We can’t fuck around with these paper-pushers.”

Joe Penny’s my bomb-builder and expert of choice. But lately I’ve noticed serious flaws in his character, like compassion and empathy. Not to mention he’s questioned my judgment several times on this trip. Worst of all, he’s crushing on Callie, big time.

On the plus side, Joe’s an artist. He builds special-purpose bombs that distract or kill with surgical precision. When it comes to tactical work, he’s the best.

I use other bomb-builders, of course. You know, for mass-murdering. When I need massive explosions, I don’t require a specialist like Joe. I simply look for a guy with goats in his yard.

If Joe wants to keep breathing for an extended period of time he’ll have to find a way to overcome his lust for Callie. In the meantime, he’s on my payroll. In fact, he’s the only munitions expert I keep on salary. The balance of my staff is comprised of assassins and researchers, and I’ve got the best of both.

The assassins are exactly what you’d expect, including Maybe Taylor, who happens to be my daughter. But my research team would surprise you. It’s comprised of three celibate males, Curly, Larry, and C.H., who are, respectively, a midget, a dwarf, and an elf.

These three vertically-challenged geniuses work and live in Geek City, a protected area of the Sensory Resources complex. My offices are in the same complex, different annex. Sensory Resources is a clandestine branch of Homeland Security, whose prime directive is identifying domestic terrorists and killing them before they have a chance to carry out attacks. Ninety-nine percent of our work is done quietly, behind the scenes, so I don’t normally require clearance. When I do, it’s hard to come by, since only a handful of people know about Sensory Resources, and even fewer know I’m the newly-appointed director of the agency. Since we don’t technically exist, we have to pose as Homeland Security bigwigs.

Now, at ground zero, I’m impressed by the extent of the damage. Portions of doors, toilets, appliances, flooring, and sections of staircases are still intact, but nothing—from walls to fireplaces—remains vertical. The target and the surrounding homes are basically rubble.

“I can’t believe no one was killed,” I say.

“What do we know about the survivors?” Callie asks.

“Sheriff Cox will have to brief us.”

Joe says, “You’d think the place would be crawling with cops and gawkers by now.”

“This is a small, secluded town. A resort area. Most of these lake homes are vacant. When terrorists attack, people tend to hide till they know it’s safe to come out. The blast occurred hours ago, but if you heard a terrorist bombed a small town in Arkansas, wouldn’t you stay away?”

“Not me!” Joe says.

“Well, me either. But most people would.”

It takes us thirteen minutes to conclude three things: One, the blast was the result of a domestic terrorist attack featuring a two-step bombing. Two, the main target was the second home on the block, which we already know was owned by a man named Jack Russell, the alias of bounty hunter Jack Tallow. Three, Tallow’s lake house had a secret room.

Callie says, “Bingo.”

She holds up a chunk of wood.

“What’s that?”

“Top piece of an interior door.”

“And that’s significant because?”

She smiles.