None showed, but I used the time to wonder what the hell I was doing. Years ago I’d been a government assassin for the CIA, and the people I killed had been a threat to national security. When I retired, I took a short break and then began killing terrorists for Homeland Security. But those jobs were infrequent, so I began killing people for mob boss Sal Bonadello on the side. Sal’s victims were always criminals and often murderers, so justifying their deaths hadn’t been a problem.

But at some point I drifted into doing free lance work for Victor, and the types of jobs he was giving me were becoming more and more questionable. This latest series of killings were the result of a proposal Victor had made to my boss at Homeland, to see how far everyday Americans could be trusted. For example, would a couple like Rob and Trish be willing to house a terrorist in return for a specific amount of cash?

The initial results said no.

But would they be willing to allow innocent people to die?

Still no? Hmm. Interesting.

How about anonymous, unpunished murderers?

I put a roll of sealing tape in one of my jacket pockets, and two syringes in the other. The Peterson sisters, like Rob and Trish and half-a-dozen others, had accepted “Rumplestilskin Loans” after being told that by taking the money, an unpunished murderer would die. In Victor’s mind, that made the recipients guilty of conspiracy to murder. Hence, accepting the cash, Rob and Trish were sentencing the Peterson sisters to death by execution. When Callie placed the next suitcase, Rob and Trish would have to die. It was, in all respects, a lethal experiment, and it would continue to be one until the day an applicant refused the money.

I exited the car and climbed the three pre-formed concrete steps in front of the Peterson trailer, thinking, I’ve come a long way from the guy who used to kill to preserve our nation’s freedom.

The Peterson sisters had a tempered glass front door that offered a partial view of the living room. When I knocked on it, the entire front of the trailer shook. Soon a young lady came to the door and peered at me through the glass.

“Elaine?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Donovan Creed, with Homeland Security. May I come in?” I showed her my badge. She had no reason to know that Homeland agents don’t carry badges.

A look of concern crossed her face as she slowly opened the door.

“What is this about, Mr. Creed?”

What, indeed? I wondered. Is this what I’ve been reduced to, a guy who kills civilian men and women who didn’t realize they’d become accessories to murder simply by accepting a sum of money they desperately needed? Was it really a fair experiment?

Elaine Peterson was an attractive, thirty-two year old brunette in the first stage of weight gain. She wore black sweat pants and an oversized Pittsburgh Steelers t-shirt that probably belonged to her estranged husband, Grady.

“It would save time if I could talk to both of you,” I said. “Is Amber here?”

Not that Amber and Elaine were the most innocent people in town.