“You've come a long way at this hour for a 'no comment,' Mr. Bayer. I'm sorry, ” Roger Graham said. “I can't give you anything on the kidnapping. Frankly, there isn't anything to give. ”

He wasn't sorry, but who needed enemies at the New York Times. Those bastards could stick their poison pens in one of your ears and out the other.

"One question, and one question only. I understand that you don't have to answer, but it's that important to me-for me. For me to be here at one in the morning.

“Okay. Let's have it. What's your question?” Graham shut the door of his Bronco. He locked up for the night, flipped the car keys, and caught them.

“Are all of you this incredibly insipid and stupid?” Gary Soneji asked him. “That's my question, Grahamcracker. ”

A long, sharp knife flashed forward once. Then flashed again. The blade sliced back and forth across Roger Graham's throat.

The first slashing motion pinned him back against his

Ford Bronco. The second slashed his carotid artery. Graham dropped dead in his driveway. There had been no time to duck, run, or even say a prayer.

“You're supposed to be a freaking star, Roger. You wanted to be the star, right? I see no evidence of that. None, zero,” Soneji said. “ You're supposed to be way better than this. I need to be challenged by the best and the brightest. ”

Soneji bent low and slid a single index card into the breast pocket of Agent Graham's white shirt. He patted the dead man's chest. “Now, would a New York Times reporter really be here at one in the morning, you arrogant fuck? Just to talk to your sorry ass?”

Then Soneji drove away from the murder scene. The death of Agent Graham wasn't a big deal to him. Not really. He'd killed over two hundred people before this one. Practice makes perfect. It wouldn't be the last time, either.