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Though Dayne didn't look as
uptight and corporate as Revelle, she presented herself well.

“You clean up nice,” he
told her.

She exhaled. “I'm ready.”

He eyed the counter. “The
toast?”

She split a slice with Cim
and Ruckus, then stuck the remainder in the refrigerator. “I'll make croutons
later. We can sprinkle them over a salad at dinner.”

Salad—not his idea of man
food after nine innings against Louisville. “Sounds good,” he agreed. Dayne
could chop rabbit food and he'd cook steaks.

Dayne played with the radio
all the way to James River Stadium. From the oldies to morning talk shows, she
punched buttons, twisted the dial, yet couldn't settle on a station. She tapped
into
Mick in the Morning,
syndicated out of Baltimore, and turned ghost
white. The DJ's voice was smooth and personable, almost as if a third person
rode in the Hummer, chatting amicably.

She hit the Off button so
hard, Kason swore his dashboard shook. “Problem?” he asked her.

Pink tinted her pale
cheeks. “No need for the radio. I'm happy with my own thoughts.”

She didn't look overjoyed.
Her features sharpened and her eyes looked a little wild. She twisted her hands
in her lap, stared out the window.

His Hummer was the first
vehicle in the players' parking lot. It was four hours until game time. He
planned to walk Dayne to Game's On, then grab breakfast at a diner across from
the park. His earlier slice of toast wouldn't get him through the day.
Afterward, he'd hit the weight room.

“Revelle Sullivan,” the
head of Game's On greeted Dayne with a smile and genuine warmth. She appeared
as relieved to have an assistant as Dayne was to be hired.

“Dayne Sheridan.” The
tomboy shook her hand.

A corner of his mouth
tipped. Kason now knew her last name. After several minutes of getting
acquainted, Revelle raised a brow at him, nodding toward the door. His cue to
cut out. He waited a bit longer, until Revelle's gaze narrowed and she openly
waved him off.

His steps were slow in leaving.
He hoped Dayne was a quick study and that Revelle wouldn't have to hold her
hand during training. It would make it easier on them both.

After a breakfast of ham
and eggs, Kason returned to the stadium. The parking lot had filled with the
complete roster of Rogues getting ready for the second game in the series
against the Colonels.

By late afternoon, the game
had run into extra innings. Power hitting and poor fielding had the score tied
9-9 at the bottom of the twelfth. It seemed as though center fielder Alex Boxer
had collected more errors in six innings than the entire team had the previous
season. Whether it was bulleted to him or lobbed high, Boxer couldn't catch the
ball. The Rogues' manager had finally pulled him from the game, replacing him
with yet another rookie.

At bat now, Romeo rocketed
a ball over the short-stop's head, ran full-out to first. Psycho batted next,
struck out. Back in the dugout, he kicked the end of the bench so hard, the
vibration turned the players into bobbleheads.

The center field rookie
next went down on strikes.

Kason moved from the
on-deck circle to home plate.

“Fate of the free world
rests on your hit,” Psycho called from the dugout fence. No pressure there.

The crowd was into the
game, the stands a thunderous roar. He let the noise roll over him, then
completely shut it out. He needed to perform to the high standards of his
gargantuan contract. Big bucks for a big hit. It was time to smack the cover
off the ball. He owed Guy Powers.

The Colonel's closer lit up
the radar gun. His first one-hundred-mile-per-hour fastball blew by Kason, and
the second one as well. The third pitch, and Kason didn't just hit the ball, he
hammered the son of a bitch. Long and gone. Some lucky kid standing in the
parking lot waiting for a home run would have a souvenir.

Kason watched as Romeo
rounded the bases, came home. The winning run had scored. His teammates slapped
Kason's back, and Psycho punched his arm so hard, his bicep spasmed. Psycho had
only wanted an excuse to hit him.

Not one Louisville player
approached Kason after the game. He'd not only burned his bridges; he'd bombed
them.

“Win tomorrow, and we sweep
the series,” Psycho said, rallying the players. He then turned to Kason. “We
shoot bird on Thursday, our day off.” Not a request, but a statement.

Kason sketched directions
to his home. If Psycho got lost, Kason didn't much care. He had plenty to do
before the team hit the road to play Miami.

Hours spent with Psycho
took years off Kason's life.

Ten

Two days later, Psycho stepped from his Dodge Ram, his expression surly.
He held up a piece of paper with scribbled directions. “You said to turn left
at Tri-Corners, when you meant right. I drove for thirty minutes in the wrong
direction.”

“Only thirty?” Kason had hoped the man would drive all the way to the
Civil War battlefields.

Psycho ignored him, scanned the woods. “Damn, it's quiet. How many
acres?”

“A thousand,” Kason answered. The Dixons and Lawrences had pulled out
late last night, now headed to Miami to catch the Rogues' series against the
Marlins. The land sat free and clear of visitors.

Psycho looked toward the double-wide. “Yours?”

Kason nodded. “Construction trailer until I build my home.”

“The aluminum egg?” The man was nosy.

“Rental property” was all Kason gave him. He'd purchased the Airstream
from Frank at the Food Warehouse. He didn't want the man uprooting Dayne after
she'd settled in and seemed happy with her tin can. He would sign over the deed
to Dayne shortly.

“Where are the wolves?” Psycho told people Kason was raised in the wild.
Some doubted; others debated.

Kason paid no attention. He crossed to the trailer, released the dogs. “Cimarron
and Ruckus,” he told Psycho. Both animals shot out, wiggly and free.

“Cute little shit.” Psycho hunkered down, played with the min-pin.
Ruckus's teeth pricked his hand. “Sucker bit me.”

“The pup minds well.” Kason smirked. “Hope it hurt.”

Psycho grunted, pushed to his feet. “Ready to shoot bird?”

“We can set up behind the trailer.”

“The noise might bother the dogs,” Psycho warned.

“Inside,” Kason ordered, and Cimarron obeyed. Ruckus, on the other hand,
yipped his disappointment. He ran around Kason's ankles, then shot between his
booted feet. A three-pound terror.

Psycho stood back, amused. “Alligator mouth,” he finally called out.

The Little League term wasn't lost on Kason. It was the way coaches
taught young players to catch a ground ball. The glove would be placed on the ground,
and the other hand would be open above the glove, with the heels of the hands
fairly close together.

Kason didn't have his glove, but his big hands worked just as well.
Ruckus ran right into the reptile's mouth. And Kason closed on him.

“Wish I'd had a camera.” Psycho chuckled. “I'd have sent the tape to
America’s
Funniest Home Videos.”

Kason wasn't feeling the humor. He gently deposited Ruckus in the
double-wide, then turned back to Psycho.

The other man nodded toward his truck. “I'll get the shotguns; you grab
the trap.”

Kason reached into the flatbed, raised the springloaded machine.
Sophisticated and fully automated, the trap held six hundred clay pigeons in
the magazine. The acoustic system was activated by the shooter's voice. Target
speed and trajectories varied.

Psycho shouldered both shotguns. “Ever shoot bird?” he asked as they
trudged through the weeds, trampling the low vegetation.

Kason shook his head.

Psycho turned smug. “Good—I'll win. Care to wager?”

“Let me get off a shot before you pick my pocket.”

The trap sat on three legs. Psycho programmed in both their voices. “Should
I set the flywheel to throw singles or doubles?” he baited.

“Singles, dickhead.”

They loaded their shotguns with lead pellets, then stood behind the
trap. The sun popped in and out of the clouds.

“Shall I show you how it's done?” Psycho asked.

“Knock yourself out.”

“Pull,” Psycho's voice triggered the machine, which released a fluorescent
orange target. He took aim, shouted “Kason Rhodes” at the top of his lungs,
then fired. The inverted saucer shattered. “Kill.” He pumped his arm.

Kason cut him a dark look. “You named the bird after me?”

“Damn straight. I've got built-up hostility.”

Two could play this game. “Pull.” It was Kason's turn. He swung the
shotgun in an arc, stayed with the target. “Psycho McMillan,” he roared. The
pellet winged the bird, but didn't bring it down. The orange saucer soared
through the tree branches, flying straight into the woods.

“Not bad,” Psycho said. “You nicked me.”

“Pull.” Kason went again. “Psycho” echoed for a mile. This time he blew
the clay pigeon to smithereens.

“You're going out of turn,” Psycho said gruffly.

“Screw turns.”

“Go again, and I'll shoot a pellet up your ass.”

Kason glared at Psycho. “No way in hell.”

“Ask Chase Tallan about the scar on the back of his left thigh,” Psycho
told him. “And he's a friend.”

No telling what Psycho would do to an enemy.

Kason kept a close eye on the barrel of Psycho's shotgun. Pellet ass
sounded painful.

“Pull.” Again from Psycho. “Alex Boxer,” he hollered, then proceeded to
kill the bird.

“Why Boxer?” Kason asked.

“The punk's doing a crap job in center.” Psycho ground the words out. “He's
all image, a real arrogant shit.”

Kason thought that pretty much described Psycho. “This from a man who's
T-shirt reads
Success Swells More than My
Head?”

“Boxer's playing minor league ball,” Psycho stated. “I cover right, you
cover left, and we'll both need to attend to center. Call Boxer off if you can
make the catch.”

Kason understood. He'd watched Alex closely. The rookie got distracted.
He played, but didn't live the game. Even though the outfield coach drilled
Boxer daily, there'd been no improvement. He just couldn't hold on to the ball.
But unless the Rogues traded up, Boxer was there to stay.

While the majority of team owners fought against the salary cap, Guy
Powers imposed his own. He refused to pad his roster. Powers was banking on
Risk Kincaid's return. Until then, every player would have to pick up the
slack.

“Pull.” Kason squared off for another shot. “Psycho,” he called again.
He fired, misjudged.

“Bird away,” Psycho said. “You missed me.”

“Pull, pull, pull,” Kason launched three consecutive saucers. “Bat Pack,”
he yelled. The clay pigeons flew out seconds apart. He nailed all three.

Psycho frowned. “Low, Rhodes,” he complained. “Blow Sam Janovich out of
the sky.”

The man's home run had cost the Rogues a Louisville sweep. The hairy
bastard had jacked the ball downtown. Kason mentally painted Janovich's face on
the next orange saucer.

“Set the trap for doubles,” Kason said. “We'll go at him together.”

They fired at Janovich for the next ten minutes.

Until one of the stretch limos in the Rogues' fleet pulled up, parked,
and Dayne Sheridan stepped out. Kason and Psycho both stared. The tomboy looked
damn hot in her gray pantsuit. The jacket was boxy, the pants slim. The
late-afternoon sun played off her silver chain and small hoop earrings. It was
an easy style, but she looked sophisticated and sharp.

Revelle had enlisted a limousine for Dayne, a team perk until her
assistant could afford her own transportation. Dayne took her lunch hour to run
home and check on the dogs. Kason had heard the limo driver was fond of Ruckus,
but that he kept on his leather driving gloves to avoid the min-pin's needle
teeth.