JACKKNIFE CRACKED THE SHADOW BOX AND REMOVED THE COLT .45 PISTOL, thinking, In case of emergency, break glass.

To Jackknife, the need for this specific pistol wasn't so much an emergency as it was part of an elaborate plan.

Keeping a towel wrapped around the punching hand, Jackknife was able to avoid any incriminating lacerations from the razor-sharp shards of glass. Knowing what kind of pistol was in the mounted display on the wall of Major General Bob Savage's oak-paneled study deep in the bowels of the man's secretive Vass Estate, Jackknife had already secured the magazine and ammunition from the desk drawer. Savage was the enigmatic commander of JSOC, or the Joint Special Operations Command, at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Jackknife knew that Savage was not home this evening, that someone had sent the general a secure text message asking him to meet at a discrete location.

The pistol slid easily from its red velvet background into which two mounting pegs had been secured. Jackknife's latex-gloved hands caressed the pistol as if holding a large, precious gem. The weapon was heavy and perfect in every way for tonight's mission.

Jackknife retraced the route used to breach the secure compound, hiked a mile through the forest, cut through a golf course, and located the cash- purchased, gray 2002 Ford Taurus. Cranking the engine, Jackknife laid the Colt .45 on the towel on the passenger seat, folded the towel over the pistol, then placed it beneath the driver's seat with the magazine and ammunition.

The drive to Charlotte took over two hours because Jackknife drove the speed limit the entire way. Passing a few police officers around nine p.m., the vehicle gave off no suspicion of DUI, speeding, or reckless endangerment.

Though Jackknife's mission was completely reckless and dangerous.

Arriving at the preplanned spot on the far side of the Country Club of Charlotte, Jackknife parked in a dirt lot used to gain access to the golf course maintenance shed. It was out of the way, hidden from the members who didn't care to see the maintenance personnel who kept their course in pristine condition.

Jackknife walked across several golf holes and followed a rehearsed route along number five, went around a pond, hit some muddy spots, and walked into the backyard of the target. Having scouted the security system and overall security posture of the home, Jackknife knew that, despite all of the warnings to the person who was about to die, this part of the plan might actually go smoothly.

Now, at ten-thirty p.m., Jackknife came up the back deck of the Georgian brick mansion. After retrieving a lock pick set from the inner coat pocket, Jackknife first checked the doorknob that led to the kitchen.

Unlocked. This was that kind of neighborhood. Friendly neighbors. Tall pines and magnolias dotted the mature gated community like sentries keeping watch. Signs said NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH. Gate guards were at the road entrances, though no guards protected against cutting across the twice-mowed golf greens and fairways.

After returning the pick set to the coat pocket, Jackknife carefully opened the door, listening for any alarm beep or indicator. After a minute of remaining perfectly still, adapting to the environment, Jackknife quietly closed the door and navigated through the house to the stairs. The muddy, rubber- soled boots were too big but necessary for the job, in part because they ensured quiet movement. Jackknife ascended the stairs thinking, The master bedroom is on the left at the end of the hallway.

Approaching the open door, Jackknife noticed the woman and her husband sleeping soundly amidst rumpled sheets. Both of them were snoring, the husband louder than the woman.

Jackknife wanted to kill only the husband but thought that killing the woman first would be a nice touch. A misdirection that in the grand scheme of things might prove useful, buying some time. With that in mind, Jackknife moved to the far side of the bed, where Vicki Sledge was sleeping soundly.

Vicki Sledge had at one time been Vicki Savage, wife of Major General Bob Savage. A recent divorce landed her in Charlotte, where she married Charles Sledge, the CEO of United Bank of America, the fifth largest bank in the nation.

Having walked the length of the expansive bedroom, Jackknife stood above Vicki. She was sleeping with her mouth slightly open, dyed blond hair scattered across her face. Jackknife imagined that she would have a serious case of bed head in the morning.

Especially with a bullet in her forehead.

Jackknife wasted little time, placing the weapon near the forehead of the sleeping woman, who suddenly awoke. Her eyes popped open, big and round. She was roused either from a bad dream or the realization that she was about to step into one. Her gaze shifted up, and she stared into Jackknife's own eyes and recognizable face.

"Oh my God. What are you doing here?" the wife said. Jackknife recognized that even with a pistol to her head, Vicki couldn't get past herself. Well, that was about to end.

"This," Jackknife replied, and pulled the trigger. The Colt .45 sounded like a cannon in the bedroom. The husband was jolted awake, as if someone had placed defibrillator paddles on him. Vicki's head kicked back into the pillow. Blood splattered in both directions, toward Jackknife's outstretched arm and along the path of the exit wound toward the pillow and the mahogany headboard of the poster bed.

"Vicki, what the hell?"

Suddenly the husband was looking up at Jackknife, eyes wide with fear.

"What are you doing? What have you done?"

Jackknife held the pistol steady at the man and thought, Aw shit, he's seen me. Then an unexpected voice came from the hallway.

"Mom? Dad? Everything okay?"

"Run, Danny!" the father shouted.

Jackknife pressed against the far wall, pistol held high. Yes indeed, run, Danny. Jackknife was solid with killing the husband and wife, but the kid had never been an option, or even a thought for that matter. Still, Jackknife, stood square with feet spread into a balanced shooter's stance, prepared for this unexpected turn of events.

But Danny didn't run, at least not away. He ran into the bedroom and spun around. That was when Jackknife shot him in the face. With that task done, Jackknife walked up to the trembling man and shot him in the heart point- blank. Jackknife was careful to use a small Maglite to find and secure the three shell casings ejected by the Colt .45.

Retracing the path out of the house, Jackknife retreated quickly, mission accomplished. Tossing the gun and shell casings into the golf course lake, as good a place as any, Jackknife felt unburdened and moved quickly toward the car. Unconcerned about the footprints that would clearly reveal the path that Jackknife had taken from the murder scene, the killer turned the ignition, pulled gently onto a state road, and turned on the radio, hoping for some news.

After some time driving the speed limit to the northeast, Jackknife arrived at the next destination, parked the burner car, wiped it down, and thought for a second. The feeling of perfection was close but not at hand. Jackknife wondered if there had been a mistake somewhere along the way. It didn't seem likely, but mistakes were possible. Not having time to contemplate what might have occurred, Jackknife focused on the next mission.

Jake Mahegan was next on...