smiled. "Please. You fear losing what I have to say much greater than I fear death."
"Right. Another tough guy who doesn't fear death." She peeled herself off the wall. "Know what, Monte? The tough guys are always the ones who soil their pants when we strap them to the gurney."
Again Scott fought off the desire to wiggle his fingers, this time at his boss. Scanlon kept smiling. His eyes never left Scott's. Scott didn't like what he saw. They were, as one would expect, black and shiny and cruel. But - and Scott might have been imagining things - maybe he saw something else there. Something beyond the standard vacancy. There seemed to be a pleading in the eyes; Scott couldn't turn away from them. There was regret there maybe.
Remorse even.
Scott looked up at Linda and nodded. She frowned, but Scanlon had called her bluff. She touched one of the beefy guards on the shoulder and gestured for them to leave. Rising from his seat, Scanlon's lawyer spoke for the first time. "Anything he says is off the record."
"Stay with them," Scanlon ordered. "I want you to make sure that they don't listen in."
The lawyer picked up his briefcase and followed Linda Morgan to the door. Soon Scott and Scanlon were alone. In the movies, killers are omnipotent. In real life, they are not. They don't escape from handcuffs in the middle of a high-security federal penitentiary. The Beef Brothers, Scott knew, would be behind the one-way glass. The intercom, per Scanlon's instructions, would be off. But they'd all be watching.
Scott shrugged a well? at him.
"I am not your typical assassin for hire."
"Uh huh."
"I have rules."
Scott waited.
"For example, I only kill men."
"Wow," Scott said. "You're a prince."
Scanlon ignored the sarcasm. "That is my first rule. I kill only men. No women."
"Right. Tell me, does rule two have anything to do with not putting out until the third date?"
"You think I'm a monster?"
Scott shrugged as if the answer was obvious.
"You don't respect my rules?"
"What rules? You kill people. You make up these so-called rules because you need the illusion of being human."
Scanlon seemed to consider that. "Perhaps," he allowed, "but the men I've killed were scum. I was hired by scum to kill scum. I am no more than a weapon."
"A weapon?" Scott repeated.
"Yes."
"A weapon doesn't care who it kills, Monte. Men, women, grannies, little kids. A weapon doesn't differentiate."
Scanlon smiled. "Touche."
Scott rubbed his palms on his pant legs. "You didn't call me here for an ethics class. What do you want?"
"You're divorced, aren't you, Scott?"
He said nothing.
"No children, amicable split, still friendly with the ex."
"What do you want?"
"To explain."
"To explain what?"
He lowered his eyes but only for a moment. "What I did to you."
"I don't even know you."
"But I know you. I've known you for a long time."
Scott let the silence in. He glanced at the mirror. Linda Morgan would be behind the glass, wondering what they were talking about. She wanted information. He wondered if they had the room bugged. Probably. Either way, it would pay to keep Scanlon talking.
"You are Scott Duncan. Thirty-nine years old. You graduated from Columbia Law School. You could be making a great deal more money in private practice, but that bores you. You've been with the U.S. attorney's office six months. Your mother and father moved to Miami last year. You had a sister, but she died in college."
Scott shifted in his seat. Scanlon studied him.
"You finished?"
"Do you know how my business operates?"
Change of subject. Scott waited a beat. Scanlon was playing a head game, trying to keep him off balance or some such nonsense. Scott was not about to fall for it. Nothing he had "revealed" about Scott's family was surprising. A person could pick up most of that info with a few well-placed keystrokes and phone calls.
"Why don't you tell me," Scott said.
"Let's pretend," Scanlon began, "that you wanted someone dead."
"Okay."
"You would contact a friend, who knows a friend, who knows a friend, who can reach me."
"And only that last friend would know you?"
"Something like that. I had only one go-between man, but I was careful even with him. We never met face to face. We used code names. The payments always went to offshore accounts. I would open a new account for every, shall we say, transaction, and I closed it as soon as the transaction was completed. You still with me?"
"It's not that complicated," Scott said.
"No, I guess not. But you see, nowadays we communicate