It was one in the morning when she made the county line and the blue lights
appeared behind her. This was not good timing. Amelia Calhoun took the gun from her
side harness, unsnapped the compartment from beneath the passenger seat and slid it
inside. As she pulled over, she unhooked the holster’s strap then pulled the buckle free,
depositing the harness into the backseat.
The murder probably hadn’t been reported yet. She couldn’t risk finding out with
an unregistered weapon still warm from the round she’d sent between Steven Nagasaki’s
bewildered brown eyes. She pulled over to the side of the interstate out of South Carolina
and waited for the cop to approach.
It was a male. She could feel it when he opened the car door. Then she saw his
brown hair and boyish face, fresh from whatever school he’d attended. His body was
underdeveloped with a Barney Fife skinny inexperience that made her smile.
For fun, she glanced into the rearview mirror. Her face was flushed. The
excitement of the kill usually brought edges of color to her pale features. She ran her
fingers through her red hair tinted in nearly brown shades, giving it the essence of a
fading fire. She hoped her attractive qualities would make this stop brief.
“Good evening, Miss.” The officer peered inside her window. He kept one arm
above the door of the Lexus. His chest was puffed out and his voice sounded strained in