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Beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead, trickled down his neck and ran onto the base of his spine. He rubbed a sweaty palm on his pant leg. His throat grew tight. His nostrils flared and his pulse quickened in anticipation of the kill. He was minutes away from committing a perfect murder and he would make no mistakes, leave no clues. His foot pressed hard on the accelerator. Eyes glazed, he stared at the lights ahead. Out of nowhere came the sound of a horn; it belched like a ship leaving port. Breaks squealed, an eighteen-wheeler swerved into the intersection and headed straight for...