“Arthur Sterling thinks he’s dealing with a broken employee who’s afraid of his credit score.”
I pointed my grandfather’s brass compass toward the green fields of the valley below:
“Set the helicopter down in the park three blocks north.”
“Give me ninety seconds.”
“And tell your sniper on the ridge…”
A razor-thin smile touched the corners of my lips:
“…not to scratch my blue spruces.”
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The neighborhood of Willow Court was quiet in that peaceful, sun-drenched, suburban way that makes you believe the world outside is made of lawnmowers, sprinkler valves, and lemonade stands.
The asphalt was warm under the midday sun.
The air smelled of fresh-cut Kentucky bluegrass and the vanilla-pine scent of the western scrub oaks.
At the entrance to the cul-de-sac, the black Chevrolet Suburban sat with its engine idling in a low, eighty-horsepower subterranean hum. Behind the dark, five-percent-tinted windows, the outline of two men wearing dark suits and tactical earpieces sat motionless, their eyes tracking the mail delivery truck two streets away.
