7
The stranger ushered Sam and Foley into the house. He closed and locked the door behind them, stepped across to the nearest window, moved the curtain aside, and peeked cautiously out at the area to the front of the house, the Glock pistol still held loosely at his side.
“You Jackson Traynor?” Foley asked.
“That would be me,” Traynor confirmed. He turned and faced them.
Up close, Traynor was even more impressive. Taller than both Sam and Foley, neither of whom could be considered short in stature, he held himself erect, ramrod straight, a legacy of his time in the military. His T-shirt, stretched taut across his chest and biceps, indicated he was a man more than familiar with pumping iron to stay in shape. Complementing the toned, finely-tuned physique, cobalt blue eyes, set wide belo
