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his kit and though Z barked from the driver’s seat for him to hurry it along, he reinspected each of their charges.
    Cell phones, car keys, wallets, pocketknives, iPods, iPads, anything and everything that a person might consider useful had been left behind, neatly stacked in a pile on the center kitchen island of the Boston brownstone. Radar had thought that was a lot of precaution given their civilian targets, but Z had been explicit in his instructions. The man, they were told, had some skills. Nothing like their skills, of course, but he could “handle himself.” Underestimating was for idiots, so they didn’t underestimate.
    And yet… Radar started with the girl. She moaned lightly as he patted down her torso, and he flushed, feeling like a pervert for running his hands up and down a kid, especially a young, pretty girl. Package, package, package, he reminded himself, compartmentalization being everything in his line of work. Next, the woman. Still made him feel self-conscious, dirty on the inside, but he comforted himself with the notion that it was better for him to be handling the women than Mick. As if reading his thoughts, Mick twisted around in the backseat, until he could stare at Radar with his unsettling bright bluegaze. Mick’s eyes were still swollen and bloodshot, and he was definitely still pissed off about it.
    “What the fuck?” Mick barked now. “Are you securing them, or feeling ’em up?”
    “Something’s wrong,” Radar muttered.
    “What’s wrong?” Z, the big man, instantly alert from the driver’s seat. He was already opening his door, climbing out.
    “Don’t know,” Radar muttered again, hands moving, poking, prodding. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
    Mick shut his trap. Radar knew the blond didn’t always like him, but they’d been together long enough for Mick to know better than to argue with one of Radar’s hunches. If Radar knew something, he knew something. The question was what.
    Z was already around the back. He moved fast for a big guy, and given that he was still dressed entirely in black, he made for an unsettling presence in the moonless night.
    “What?” he demanded.
    And just like that, reinspecting the husband, Radar figured it out. Roughly six hours into their mission, they had made their first mistake, and it was a costly one. He stood there, still debating options when, suddenly, Z was on the move.
    Before Radar could blink, a knife appeared in the big guy’s hands. He stepped forward, and Radar leapt out of the way, instinctively averting his gaze.
    One stab, three cuts. No more, no less and Z was done. He inspected his work, grunted in satisfaction and walked away, leaving Radar, as the lowest man on the totem pole, to handle disposal.
    Alone now, breathing unsteadily, Radar got to it. Happy he’d had the foresight to pick an abandoned diner. Happier still for the cover of night, which allowed even him to not really see what he had to do.
    Then, disposal completed, he picked up his kit from the cargo vanfloor. Compartmentalization, he reminded himself. Key trick of the trade. He closed the rear doors, refusing to take a second glance.
    Thirty seconds later, he was back in the van, settled uneasily next to Mick.
    They resumed their way in the pitch-black night. White cargo van, headed due north.

Chapter 4
    TESSA ENTERED THE DENBES’ TOWNHOME with a mixture of trepidation and curiosity. Nervousness over inspecting a crime scene that may or may not involve a child. Curiosity over touring the inside of a multimillion-dollar Boston brownstone. Restored town houses in this area of the city were the stuff of legend, and upon first glance, the Denbe residence didn’t disappoint. Tessa took in a sweeping expanse of meticulously polished hardwood floors, soaring nine-foot ceilings, original four-inch-thick dentil crown moldings and enough hand-carved woodwork to keep a crew of carpenters busy for an entire year.
    Like most Boston townhomes, the