The List

by Steve Berry

Genres: Historical Fiction; Legal Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

From New York Times and #1 internationally bestselling author Steve Berry comes a suspense thriller in the vein of David Baldacci, John Grisham, and Harlan Coben—thirty years in the making. This is Steve Berry like you’ve never read him before.  

Brent Walker is returning home to Concord, a quaint town in central Georgia nestled close to the Savannah River. Ten years ago, after the sudden death of his wife, Brent closed his law practice, said goodbye to his parents, and moved three hundred miles away to a self-imposed exile. His father died two years ago, and now Brent’s coming back to take care of his ailing mother, hired by Southern Republic Pulp and Paper Company as an assistant general counsel.

For decades Southern Republic has invested heavily in Concord, building a paper mill and creating a thriving community, one where its employees live, work, and retire. Unlike countless other mills that have closed Southern Republic survived, becoming a model for the paper industry. But Southern Republic’s success is based largely on something called the Priority program, a highly unorthodox way to secretly control costs, one that provides a huge edge over its competition. Only the three owners of the company are aware of the program’s existence, but one of them, Christopher Bozin, has had a change of heart. Brent’s return to Concord, a move Bozin personally orchestrated, provides a chance at redemption that Bozin desperately wants before cancer takes his life. So a plan is set into motion—one that will not only criminally implicate Bozin’s two partners—it will also place Brent Walker right in the crosshairs of men who want him dead.

With only one course left available: Find and reveal the shocking secret of the list. 

Release date: July 22, 2025

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 384

Reader says this book is...: action-packed (1) emotionally riveting (1) entertaining story (1) realistic characters (1) satisfying ending (1) unexpected twists (1) unputdownable (1)

Sample

KILLING OLD PEOPLE WAS LIKE SHOOTING BOTTLES OFF A LOG.

So little to hold one’s attention.

Even worse, the Priority was late.

Like clockwork, the old man arrived every Friday between 6:00 and 6:30 A.M., as the file expressly noted. Predictable as the squadron of yellow flies that had swarmed in half an hour ago and had been aggravating him ever since.

But not today.

Of all Fridays, the old coot decided to be late today.

Of course, if there had been any real anticipation—that thrill-of-the-hunt-ecstasy-of-success bullshit—the hour just spent in sweltering August heat wouldn’t have been so bad.

He lowered the binoculars and focused on the quiet, pastoral scene. The woodbine bushes, palmettos, and sand pines of the lake’s northeast shore provided thick cover for him, his camouflage fatigues blending perfectly. Brooks Creek meandered ahead, Eagle Lake beyond.

Hopefully, just a few more minutes and this would be over.

THE OLD MAN GRIPPED THE THROTTLE AND POWERED THE SKIFF across Eagle Lake. His wife called the fourteen-hundred-acre basin his meandering mistress. Apt. It’d been nearly thirty years since he watched bulldozers and front-end loaders carve its banks, soil that once supported pine trees and soybeans carted all over Georgia for fill dirt. The remaining massive borrow pit eventually filled with water, becoming a readily identifiable blue splotch on the state map.

He’d been one of the first to test its virgin expanse, hooked from the start, and he hoped one day the last sight for his tired hazel eyes would be the comforting taupe of Eagle Lake’s tranquil water.

He inspected the early-morning sky. It would be at least another hour before the sun crested the tallest pines rising from the eastern shore. No clouds lingered in sight, a tight clammy blanket of humidity the only reminder of the nasty thunderstorms from the past couple of days. But the birds and tree frogs didn’t seem to mind. Nor the insects.

Nor did he.

Ahead, he spotted the familiar break in the shore.

He released the throttle.

The outboard wound down, slowing the skiff to a crawl. He knew most Woods County fishermen avoided Brooks Creek for four practical reasons. Limited space—only fifteen feet from bank to bank. Full of mosquitoes and yellow flies. Unbearably hot and sticky most of the year.

And the gate of limbs.

Thick water oak branches corkscrewed a barricade over the entire expanse. The space between the bark and water was limited, about four feet, yielding only to a certain size and shape of boat, like his flat-bottomed skiff, bought three years ago specifically for Brooks Creek.

He allowed the outboard to die, then inched ahead using a half-horsepower trolling motor mounted to the bow.

The limbs approached.

Thirty years of visits had taught him precisely when and for how long to duck. Beyond the barrier, the creek snaked inland another twenty yards until bulging into a secluded pool, where he knew the best fishing in central Georgia waited.

HE SPOTTED THE OLD MAN.

About damn time.

Miserable heat. Bugs. Poison ivy. At least yesterday there’d been air-conditioning, though that seventy-year-old pain in the ass squirmed the whole time. He liked it, though, when they resisted a little. It added to the sport. Made for a challenge. But not too much. Bruises, cuts, blood, DNA, fingerprints. All were evidence that could definitely ruin a good thing.

He shook his head.

People were so damn predictable.

Living their whole life by precise agendas, never realizing the risks associated with regularity. Take this Priority. Every Friday, no matter what, he plopped his boat into the water at the county ramp and powered straight for Brooks Creek. Even his path across Eagle Lake was never in doubt. Like an invisible highway to the northeast, always right after dawn, staying till lunchtime. Usually, he’d take back four or five bass. Sometimes a catfish. It looked like he’d vary the routine once in a while. Maybe try the southwest shore or the east bank. No. If it’s Friday, then this must be Brooks Creek.

Damn how he loved creatures of habit.

THE OLD MAN CUT ANOTHER GLANCE AT THE EARLY-MORNING SKY. Orange and yellow hues were being rapidly replaced by azure. What a great-looking summer day. Nothing beat morning fishing, weekdays, just after dawn, all alone.

He reached over and gripped his favorite jigger pole. Years ago he’d taken a month to whittle one from cane. Now they could be bought anywhere, professionally manufactured out of lightweight flexible nylon. Slowly, he tied the special double-reverse spinner knot learned from his father, assuring that the sinking Rapala at the tip was tightly secured. It was shaped and colored like a small bream, the perfect temptation for a near-blind, greedy-gut bass.

He tested the treble hooks fore, aft, and abeam.

Sharp. Ready to snag.

He extended the black pole from the boat and ever-so-gently lowered the plug beneath the quelled surface. Brooks Creek was best fished early. By midday, after the sun steamed the tepid water, warmth drove the fish into the cool lake bottom. Right now, just after dawn, the environment was perfect and he stared hard at the black crevices in the creek’s east bank. Twice, when he’d won the Golden Angler award from the Woods County Bass Association, the snagged bigmouth bass came from those crevices.

The plug submerged.

Ever so gently he added to the allure by jiggering the pole up and down, the splashing piece of plastic now appearing like a fingerling bream casually investigating the surface. It wouldn’t take long. Never did. The trick was knowing how to splash. Too hard would scare the bass off. Too soft would never get any attention.

The line knocked hard.

He tightened his grip and hung on, allowing the hooks to tangle deep. Jerk too soon and all he’d have left was an empty lure. When he sensed the hooks were set, he swung the frantic fish up and into the boat.

Hell’s bells he loved jigger fishing.

He pinched his boot down on the thrashing bass and thrust a finger into the gills. Carefully, he removed the hooks and admired the catch. Four pounds. Maybe five.

It would make excellent fillets.

HE WAS READY.

Occasionally he wished he could simply snap their necks. It’d be so much simpler and a thousand times less trouble. Unnoticed deaths took imagination, thought, and creativity. A flair for the expected mixed with the unexpected.

Like an art form.

The scene needed to be set perfectly in the Priority’s mind.

THE OLD MAN DROPPED THE BASS INTO THE CATCH COOLER, THEN leaned over the side and rinsed the fish coat off his hands. He then reached into another Igloo for an apple. He’d overslept and left home in a hurry, not taking time to have his usual bowl of shredded wheat and coffee.

Overhead, swallows and mockingbirds twittered from tree to tree in search of their own breakfast. A welcome waft of honeysuckle accompanied bees filching nectar. He should have bought a lot here years ago, back before the price of lakefront property skyrocketed. But even now the lack of adequate water and sewer lines and paved roads kept the number of dwellings to a minimum. Especially here, on the northeast shore. Nothing but loblolly pine all around for miles.

He gnawed on the apple and, as always, tossed the spent core into the pool where he was about to replace the lure.

It never failed to draw a fish.

Pole in hand, he extended the lure back over the water.

HE SEARCHED HIS JUMPSUIT POCKET AND FOUND A PACK OF Doublemint. He folded a stick into his mouth and rejuvenated his palate. It was almost a conditioned response. Death and dry mouth.

A habit?

He grinned at the irony.

Then he relocked his eyes on the old man sitting in the boat fifty yards away. A minute went by. He flicked his wrist and the associate standing beside him understood what to do.

Timing was so important.

Nothing unusual except—

THE OLD MAN HEARD THRASHING AHEAD IN THE DENSE SCRUB ON the far bank, beyond the point where the creek left the pool snaking inland. People rarely frequented those woods, so he wondered if the visitor might be a deer, hog, or brown bear. Fifty feet past the pool the foliage thinned to a tiny beach. He gazed into the woods beyond and saw the orange of a hunter’s vest.

“Hey,” a male voice said. “You there. I need some help.”

He whirled the jigger pole back into the boat.

“Please don’t go,” the voice said.

A man emerged from the thickets cursing after becoming entangled on a thorny dewberry vine at the water’s edge.

“What’s the problem?” he asked.

“It’s my friend. We were huntin’ hogs and he tripped. Damn palmetto root. I think his foot’s broken. I can’t carry him all the way back to the truck. I was thinkin’ maybe you could take him in the boat and I could meet you wherever you put in.”

He studied the hunter. Mid-thirties, square jaw, clean-shaven. A stranger. But a lot of people traveled from all around south and middle Georgia to hunt Woods County. He was certainly dressed appropriately. Crew-neck shirt beneath a fluorescent-orange vest. Camouflage pants covering stumpy legs. Mud-encrusted boots. Black gloves.

“Can he walk?” he asked.

“Barely,” the hunter said, panting, trying to catch a breath. “But I think I can get him here if you’ll help me get him into the boat.”

“Go ahead. I’ll come over.”

The hunter retreated into the woods.

He shifted the two coolers, tackle box, and spare gas tank toward the stern, then reached for the paddle and inched the boat toward the clearing where the hunter had just stood.

He beached the bow and climbed out to wait on shore.

A couple of minutes later the hunter he’d just talked with approached, supporting another man dressed almost identically. The other man appeared older, larger, and even with the first man’s help he had a tough time walking, crying out several times as they plowed through the underbrush. He waited by the boat until they emerged from the thickets, then moved forward to help.

The hunter with the bad foot seized him by the hair.

His neck arched back.

Pain seared down his spine.

Another hand came across his face. He felt cold cloth and smelled something sickening, like fish guts dried in the sun. His eyes locked onto the hunter’s. Steel-gray with a swirl of indigo, casting a gaze of pleasure that terrified. The grip tightened. The smell turned dizzying. His knees softened, then buckled. He crumpled to the soft soil and stole a final glance upward.

Then the light faded.

HE FISHED THE WALKIE-TALKIE FROM HIS BACK POCKET AND reported, “Got him. Move in.”

Though it wasn’t visible, at the mouth of Brooks Creek he knew another boat was drifting into position, its occupant there to keep watch with an unbaited line cast into the brown water, walkie-talkie ready in case a warning was needed. He yanked off his black leather gloves, exposing latex ones. His associate did the same. Together they lifted the old man and placed him in the skiff. Then they splashed water on the bank, the sodden soil smoothed with dead palmetto fronds erasing any trace of their presence.

He climbed over the old man’s body into the skiff and sat astern. His associate followed but stayed near the bow. He paddled the skiff into the pool and, using the landing net, scooped the apple core from the water. He looked fleetingly to see if a good bite might be left, but the old fool had devoured the pulp down to the seeds. He stuffed the core into the old man’s mouth, then maneuvered the skiff into the creek toward the lake.

He negotiated the protruding limbs and drifted toward the creek mouth. His other associate was now in sight and he stared toward the boat. A discreet signal confirmed that everything was fine. He tossed the paddle aside and cranked the skiff’s fifty-horsepower outboard.

The engine shot to life. Rpms increased.

Oil billowed out in a noxious cloud.

Another hand signal ordered his associate toward the bow to prop the old man upright on the center seat. To keep the limp body high his associate supported the old man’s head from under the chin, crouching down in front. He looked behind once more, again assured by his other associate that no eyes or ears were nearby. Seeing all at the ready, he twisted the outboard into gear.

The boat shot forward toward the pool.

His associate supported the old man, keeping him steady.

The outboard hummed at full throttle.

The limbs rapidly approached, the old man’s head directly in their path. In the instant before the two met, he popped the throttle to neutral and rolled out of the stern.

The tepid water felt good.

A welcome rinse for the sweat and grime that had cooked his camouflage fatigues since dawn.

He surfaced shoulder-deep and swept back his gray-streaked hair. His eyes dried and focused just as his associate released the old man’s skull, which slammed into the overhanging branches, the body pounding into the transom, reverse momentum sending what was a few seconds before somebody’s husband, father, and grandfather tumbling into the creek.

Which was exactly where he wanted it.

If the blow to the head didn’t kill, the water certainly would.

Drowning, boating accident, or any combination would each be an acceptable cause of death.

It really was like shooting bottles off a log.

His associate rolled out of the boat into the pool. The skiff settled into a slow cruise, finally lodging in thick brush farther down Brooks Creek, motor humming in neutral.

He surveyed the scene.

Everything was according to the processing criteria.

He signaled his associate, who treaded water until finding the shallows of the creek beyond the limbs. The old man’s body floated facedown in the murky water, apple core nearby. He waded over and laid his fingertips on the carotid artery.

No pulse.

Confirmation.

He and his associate pushed through the creek toward the lake. Approaching the mouth, an increasing depth forced them to swim the remaining distance to the other boat. Their clothes quickly turned to anchors, but the distance was only a few yards. Once there, they climbed in, jerked off their gloves, and then sped away as the old man’s body floated farther down Brooks Creek.

BRENT WALKER HATED REDNECKS.

Not all, of course, but most, though by the most commonly accepted definition he probably was one too. They were a peculiar breed, locally born and bred, with their own language, moral code, and pecking order. To understand them took time and patience—two commodities he’d found himself in short supply of recently. Making matters worse, the scrawny little pissant standing behind him was particularly annoying, complete with the trademark sunburned neck.

“Thought you were gone, lawyer,” Clarence Silva said.

“I’m back.”

“Lucky us.”

He quit sliding the plastic tray across the stainless-steel grid and stopped before the desserts spread out behind a glass partition. He faced Silva, one of the last divorces he’d finalized ten years ago before leaving Concord for Atlanta. Silva had been an electrician’s helper at the mill, who then had a wife and three kids.

Brent had represented the wife.

He reached for a slice of cherry pie and continued down the serving line.

The restaurant was rapidly filling with a dinner crowd. Day shift at the paper mill had ended two hours ago. Allowing for enough time to drive home, shower, and hustle the wife and kids into the car, six to seven had always been rush hour at most of Concord’s dinner establishments.

And there weren’t many.

The two motels had restaurants. In addition, there was a café downtown, a country buffet on the Savannah highway, Andy’s Barbecue near the mill, Burger King, McDonald’s, Wendy’s, and, his choice for the night, Aunt B’s Country Kitchen. Being the first Tuesday of the month didn’t help with the crowd. The Woods County Rotary Club was holding its monthly gathering just off the main dining room. He once was a member, one of three lawyers.

“Pansy,” Silva said.

The idiot had crept close into Brent’s personal space, the aroma from Silva’s dingy clothes, like spilled milk, strong. A familiar waft. It came from eight hours at the paper mill. A mix of heavy bleaching chemicals and copious amounts of sulfuric gases. The smell of money, everyone called it.

He knew part of the unofficial redneck code was never to walk away from trouble—not now, not ever—so he turned and faced his past. “You got a problem, Clarence?”

His voice rose, the tone intense enough that it caught the attention of the people behind Silva. Good. He wasn’t the same man who’d left this town a decade ago and everybody might as well learn that on his first day back.

“Thanks to you, lawyer, I lost everythin’.”

He surveyed the fool. Not much had changed. Black oily hair down to the ears. Still thin as a sapling. Same long neck, like one of the pileated woodpeckers that built nests among the pines around Eagle Lake. In contrast, Brent was six-one, a fit 190 pounds, every muscle toned from a steady regimen at the gym. He liked working out. Sweating seemed to take the edge off, much like alcohol, tobacco, or drugs did for others. Thankfully those three vices had never really interested him.

“As I recall,” Brent said. “You didn’t have much to lose.”

“You almost cost me my job.”

“Bullshit.” And he pointed a finger. “You almost cost you your job.”

Ten years in Atlanta prosecuting criminals for the Fulton County District Attorney’s Office and he’d thought the middle Georgia in him gone. Nope. Not a bit. Still there. Ready for a fight. And though he hadn’t had a fisticuffs in years, he didn’t necessarily want to brawl right in the middle of Aunt B’s. Bad for his new image as an assistant general corporate counsel. A fancy title he was still trying to digest.

So he tried a diversion. “What happened to the wife?”

Silva smiled. Both front teeth were gone, and what remained looked like rotten corn kernels. “Married her again, six months after the divorce.”

Why wasn’t he surprised. The redneck code allowed a wide latitude for forgiveness, no matter the offense, provided a man’s pride had not been too soiled. Which seemed the case here.

“Got another young’un too, after.”

“How you must be proud.”

His sarcasm was clear, so he turned back and started down the serving line.

“Guess she just couldn’t go without it,” Silva said to him.

Another mantra of the code provided that no matter what the problem, sex was always the answer. Whether good or bad, real or not, didn’t matter. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t resist. “Killed any rabbits lately?”

He recalled during the divorce the wife’s testimony of how Silva liked to buy the children cute little Easter bunnies for them to play with. Then he’d fatten them up, twist their necks, and cook them for Memorial Day. Grillin’ Thumper, he called it. Needless to say the whole experience was traumatic on the kids and highly effective on the judge. Silva’s visitation rights had been severely restricted.

“How ’bout you and me goin’ outside?” Silva said. “I always wanted to twist your neck.”

He stopped, turned, and considered the challenge. Why not? He wouldn’t mind beating the crap out of this idiot. Might be a good way to finish turning that page on his new life. Unfortunately, common sense cautioned otherwise.

“Since you got the wife and the kids back,” he said, “go get a life, Silva.”

“Got one. I’d just like to screw your face up. How about it, lawyer? You up to it?”

“I don’t think so,” a voice said from behind him.

Brent turned.

Hank Reed stood planted, all five foot nine inches of him, head jutted forward projecting that famous look of stern determination, like a face from Mount Rushmore, glaring at Clarence Silva.

“This ain’t got nothin’ to do with you, Hank,” Silva said. “Never liked this lawyer, and you know that.”

“I’m not here to argue. Get your food and move on,” Hank said.

He knew Silva wasn’t about to mount a challenge. Silva surely remained only an electrician’s helper at the mill, while Hank was the most senior of the senior day electricians and president of Silva’s trade union. Messing with that would bring nothing but a mountain of trouble. So Silva moved on, shuffling past, angling for a table. Good thing, because Brent was just about to head for the parking lot and crush the little bastard.

But he didn’t really want a bruised face tomorrow.

His first day on a new job.

New life.

No matter how much pleasure he would have derived.

THE ASSOCIATE ENTERED THE WOODS COUNTY CONVALESCENT Center. The single-story building sat just outside Concord, near the regional hospital. It had been built five years ago, replacing a facility that had far outlived its usefulness. Its stats were impressive. Seventy-eight beds, a staff of fifty-one, its equipment state-of-the-art. The average age of a resident was seventy-nine, the current population divided sixty/forty, women to men. Everything was geared toward comfort. There were morning-coffee socials, craft classes, movies, video games, even candlelight dinners and birthday celebrations. As the center’s promotional brochure noted, We work together with the family to provide ongoing therapeutic programs that meet every resident’s needs.

Sounded great.

But he was a long way from retiring and, when he did, it would be to a beach somewhere warm where he could enjoy the fruits of his many labors.

After all, he was a pro.

He’d timed his visit to coincide with the evening shuffle. The file had indicated that 5:00 to 7:00 P.M. each day was not only a shift change, but a time when family members came and went, many dropping by either on their way home from work or after supper. Nearly all the elderly residents were locals, most born and raised in Woods County, men and women who’d worked their whole lives either at the paper mill, or for the county, or in the school system. Those were the top three local employers. The first convalescent center had been built in the 1960s, fully funded by Southern Republic Pulp and Paper, which owned the local paper mill. It was eventually remodeled twice. The company’s way to give back, was how it had been billed both times in the press.

The file he’d studied on the Priority had contained photographs, license plates, and physical descriptions of the nearest relatives, but none of those faces had arrived during the past three hours of his surveillance, and none of their cars were parked in the nearly empty lot.

He knew the building stretched a little over twenty thousand square feet under roof, spread across two acres of flat, wooded land that had also been donated by Southern Republic. The Priority resided inside Room 46, in the building’s east wing. His name was J. J. Jordon, seventy-four years old, suffering from severe blood clots in his legs, aggravated by gout and kidney failure. He should have died three weeks ago when another Associate had paid a visit to Jordon’s home and switched out medications. That was a common method for processing, since the only question it raised was the liability of the pharmacy that had filled the prescription.

Which wasn’t his problem.

In fact, the whole idea of the Priority program was to make a death somebody else’s problem.

He’d studied Jordon’s medical records, to which he had easy access, and noted that the old man’s condition had stabilized. His family had chosen to admit him to the local convalescent center since they were no longer able to care for him on a twenty-four-hour basis. The incident with the bad pills had taken a toll, aggravating things, but not to the point of being fatal. So far, nineteen days of constant care had racked up quite a bill, the amount growing every day, with no end in sight.

This was not his first visit to the convalescent center, so he knew its layout. Thankfully, they’d caught a break with the family choosing here as the place to admit him. An outside facility would have only complicated matters. Medical records indicated that Jordon was being fed a constant supply of nasal oxygen. He was also heavily sedated, sleep being deemed the best medicine. That might explain why there were no visitors this evening to Room 46.

Information was so important.

It could be your best ally, which was why the files were prepared with such detail.

He walked down the carpeted corridor and bypassed the residents’ rooms, heading instead for a closed door at the end of the hall. He was dressed in a suit and tie, one of the facility’s security badges draped around his neck, which identified him as a physician from Savannah. He carried a small black bag. Medical professionals with regular business at the center were issued the badges, which allowed them to come and go as they pleased. Those from Savannah or Augusta were commonplace.

He stopped at the door and glanced around.

No one was in sight.

Security cameras had intentionally not been installed. The governing board that ran the facility, comprising seven Woods County residents, had thought the measure unnecessary. This was a place where people came to live their final years in peace. Nothing nefarious about that.

So why spend the money.

He inserted the key that he’d brought and freed the lock. Inside was a mechanical room. He flicked on the light switch then relocked the door. His internal clock began ticking. He could not stay here long. Every second increased the risk of exposure. Processing this Priority, in this manner, was not standard operating procedure. But correcting the mistake of three weeks ago had demanded that more risk than usual be taken.

He opened the black leather bag and removed a small cylinder. He then approached a bank of tubes and valves, all leading to the center’s respiratory generator. From there, pure oxygen was sent through the walls to each of the rooms, available if needed.

And currently, Room 46 was in need.

Actual processing decisions were always left to the Associate’s discretion, though the final choice had to be approved before implementation. Once he’d learned that J. J. Jordon was here, the choice had been a no-brainer. Years ago, in central Alabama, an eighty-year-old woman had died in the bathroom at a nearby McDonald’s. Police ultimately determined that a bleed line used to carbonate the drink dispenser had disconnected and flooded the bathroom with carbon dioxide. Levels built to a lethal dose, killing the elderly woman when she entered. Talk about a freak occurrence. How many people died going to the bathroom?

When the convalescent center was remodeled, this particular oxygen feed system had been purchased because of its quick-release valves. Normally there for purging, they also made for an excellent entry point. It had been three years since they’d last been utilized—by him then, too. That Priority had been easily eliminated, and this one, tonight, should be the same. The cylinder he’d brought already had a short span of flex-tubing leading from its valve, the male counterpart to that female attachment on the oxygen line leading to Room 46. The cylinder contained diosogene. Colorless, but with a slight odor that resembled cut hay or grass. It, along with phosgene, was used as a chemical weapon in World War I, but had fallen out of favor in the time since. The great thing about it was that it didn’t take much to kill and it left no residual traces, dissipating quickly.

He snapped on latex gloves, then disconnected the oxygen line for Room 46, connecting the cylinder and opening the valve, flooding the line. But instead of life-giving oxygen, J. J. Jordon was now breathing poison. Being heavily sedated helped, as there should be no convulsions. Unconsciousness would be nearly immediate. No heart or breath monitors were attached to Jordon. Instead, the file stated that he was checked several times an hour by the on-duty staff.

He kept the gas flowing.

Two minutes.

Three.

Five.

That should do it.

He disconnected and reattached the oxygen, which would quickly flush the line clean. He then deposited the cylinder and the gloves into his bag and prepared to leave. Back in the hall he worked his way toward the main entrance, blending in with people coming and going from the rooms.

No one paid him any attention.

Normally, he was required to confirm physically with the Priority that the processing had been successful, but that mandate had been waived for tonight because of the prior mistake. In the morning, he’d check and be sure.

Right now, he had other appointments.

HANK REED WAS GLAD TO HAVE BRENT BACK. HE’D MISSED HIS BUDDY more than he would ever openly admit. Almost twenty-five years of age separated them. Brent was a college graduate and a lawyer—white collar. Hank barely made it out of high school, trained as an electrician, blue collar all his life. But in many ways Brent was the son Hank never had. They understood each other. Always got along. No pretending existed between them. He liked that. Nobody else had ever been that close to him. Ten years ago, when Brent left town, it had hurt.

But that was something he kept to himself.

Thankfully his “son” had returned.

He watched as Brent dissected a medium-rare T-bone, the table’s location right smack in the middle of Aunt B’s main dining room.

Exactly where he wanted it to be.

“Back one day and already in trouble,” he said to Brent. “I didn’t realize Clarence still carried a chip for you.”

“People get real emotional about lawyers. Especial