CHAPTER 1

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It was springtime in Washington, D.C., and the cherry blossoms were in full bloom when a tall man with graying hair walked into the Salvation Army and dropped an armload of two-button, single-breasted suits on the counter. All the suits were either blue, black, or gray. As the volunteer clerk sorted through the pile, she noticed that each of the jackets had the inside lining torn just under the left armpit. The puzzled look on her face indicated she had no clue why the suits were torn. After twenty-six years, the man’s shoulder holster had left its mark. The burred hammer of the .357 magnum revolver the man carried early in his career had been particularly brutal to his jacket linings; the more recently issued Sig 228 had been less destructive. The man smiled inwardly at the realization that the new recipients of his recycled suits would have no idea where those suits had been or what they had witnessed. Nor would they know anything about the man who had worn them ...

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