Victor Hargrove's office, 11:27 a.m., forty-two floors above D.C.
The Macallan in Victor's glass trembled just enough for a single drop to slide down the crystal and pool on the mahogany desk. Rafael Escobedo sat opposite him, legs crossed, the picture of relaxed elegance, as though he were discussing a merger instead of the assassination of Victor's own son and the price of one night with Victor's wife.
Victor set the glass down with deliberate care. His voice came out low, almost conversational, the way men speak when they are trying not to scream.
"How, exactly, do you plan to kill him, Rafael? I need details. Clean, you said. I want to know what 'clean' looks like when the target is a nineteen-year-old with an army that now salutes him."
