“Yes, too short for a showgirl . . . but just the right height for a federal prosecutor.”

That stops me cold. And I suddenly feel a strong kinship to Ned Stark’s bastard son because: You know nothing, Jon Snow!

And apparently neither do I.

“You’re a . . . ?”

“The Moriotti case, the mafia capo? That was me. I transferred to the DC office last week—and I can’t wait to start playing on your home field.”

Over the last fourteen years I’ve thought a lot about what it’d be like to see Kennedy Randolph again—but I never thought it’d be on the opposite side of a courtroom.

“You realize this makes us mortal enemies? You’re now the Lex Luthor to my Superman, the Magneto to my Professor Xavier.”

“With your comic book obsession obviously still in full effect, I’d say I’m more the Wendy to your Peter Pan complex.”

I ignore the dig because I’m too busy connecting the dots. “Wait a second—your middle name is Suzanne.”

“Thought we covered that, already.”

“You’re K. S. Randolph?”


Her smile goes wide—two rows of pearly white evil. “Yep. That’s my professional moniker.”

“You’re the prosecutor on my Longhorn case?”

She golf claps. “Right again.”

“I’ve been trying to get a meeting with your office—so we can talk.”

Her features crumple with mock confusion. “What would I want to talk to you about?”

“Uh, pleading the charges down?”

Ninety-seven percent of federal criminal cases end in plea bargains. If you want a real feel for jurisprudence today, forget Judge Judy—watch Let’s Make a Deal instead.

She chuckles in a distinctly not-nice way. “Brent, Brent, Brent—I don’t make plea deals. Ever. It’s kind of what I’m known for. Oh, and I’ve never lost a case. I’m known for that too.”

I was wrong—this match isn’t anywhere near over. It’s just getting started.

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