. She fell to her knees and looked into his eyes. “What happened?” she hissed.

“I fell,” he grunted. “My neck.”

“Did you get them?”

“Yes, both. Then I fell.”

“What the hell.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I heard sirens down there. We have to move.”

“I can’t. I’m paralyzed. I can’t move anything.”

“Bullshit, Rick. I’m getting you out of here.”

He closed his eyes and groaned even louder. She stood and walked around the tree, straining for a glimpse of the house, but she could see nothing. With a small laser flashlight, she found the case with the rifle and debated what to do with it. If she took it, and if she got caught with it, she would be toast.

And what to do with him? The fool broke his own neck. Trying to carry him downhill through thick terrain for at least a mile would cause even more neurological damage. She knew that basic truth from her training.

Through his own stupidity he was about to get caught. But not her. And the two-million-dollar fee would not be divided. In the distance she heard a siren.

She walked to a spot beside him and looked down. He opened his eyes and saw her remove a small automatic from her pocket. “No, Karen, no.”