Evil isn’t easy.

The human brain is programmed to feel compassion. Empathy reminds us that the pain we inflict upon others is often felt two-fold by the one inflicting it, through the presence of guilt.

A psychopath’s lack of empathy allows them to kill without feeling guilt, remorse, or compassion. I’d always believed, however, that ordinary people suffered through—and after—the act of killing.

I now knew that wasn’t completely true.

The fight-or-flight response occurs when we’re terrified. The body’s nervous systems stimulate the adrenal glands, triggering the release of catecholamines, which include adrenaline and noradrenaline. The release of hormones prepares us to fight or to seek safety.

Our breathing quickens. Our heartrate increases. Our muscles tense. Our brain, fueled by the hormones released by our adrenal glands, makes the decision to turn and run or take on the threat.

It was obvious I believed I was being threatened by the Office of the DNI. My decision, surprisingly, was to fight. Although I wasn’t the one committing the murderous act, I was playing a part in it—as an accomplice and conspirator—and I was completely satisfied knowing I was a participant.

Justified murder.

As I nervously sat in the parking lot of Buster’s Barbeque waiting for Vincent to return from Pike’s house, I accepted the murder of Wallace and Pike as being a necessary part of my survival.

Vincent nonchalantly walked past the front of the car, around the side, and opened the door.

He climbed inside and buckled his seatbelt. “It’s done.”

I shifted the car in reverse and backed out of the parking spot. “To your rental car?”

He nodded. “The Target in Stafford, off 95.”

I pulled onto the road and headed toward the highway. “Then what?”

“I’ll exchange the car for my truck and meet you at your house.”

On any other occasion, I’d look at Vincent’s presence in my home as a gift. The two dead bodies that lay in our wake led me to believe that our upcoming visit was going to be anything but pleasant.

In the last thirty minutes, I’d driven away from the site of two murders that weren’t committed under the authority of the Office of the DNI. My instincts—and my experience of federal investigations—led me to believe we’d be caught, sooner or later.

The instant Vincent walked through the door, my overactive mind began asking questions. “Do you think the fact that both men were employed on-base together and they died within minutes of one another that the police will look at their deaths as planned and executed murders?”

He lowered his bag to the floor. “Not at all.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he replied. “I’m good at what I do.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that there haven’t been two murders here in the last year. Two in one night is going to make headlines. It’s going to be a big deal.”

He glanced around the room, and then peered over my shoulder, toward the hallway. “Do you mind if I take a quick shower?”

I thought he said he wanted to take a shower. I stared back at him in sheer disbelief. “Huh?”

“A shower,” he said. “I just killed two people. I feel dirty. I need to take a shower. I’ll explain everything when I’m done.”

“Uhhm. Sure,” I stammered. “Towels are in the hall closet. You know where the bathroom is.”

“I’ll just be a minute.” He reached for his bag. “I will bring you up to speed on everything as soon as I get done. Then, do you want to go get something to eat?”

The look of disbelief I was wearing intensified. “You want to…you want to go out to eat?”

“I didn’t figure you’d want to take time to cook anything,” he replied. “I haven’t eaten since this morning.”

I hadn’t eaten anything—other than wine—since Friday at noon. I felt hollow and weak. I involuntarily smiled. “Sure. We can go eat afterward.”

He winked, which was something he’d done often over the last three years. Each time it evoked the same emotion.

“I’ll be right back,” he said as he walked past.

Luckily, he was long gone when my face went flush.

I wondered if he did it to make me feel uneasy. If he got some odd sense of satisfaction knowing he was playing with the mind of the woman who was hired to play with his.

While he showered, I went to the master bath and inspected myself.

My hair looked like a drunken blind woman tried to put it in a messy bun. The faded jeans and decade-old tee shirt I was wearing resembled something a college student would wear to a bar.

I rifled through my closet and found my second-favorite pair of jeans and a nice top. After spraying my hair with dry shampoo, I fixed it into a presentable updo. A few adjustments to my makeup and a pair of conservative heels completed my evening’s attire.

I checked myself in the full-length mirror. I could easily fool anyone into believing my day’s activities didn’t include murdering two of my coworkers.

When I walked into the living room, the smell of Vincent’s cologne caused me to take pause. He was sitting on the couch, in what had become his normal spot.

Dressed in dark wash jeans and a black button-down shirt, he appeared much different than what I was accustomed to. His closely-cropped hair wasn’t plastered flat to his scalp as it usually was. Infused with product and expertly mussed to perfection, it looked fantastic.

“You look nice,” I said.

He looked me up and down. “So do you.”

I sat down beside him. As eager as I was to be distracted by a meal with Vincent, the lingering question regarding the murders of Pike and Wallace still troubled me.

A sigh escaped me. “I’m nervous about all of this.”

“Don’t be,” he said. “I’ve got it covered.”

“That’s what everyone thinks,” I said. “But they eventually get caught.”

“Here’s the scenario the local investigators will piece together. Wallace picked up Pike. A note in Pike’s pocket in his own handwriting has the time of day of the meeting. Pike was driving Wallace’s car because Wallace was too drunk to drive. His blood-alcohol content will support that fact. The lid on Pike’s kitchen floor from the whiskey bottle will match the opened bottle on the floorboard of Wallace’s car. Pike’s blood is on the sun visor where his head made impact, as is his hair. His forehead has a scrape that will support his head hitting the visor. His clothes have glass imbedded in them that will match the glass from Wallace’s windshield, and his hat and jacket are on kitchen counter, both contaminated with airbag accelerant residue.”

He stood and paced the floor while he continued.

“The boots on Pike’s feet are covered in mud from the body of water behind Wallace’s residence. That same mud is in Wallace’s garage, in perfectly preserved footprints from Pike’s boots. It’s also in Wallace’s car. Additionally, there’s a spot on the fender of Pike’s truck where he kicked it. I used his boot to smear mud across the dent, which will lead them to believe he stumbled home angry about the wreck and kicked the fender before going inside. Once inside, he drank a few beers and committed suicide with a pistol and silencer he obtained from New Dawn’s armory. They’ll likely assume it was out of fear of legal repercussion for the vehicular homicide. All that will be left up in the air is why Pike and Wallace were together. The local police won’t care. It’s irrelevant. They’re coworkers. Martin, on the other hand, will. It will drive him crazy with wonder.”

“How did Pike get in Wallace’s car?” I asked. “I realize the wreck was within walking distance of his home, but if his footprints are in Wallace’s home, how did he get in Wallace’s car?”

“It’s not coincidental that I rented a silver BMW sedan,” he replied. “Pike’s neighbors, if asked, will say they saw a silver BMW sedan in the neighborhood. If anyone bothered to write a tag number down, they’ll have written down Wallace’s plate number. I used his plate when I drove to Pike’s. Pike sent Wallace a text at 1715, give or take, asking him to pick him up. Pike’s phone then traveled to Wallace’s and back. So, if they do a GPS search on it, it’ll show having made that journey. It will look like Wallace picked up Pike and took him to his home for a meeting of some sort. A good investigator, if this city employs one, will assume Wallace picked up Pike, and that they shared a bottle of whiskey at Wallace’s while they planned something. Pike, at some point, walked to the waterfront. He then traipsed mud into the garage, and into Wallace’s car. He was likely driving to the base when he wrecked, and then chose to simply walk home. After drinking a few beers, he decided to kill himself instead of facing incarceration. The evidence will support that Pike was the driver of the car. It might take them a while to piece it together, but as soon as they check Pike’s pockets, they’ll start to figure it out. Even a ridiculously foolish investigator will recognize Wallace’s name from the note and realize there was a Wallace found dead in the passenger side of his own car. Your 9-1-1 call on the burner phone regarding a man with a gun walking into a garage will make sure this investigation starts in the right place.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it covered,” I said. “What about the silencer? Why did Pike have it? And, why was he at the lake? Why did they go to Wallace’s?”

“Local investigators won’t give a shit. They’re idiots. I’ve created a few oddities, however, that will keep DNI’s investigators scratching their respective heads, all the while wondering if this is a set-up. Wallace said there was no intel sheet on Shephard, and that the DNI’s office has no knowledge of who took the assignment. The DNI will believe Wallace and Pike were in the process of doing what you and I are doing now. Attempting to free themselves from the DNI’s grasp before DNI had them killed. They were nervous after the order came to kill Shephard. Wallace is a gutless piece of trash, so he lured Pike to go kill Shephard’s killer, who would have been the only one—other than Wallace—that knew the DNI is willing to kill its own men. Pike was likely at the edge of the lake considering burying a body or tossing it in the lake. Silencers are illegal for civilians to own, so Pike wouldn’t have had one at home. They’ll believe Pike picked up the silencer from the armory, met Wallace, and that they were headed to kill whoever killed Shephard. Pike wrecked the car and then killed himself to keep from being imprisoned. This lets the DNI put these two deaths to rest, so to speak. It gives us some latitude. Breathing room.”

He was as thorough as I hoped he would be. As I gazed at him in awe of his abilities, a thought came to mind. I laughed to myself.

“Completely off the wall question,” I said. “Just out of curiosity. If five guys surrounded you in the street, all wanting to kick your ass at the same time, could you whip them? Could you win a five-on-one fight?”

Without thought, he shrugged. “Sure.”

I gave him a quick once over, grinned, and stood. “You ready to go eat?”