The Weekday One Hundred

His soft, Ivy League hands held the freshly severed power cord. A clean cut, through and through. So much for keeping a low profile.

Ritter needed to fix this trimmer stat. Failure wasn’t tolerated at the Bureau.

Then came the gentle tap on his shoulder.

He turned, found a shotgun pointed at his sternum. At the other end: Henrico Gonzales. The Snake. No wonder he’d been caught off-guard.

“Don’t know you,” said the cartel head. “And I know everyone.”

Ritter was never comfortable with undercover work. And this growing patch of red on his crisp white jumpsuit just confirmed why.