WILD CARD

A MASON SHARPE THRILLER

LOGAN RYLES

Published by Inkubator Books

www.inkubatorbooks.com

Copyright © 2025 by Logan Ryles

Logan Ryles has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work.

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-83756-599-3

ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-83756-600-6

ISBN (Hardback): 978-1-83756-601-3

WILD CARD is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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1

Disaster struck in the blink of an eye. Riding twenty yards behind the wreck, I had a front row seat to watch it unfold.

Four lanes of eastbound travel rose out of Wilmington to cross the Delaware River, but only the right three lanes were occupied. Riding to the left was a sedan—not a new sedan, but one of the older land-yacht styles that were so popular in the seventies and eighties. A Lincoln Continental, I thought. Something big and heavy, clipping along above the posted fifty-mile per hour speed limit.

The second vehicle, riding in the middle of the three lanes, was also old—an early-eighties model Chevrolet Blazer riding high on mud tires that hummed on the asphalt. I could hear them even over the howl of late-summer wind ripping across the hood of my truck. The Blazer was driving about as fast as the Lincoln, but there was a twenty-foot gap between the rear bumper of the Lincoln and the front bumper of the Blazer.

The final vehicle drove in the far right-hand lane—the lane that ran directly along the bridge’s edge as we departed dry land. That vehicle was by far the newest and the smallest of the three. It was a Toyota Prius, not very old. Lime green with a COEXIST bumper sticker pasted to the rear hatch. The front end of the Prius was just about even with the back end of the Lincoln, and the Prius’s rear tire spun level with the Blazer’s front bumper. It was a cluster of three cars, not really doing anything unusual, not doing anything unsafe. Just headed to New Jersey. Maybe three commuters on their way home after a busy work day in the city.

A normal summer afternoon. And then it wasn’t.

The Lincoln was the first domino to topple. With the setting sun glaring against its chrome bumper I was leaning low to avoid the glare. I could see through the Lincoln’s rear window—I could see the driver. I noted the moment a cell phone appeared, rising above the wheel, the screen gleaming. The driver’s thumbs danced as he or she shot off a text message or maybe manipulated a social media account—I didn’t know, and it didn’t matter.

The only thing that did matter was that the Lincoln drifted right. Suddenly, severely. Crossing the dashed white line, cutting in front of the Blazer even as my own left foot swung instinctively for my clutch. My right foot relaxed off the gas.

But it was already too late—another domino fell. The Blazer’s driver should have braked, but he swerved instead. A hard pop to the right that sent his heavy steel bumper smashing like a striking snake into the left rear tire of the Prius. The Lincoln never actually connected with the Blazer—already the texting driver was swerving back into his lane, but what did that matter?

The damage was done. The Blazer was bouncing off the Prius and the Prius—the victim of an impromptu PIT maneuver at nearly sixty miles per hour—was spinning out of control. Back end swinging around, nose circling toward the Blazer. Once again, the driver of the heavy Chevy should have braked, but instead he tried to evade. He swerved left and laid on the gas.

He hit the Prius again, two tons of solid Detroit steel smashing broadside into whatever a grasshopper Japanese hybrid weighs. The Prius bounced off the brush-guard nose of the Blazer like a rubber ball, leaving the ground and rolling right, but never reaching the pavement.

The car reached the guard rail instead. The Blazer finally laid on its brakes, its back end swinging wide as horns blared from behind. My pickup fishtailed. I bore into the brake pedal and slid at an angle toward the slowing Blazer, my front left wheel making a beeline for the Blazer’s bumper. I knew I was going to hit—even headed up the steep slope of the Delaware Memorial Bridge, it was too late to stop.

But I wasn’t watching the Blazer. I was watching the lime green Prius. It had reached the railing, its tires still bouncing high off the pavement. Airbags deployed, glass shattered, and it struck the bridge railing low on its right-hand side.

It rolled. A thousand diamond cubes of window glass gleamed in a sunset shower. The world descending into slow motion.

Then I hit the Blazer, and the Prius flipped straight off the bridge.

2

In nineteen sixty-seven when my GMC pickup was built, airbags weren’t a thing. Neither were antilock brakes, or even three-point seatbelts. My tires screamed over the asphalt and I struck the Blazer at fully thirty miles per hour.

Metal crunched. The lap belt secured around my waist kept me from flying through the windshield, but could do nothing to keep my body from slamming into the steering column. The breath vacated my lungs and whiplash ripped down my spine.

I saw stars. I was choking, pain exploding through my sternum. I was stopped on the bridge with both hands still clutched around the steering wheel.

I coughed on distributed dust and slowly opened my hands, knuckles aching. I was gasping for air, my heart slamming, my gaze sweeping past the Blazer and ratcheting toward the bridge’s edge. I was thinking of the Prius, tearing my lap belt off, yanking on the door handle.

I couldn’t get the driver’s side door open. It was stuck, maybe jammed. I tugged on the chrome grip and threw my shoulder against the door frame, but nothing happened.

I gave it up, scrambling across the GMC’s bench seat and reaching the passenger’s side door. I stumbled onto the bridge, smelling burned rubber and gasoline and muddy river water. It still hurt to breathe. I staggered across a field of crunching glass toward the bridge’s two-foot railing, a wide dent marking the spot where the Prius made impact…then tumbled.

I leaned over glistening brown water. We hadn’t yet reached the bridge’s high point—we were still on our way up, but already the river was fully fifty feet beneath me. Ripples rolled outward from a Prius-sized crash signature. The roof of the lime green car reflected sunlight only inches above the waterline. Air bubbles boiled out. The water rose, the car rapidly sinking.

In moments it would be gone, lost in the murk. Buried in a liquid grave along with whoever was trapped inside. I pictured it, and for a split-second time stood still.

Then I shoved down on the rail. I threw my legs up and over its top, out into midair. Somebody shouted, and a hand brushed my arm, but I was already over the bridge’s side—I was hurtling toward the water.

Just like the Prius.

I fell feet-first, preparing for the bone-shattering impact of the water’s surface by turning my toes down and pressing my arms against my sides. I zeroed in on a spot near where the Prius’s roofline faded beneath the surface. I inhaled all the air that I could.

Then I went down—deep down, straight into miserable wet darkness. The shock wave of the impact ripped up my body. Breath exploded from my lungs and I thrashed with both legs as Army airborne training took over—guidance on what to do if I ever parachuted into the water.

I needed to reach the surface, ASAP. I needed to stay calm, never losing perspective on which way was up. I kicked and I clawed with both arms. Seconds later I broke through and gasped. I twisted in the water and instinctively locked on to the last place I had seen the Prius.

A certain patch of water was smooth, the ripples of the vehicle’s impact having erased the surface deformities. I pinpointed the spot like a bullseye, and launched through the water. I cleared ten yards, inhaled deep and then I was headed down again, reaching straight into the blackness.

This wasn’t my first time attempting an underwater recovery. It wasn’t even my second, or my third. The Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment had provided numerous opportunities for underwater rescue missions, both in training and on deployment. Even in the deserts of Phoenix, back when I was a cop, I’d once jumped into the Salt River to rescue a drunk kid who’d raced right off the sidewalk on an electric scooter.

All of those experiences had taught me how to kick through the dark, remaining calm and on course despite the natural onset of panic. But I’d never faced a foe quite like the Delaware River. Its expanse and darkness were absolute, and never had I free-fallen so far on my way in. The impact had exacerbated my existing breathless condition.

Within seconds of closing beneath the surface, I was desperate for oxygen. My mind screamed for me to surface—to turn back now before this river claimed my life along with that of whoever drove the Prius.

But I didn’t listen to my mind. Uncle Sam had taught to ignore the fear, to push until the mission was accomplished or I lay wrapped in an American flag. It wasn’t my job to worry about which came first; it was my job to keep going.

And I kept going. I clawed through the dark as my heart hammered. I struck deep into the darkness and envisioned the slowly sinking Prius. With windows shattered, it would flood quickly, the leaden weight of the hybrid’s battery packs adding to the speed of the vehicle’s descent. The airbags would fight that descent a little…I hoped.

How deep was the river at this point? Thirty feet? Fifty?

If the Prius sank any deeper, the game was over. I couldn’t free dive to those depths. I might already be out of time⁠—

And then I touched it—my hand smacked metal. I couldn’t see a thing, but as I swept the roofline, I found the shattered void of the driver’s window. I shot a hand through and my fingers collided with an airbag. A steering wheel.

I latched on to the Prius and it dragged me down. There was no need to swim anymore. It was pitch dark, but I still thought I might be blacking out. I was seeing visions—random things from my childhood and my years in the Army. A bar outside of Fort Benning, a mountaintop hut where an old Afghani man lived alone and wove carpets. My favorite chicken fingers restaurant back in Phoenix.

Crazy, wild, irrelevant things. Desperate visions of life beyond the abyss.

Then I touched skin. Soft and wet and motionless. I felt it with my right hand and I grabbed on. I released the roofline and found the Prius’s exterior door handle.

I yanked. I got it open. I was flailing for the seatbelt as I saw my Army buddies, wasted and standing in a circle around a Christmas tree, singing carols at the bar. I saw the old man on the mountain gifting little carpet bags to oppressed village women. I saw a child’s birthday party at Raising Cane’s, all balloons and smiles and cake.

I saw life, the most precious thing on earth. I found the seatbelt latch and yanked the belt loose. I pulled on the arm even as the Prius continued to drop. I kicked off the vehicle and prayed, begged for more strength.

The body wasn’t heavy, but I was nearly exhausted. The visions distorted, images of the bar and the carpets and the birthday balloons all blending. I wrapped my left arm around a slender human form and held it close. I clawed to the surface with my right arm, head tilted back.

I saw the sun, very far away. And I reached for it.

3

The fine folks of the Delaware River and Bay Authority Police Department are good at their jobs—and quick to respond to flurried emergency calls from drivers on the Delaware Memorial Bridge. Even after I broke the surface, gasping and flailing, I likely still would have drowned. I might have let go of the body riding limp in my arm—I might have been swallowed by the depths.

Already the river was sucking me down again, my sodden boots like anchors on my feet. But then the DRBA police boat roared in, blue lights blazing. I descended beneath the surface just as a rescue diver hit the water. Life rings flew at the ends of bright orange ropes. They ground to a halt right beside us. Water filled my mouth as I sank, still clinging to my limp payload.

Then strong hands found me. I was pulled up and out, over the boat’s gunwales. The body left my arms and sunlight flooded my face. Hands lifted my head and water exploded from my throat. I was gasping and shaking and blinking in the glare as a small cop in a bright orange life vest landed on her knees beside me, her nose wrinkling as she grinned.

“Hey, Superman. You all right?”

I was. I knew it even as my chest ached and my head pounded. It was misery, but I’d been there before. I could tell the difference between mortal danger and what my Ranger School sergeant called “petty discomfort.”

I was going to make it…but the body next to me?

I rolled my head, blinking. I saw the face of the Prius driver for the first time. It was a woman, small and slender and young. Early twenties, perhaps, with sodden brown hair woven into pigtails. She wore all denim—a denim skirt, a denim shirt and a denim vest with various colorful patches affixed to it. A yellow happy face, a hand displaying the peace sign embroidered in psychedelic rainbow colors, mushrooms and little flowers.

She didn’t move. Her skin was chalk white, her mouth hanging open. As the boat’s engine surged, one police officer and the rescue diver leaned over the woman and tore her vest open. They performed CPR, pumping her chest and breathing into her mouth. Checking her pulse and not speaking. The grinning cop with the wrinkling nose was no longer grinning. The boat was slowing as we neared the shore, and I was propping myself up on my elbows.

The CPR cycle repeated. Once, twice. A third time. My fingers tightened into fists and I prayed again.

Then she moved. Just a twitch. A half-gasp. A choke. The rescue diver kept pumping, remaining disciplined and measured until life returned with a violent jolt. The woman jerked and choked again. They sat her up, and she puked as the boat nosed to a stop next to a pier. A cheer burst from the cops gathered around us and the woman blinked watery eyes, staring at the world like a newborn child.

Bewildered, dazed, still gasping for air.

I just smiled and fell back onto the deck.

4

Ambulances waited on shore, and I was given a complementary—at least, my skinny wallet hoped it was complementary—medical exam by the Wilmington Fire Department. Inspected from head to toe, handed a towel to dry off, and provided with bottled water.

Because I needed more water in my life.

I sat on top of a picnic table and sipped from the bottle, watching as the woman I’d pulled from the Delaware was examined in the back of an ambulance, her eyes inspected for indicators of a concussion, her denim jacket held like a security blanket in a wad against her chest.

I still thought she was early twenties, but there was something about her—some undertone or subtlety of her body language—that made her seem even younger. Almost a childlike quality, or perhaps a flare of naivete.

I remembered the COEXIST sticker pasted to the back of her Prius, and thought it might be the second more than the first…but maybe that was just my jaded bias talking.

“That was one heck of a dive. Any broken bones?”

The voice was chipper, ringing from behind me. I craned my neck to see a stocky guy in an all-blue police uniform crossing between firetrucks and headed my way. He wore a gold badge and a large yellow patch on his left arm that I couldn’t quite read—but I didn’t need to. The wide-brimmed black hat declared his department even at thirty feet away.

Delaware State Police. We called them “troopers” back in Arizona. I wasn’t sure what they called themselves in The First State.

“Two busted kneecaps and a shattered tailbone,” I said. “I’m thinking of suing. Would that be Jersey’s problem, or Delaware’s?”

The cop grinned, reaching my table. “Jersey, definitely. Take ’em for all their worth.”

He extended a hand. “Sergeant Jackson Hull, Delaware State Police. And you are?”

I took the hand, slightly surprised that he offered it. Not all cops do, and who can blame them? A little physical distance is a lawman’s best protection, and yet this guy didn’t feel unaware. His body was relaxed, but somehow ready. His eyes were kind, but still sharp.

As I shook his hand, my gaze caught the black outline of a tattoo exposed beneath his sleeve, and everything made sense. The tattoo comprised four simple letters, all caps, all bold.

RLTW.

“Mason Sharpe,” I said, not rising from the table. “What can I do for you, Sergeant?”

Hull glanced over his shoulder, back toward the bridge. He squinted at the spot where I’d jumped—not far from the Delaware shore, but far enough.

He whistled. “Coulda killed you.”

I shrugged. “Toes down and body straight. Just like bailing out of a chopper.”

He glanced back, cocking an eyebrow.

“First Battalion,” I said. “Afghanistan, Africa. Little stint in Iraq. And you?”

I tilted my head toward his tattooed wrist. He grinned.

“Third Battalion. Iraq, Syria…and also Africa, actually.”

“Rangers Lead the Way,” I said.

“All the way off a bridge, it seems. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

So I did. From the moment sunlight reflected off a cell phone screen, to the moment the Prius bucked over the bridge’s railing. I described how the Chevy Blazer had yanked right to avoid the drifting Lincoln, and how the Prius had bounced off its brush guard. I recounted my subsequent crash into the back of the Blazer, and then my dive. My recovery of the nearly-drowned woman. My rescue by the DRBA.

All facts, no emotions. Just like an after-action report back in the Seventy-Fifth. Hull seemed to appreciate the directness, recording notes on a paper pad and shaking his head as I finished.

“You saved her life, Sharpe. You know that, right? No way those rescue divers would have found her in time.”

I looked out over the Delaware River, stomach tightening. I thought of the Prius resting at the bottom.

“Was there…anyone else?”

Hull clicked his pen closed. “Nobody, thank God. She was alone.”

My stomach loosened a little. The sun was setting toward Wilmington, turning the slow churn of the water a glimmering shade of bluish-brown. It was ironically peaceful in context of the recent chaos. It was calming, the way water should be.

“Life is precious,” I said.

Hull simply nodded, and together we watched the water for a long moment. Then I glanced left toward the ambulance and noted that the paramedics were wrapping up their examination of the young woman with the pigtails. She was craning her neck, looking toward me. Lifting a hand.

I lifted a hand back, but I didn’t really want to talk—not to her…not to anybody. She was okay, and that was enough.

“You mind giving me a ride, Hull?”

5

Hull dropped me at the site of the wreck, wishing me well and tossing a salute as I exited his car. I returned the salute, stepping into a swarm of emergency vehicles that consumed the bridge like blinking red and blue vultures.

The Blazer was there, along with its driver. The Lincoln was not. Traffic stood backed up along the eastbound lanes as far as I could see, creeping past the crash site as curious drivers rubber-necked to get a better look. I found my truck right where I’d left it, two-tone white and green paint shining in the sunset as I circled toward the nose…

And then stopped. My stomach fell, and my jaw tightened. The front left corner of my truck—the corner that had slammed into the Blazer—was mangled. Bumper twisted, fender smashed, and worst of all, the wheel was tilted. I could see it even before I squatted to inspect the damage. Producing my Streamlight flashlight from my pocket, I shone bright LED light into the wheel well and found bent tie rods, a twisted steering arm, and a compressed brake caliper enclosing aftermarket brake discs.

It was a mess. An expensive mess, I thought, remembering my skinny wallet. The truck would likely still drive, but not quickly. Not at highway speeds.

“Hey!” a voice barked from the Blazer, and boots thumped on the concrete. “You the guy who hit me?”

I glanced up to see the Blazer’s driver leering down, a beer gut overhanging oily work jeans, a stringy beard tracing his chest. He was dirty, he was glaring, he was spitting tobacco juice straight onto the pavement next to me.

I rose from a crouch, glaring at him. I didn’t answer, simply circling toward my door and tugging on the handle. This time I got it open, but the hinges were bent and squealed.

“Hey!” the driver shouted again. “Are you listening? You rear-ended me, dude. Delaware State Law says that’s your fault. What you gonna do about the damage to my truck?”

“Nothing,” I said, slamming my door.

“Huh?”

He reached my open window. I pumped my clutch and found my keys still hanging in the ignition.

“You were following too close!” he barked. “That’s your fault.”

I glanced left, squinting at him. I thought of the Prius, the fall off the bridge. Of how badly I’d be aching the next morning and how I didn’t have enough money to fix my truck.

All problems caused by the Lincoln and the Blazer—two idiots behind the wheel.

“That woman almost drowned,” I said. “That’s your fault.”

I started the truck without another word. The inline-six rumbled to life with a tremor down the metal chassis, and I shifted into reverse. Looking over my shoulder, I eased away from the site of the wreck, flatly ignoring the protests of the Blazer’s driver. Then I was merging into traffic.

My truck drove, but poorly. Jolts and rattles of mangled suspension rippled through the cabin as I accelerated to twenty miles per hour. My initial estimates were correct—there was no way I could reach highway speeds. Even at twenty, the whole truck shook, regular “whump whump whump” noises sounding from the wheel well and a perpetual grinding of that brake rotor threatening to ignite a fire at any moment.

I passed the Blazer and merged into the far right-hand lane, cars blasting past and horns blaring as I limped along. With every shuddering yard my blood pressure spiked, a flash of irrational anger heating my body from spine to fingertips.

I tried not to think about the damage or how I would fix it—the beaches of Cape May or how I would never reach them. I tried not to think of any of the aggravations and losses of the last six months.

What was the point? It was just bad luck stacking on top of worse, and I was already too tired to even acknowledge that.

I made it to New Jersey. A complex interchange was surrounded by a cluster of travel stops, hotels, and fast-food restaurants. Fading sunlight glinted in my mirrors as traffic blazed past me. One sign with an arrow pointed north, a town marked in reflective white letters.

WINDALE – 4 MILES.

I bit back a curse and swung onto the exit ramp, stopping at the next intersection and trying my left turn signal. It didn’t seem to work. The traffic light flicked to green, and I rumbled my way onto a four lane that quickly shrank into a two lane.

Cars stacked behind me and horns blared despite my flashing hazard lights. I ignored them as trees were replaced by darkening farmland. At twenty miles per hour, it took me thirteen minutes to reach the outskirts of the town the sign had advertised, but even when I did, there wasn’t much to see.

A gas station. A dollar store and a used car dealer. An agricultural co-op. Then a motel—a single brick building, one story high, with a moldy roof and a neon sign that proudly declared:

COLOR TV IN EVERY ROOM!

Never a good sign.

I eased my truck off the road, jolting my way into a parking space before finally cutting the engine. It died with an oily cough, only the tick of the cooling motor to break the silence.

Leaving me sitting behind the wheel, staring at the motel door directly ahead…trying not to punch something.

It’s what you get. It’s what you always get.

I climbed out, already stiff from the day’s heroics. Stumbling across the pavement, I contemplated every random decision that had brought me to the Delaware Memorial Bridge at exactly that moment in time, ready to suffer a wrecked truck and to risk my life in favor of another’s.

I knew that if I was a better man, I would be grateful for that sequence of interwoven fate, or chance, or whatever it was. I would be thankful to have been in the right place at the right time. I was thankful that the little woman with pigtails had survived.

But I was also angry, because bad luck had been the common denominator. The thing that had led me east, away from the wide-open comfort of the American Midwest. First to Washington…and then, when Washington had chewed me up and spit me out, I turned north. Rambling through Maryland and Pennsylvania, and eventually back down into Wilmington and onto the Delaware Memorial Bridge.

Why? Because some clerk at some gas station had bragged that there was no prettier sunset than the sunset over Cape May, New Jersey—and heck, I had nowhere else to be. I had nothing else to do. My life was a blank slate.

A useless, empty, abandoned shell with chips on the edges and a crack running right down the middle…and yet, try as I might, I couldn’t shatter it.

I paid for one night in the grungy motel—not only because I didn’t plan to stay any longer, but also because I couldn’t afford to stay much longer. I received a brass key, and fed quarters into a pair of vending machines for a bottle of water and a bag of chips.

Then I walked back to my room and showered in a mildewy stall. I brushed my teeth until my gums bled and I turned on the color TV but couldn’t find anything interesting to watch. My violin rested in its case next to my bed, but I couldn’t motivate myself to play it. There was a James Bond paperback I’d picked up at a secondhand shop tucked into my backpack, but I wasn’t interested in reading.

I just sat in the darkness and stared at the wall for a very long time. No longer feeling angry, or concerned about my depleted finances, or even very sorry for myself. Not feeling anything at all.

Just being alone.

6

Iawoke to the pound of fists on my motel room door.

I thought they were artillery shells, at first. Maybe because I had been dreaming of the 10th Mountain Division Artillery dumping 155-millimeter high explosive shells on Taliban positions some fourteen miles away. Each detonating blast sent dirt and smoke and—hopefully—fragments of slain enemy combatants bursting into the Afghani horizon.

Nangarhar Fireworks, we called the artillery fire. Good times outside the wire, but the pounding in my head wasn’t the voice of M777 howitzers. Even as my eyes blinked open, the booming faded from explosive blasts to a steady thump—and didn’t end. A voice joined it.

“Are you in there? I need help!”

The words registered and my eyes snapped open. I looked to my motel room door and reached instinctively for the Victorinox Locksmith resting on the nightstand next to a clock radio.

The clock read 7:04, and the Swiss Army knife wasn’t much of a weapon despite its locking three-inch blade. Still, it was the only thing I had close to hand, and I didn’t know what sort of emergency was erupting outside the motel.

Maybe somebody needed to be cut loose from something. Maybe the Taliban had abandoned Afghanistan and were invading New Jersey. I had no idea.

Reaching the door, I slid to the right of the jamb and went for the curtained window instead of the peephole. I craned my neck as the pounding—and the pleas—continued, and I found the silhouette of my disturbance standing close against my door.

A small figure, their face twisted away from me and only a portion of their side profile visible. A denim skirt. Tall socks rising out of Converse shoes. A denim vest with a smiley face patch stitched to it.

And more desperate pounding.

I flicked the knife blade open and edged toward the door, sliding the chain free and then reaching for the latch. It thunked, but before I could open the door, it was opened for me. The figure outside burst in, breathing hard and looking over her shoulder. It was the woman—or girl—from the Delaware River. She was red-faced and panting, her left arm wrapped in a hard plaster cast and held by a sling, her eyes wide.

“They’re coming for me!” she blurted.

I blinked, so surprised I nearly deadlocked. But then the training took over just the way it had the moment her Prius flew off that bridge. I orbited the door with the knife ready, barefoot as I hit the sidewalk.

Nothing to my left. Nothing to my right. A busted asphalt parking lot lay directly ahead, also empty except for my truck and the mud-colored Ford Tempo parked alongside the clerk’s office. I saw the clerk through dirty plate glass.

But I saw no one else. Nobody trailing the denim woman, nobody walking along the two-lane road that fed Windale. Not even a passing car. At just past sunup, the town was quiet.

And I was confused.

I returned to the room to find Ms. Pigtails standing by my bed. She had one of the pillows clutched against her chest, looking very agitated, but maybe not scared. She seemed somehow more like a cat, tense and ready to flee at a moment’s notice.

“Did you see them?” she said.

I didn’t answer. She left the bed but kept the pillow, creeping to the room’s front wall and craning her neck around the doorpost.

She looked south, toward the distant highway. She looked north, toward what I assumed to be downtown Windale.

Then she gritted her teeth.

“Gone,” she said. “Gone again. Cowards.”

She dropped the pillow and pressed a stray lock of hair over one ear, her gaze still sweeping the street.

Then she suddenly looked at me, as though she’d forgotten I was standing there. I lifted both eyebrows in a question, still holding the open knife by my leg. Not in too great a hurry to close it, either.

This woman didn’t particularly alarm me, but she was making me very uncomfortable.

“You get that from the Army?” she asked, pointing at the glimmering blade.

“What army?”

“Our army, I guess.”

“Who said I was in the Army?”

“You said it, yesterday. I heard you tell the cop with the big hat. He was in the Army, also. I heard about your units or teams or whatever, but I don’t understand stuff like that. I’ve never been in the Army—ha. Could you even imagine? I had an uncle in the Marine Corps, though. That’s kinda like the Army, right? I mean, they still shoot people.”

It was like some kind of invisible dam had burst—she talked at a hundred miles a minute, wiping sweat from her nose while she resumed her survey of the street. I wasn’t even sure if she was talking to me, she was just talking, and kept talking, moving from the Marines to her time in the Girl Scouts and how she’d used a knife once to make jerky in a home economics class and it made her sick and she hadn’t eaten meat since. She was a vegan, in fact. She loved animals. How could anyone not love animals?

“Hey!” I reached my breaking point at the start of a dissertation on big farming and the evils of chicken houses. Snapping the fingers of my free hand, I brought her babble to a halt, drawing her gaze from the street. I folded the knife closed and slipped it into my pocket, still staring. Fully awake, but dazed.

“Who are you?” I managed.

She cocked her head. Then a smile stretched across buck teeth, and she shot out a hand.

“I’m Piper. Piper Haines. Pleased to meet you, Mason Sharpe.”

7

Itook Piper Haines’s hand by default, still combatting the ten thousand questions crashing through my mind like a tidal wave—not the least of which were how she had found me, or how she knew my name.

The first question was easy enough to answer with momentary consideration. My motel sat right by the main road, and my truck wasn’t exactly a covert vehicle. Piper must have seen it and pounded on the door directly in front of it—simple logic on her part.

The second question required a little more thought. I’d never formally introduced myself to Piper—in fact, I had avoided doing so. I wasn’t looking for human interaction in Delaware or New Jersey or any place. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to dig through the mire of my depression—maybe I just wanted to sulk.

Whatever the case, my efforts to secure solitude had failed me. Somehow, Piper had discovered my name, and after reflection I thought she must have overheard me introducing myself to Hull. The cop with the “big hat”.

Piper shook my hand like an enthusiastic child, but the grip was stronger than a child’s. She grinned the whole time, those buck teeth flashing, eyes crinkling at the sides, and hair falling back into her face. She was a mess, every part of her was a total mess—and I had a feeling that mess extended beneath the surface.

Yet I couldn’t help being…charmed. No, charmed was too strong a word, and it conveyed too much attraction. I wasn’t attracted. I was simply disarmed, I guessed. Overcome by the enthusiasm and the warmth. It felt as genuine as her obvious eccentricity.

“Likewise,” I said in response to her introduction. It was the only thing I could think to say. I was still tongue-tied by the suddenness of her intrusion, but I was finding my feet. I was noticing smaller details, like the bruising on Piper’s neck, or how she favored her left leg as she withdrew from the handshake.

She was beat up all over, but not from flying fists. This was the handiwork of her crash into the Delaware River, the exploding airbags and collapsing steel of the Prius.

None of those things had killed her, but they’d left their mark. She’d clearly spent some time in a hospital…and now she was here. At my motel at seven in the morning, beating on my door, panicked by the prospect of somebody coming after her.

What?

“So you wanna…explain yourself?” I asked.

Piper squinted. “Explain what?”

I rubbed my eyes. I hadn’t slept well—I’d dreamed of more than just artillery fire in Afghanistan. I might have liked to sleep a while longer, kicking the can of my entire situation down the road another few hours before I was forced to make adult decisions.

Clearly, that option wasn’t in the cards.

“It’s not normal to beat on a stranger’s door at seven in the morning proclaiming nonexistent mortal danger,” I said. “You could start by explaining that.”

Piper’s gaze hardened. “It’s not nonexistent. They tried to kill me!”

“Who tried to kill you?”

“What do you mean, who? You saw them!”

“I see nobody.”

Piper rolled her eyes. “Not now, you loon. Yesterday, on the bridge. You saw them try to kill me.”

I studied her face, waiting for the punchline. It didn’t come, and I was more confused than ever.

“It was a traffic accident,” I said.

“Yeah. And who do you think caused it?”

“A moron on a cell phone.”

Piper snorted. “That’s what they want you to think. Geez, Mason. I thought you were military. Don’t they train you to detect this stuff?”

“What stuff?”

“Ambushes!” Piper’s voice rose into a near squeal, her good hand rising. She was looking at me like I was dumb as a fence post—like I was asking her to explain how two plus two could possibly equal four.

Truth be told, I was confused. But more than confused, I was growing irritated. Not because she questioned my intelligence, but because I really, really didn’t need this. Whatever Piper thought it was, or whatever it actually was.

I hadn’t come to Windale to be caught up in some drama involving a crazy person in a wrecked Prius, or the ghosts she thought had pushed her off a bridge. In fact, I hadn’t planned to come to Windale at all. Prior to the previous night, I had never heard of Windale. I didn’t want to hear of Windale. I didn’t even care that much about Cape May or its sunsets.

What I wanted was to be alone. To shut off my thoughts and to forget all about the last six months—about campsites in Pennsylvania and empty Jack Daniels bottles and, most especially, more than anything, about Washington…

And the girl I had left behind. A girl I loved.

A girl who could never be mine.

“Look,” I said. “I don’t know what your deal is, but I really don’t have the time. Nobody is following you. Nobody tried to kill you on that bridge. Tell your friends not to text and drive. It’s a death wish. Let the insurance buy you a new car and just…try to calm down. Okay? We all have our days. You’ll be fine.”

Piper didn’t answer. She didn’t leave, either. She seemed suddenly very calm, but there were wheels turning behind her hazel eyes. Thoughts churning, some kind of strategy building.

“You hungry?” Piper said.

“What?” The question caught me off guard.

“You like pancakes?” she pressed.

“I don’t⁠—”

“The diner has great pancakes. Patty makes them special for me with no dairy—because I’m vegan, remember. But there’s regular food also, like toast with butter and really good jam and the best orange juice. They buy it in Florida and have it shipped special. You can have anything you want, just not meat, because I can’t handle when people eat meat. It makes me want to cry. I kind of want to cry just thinking about it. Do people not see their little animal faces when they eat bacon? Pigs are smart! Smarter than most animals, they just want to be loved. And now I am going to cry.”

Sure enough, the tears broke loose amid the unchecked monologue. She was migrating back to the subject of chicken houses and the abuses of laying hens as I raised a hand, desperate to quell the storm.

“Piper—”

“And people think it’s okay to eat eggs because chickens don’t die, but they don’t understand what farmers do to those chickens to make them lay bigger eggs⁠—”

“Piper!”

My tone rose just enough to cut her off. She looked up, blinking watery eyes. I stared for a long moment, evaluating what I saw. What I was looking into…and what was missing.

Specifically, any sign of manipulation. Of deceit, or production, or calculation. I saw none of the above in her honest face. I saw nothing but distress, confusion, and a lot of racing thoughts.

Some hurt, also. The deep, buried kind. The sort of brokenness that pushes a person to shelter behind a pillow while searching for phantom threats in the street. Paranoia, maybe, or the simple fallout of complex trauma.

Whatever it was, I’d seen it a thousand times in a thousand faces from Phoenix to Kandahar and every stop I’d made in between.

I’d seen it in bathrooms, also. I’d seen it in the mirror.

My shoulders slumped, and I buried my hands deeper in my pockets. I breathed once, trying to relax every aching muscle from my scalp to my toes.

I was sore. I was irritable. But also…I was hungry.

“Where’s the diner?” I said.

8

Ilaced up my boots and Piper led me to a brick-faced establishment half a mile from my motel. The sign hanging over the door swung in a light breeze, reading “Patty’s Grill” in peeling white letters.

The place was half-filled with locals packed into booths. There was a bar, polished and clean, and an open kitchen beyond. A flat-topped grill sizzled with eggs, bacon and, yes—pancakes. Thick, fluffy white ones as big as my face.

Everything smelled amazing. I followed Piper to a corner booth and slipped into the seat with my back to the wall, surveying the diner’s occupants.

I wasn’t paranoid—not like Piper. Mostly I was on the lookout for a dirty bumpkin with a beer gut and a dented Chevy Blazer who mistakenly blamed me for the damage to his vehicle. I wasn’t interested in compensating him, not only because I didn’t feel that I owed him, but also because I was still trying to figure out how I would fix my own truck.

There were maybe six hundred dollars left in my wallet, and that was literally all the money I had in the world. I’d held an odd job or two over the past three months, splitting firewood at campsites or laying sod at subdivision builds. None of those side gigs paid enough to sustain even my ham sandwich lifestyle. Mostly, I was living off my savings.

And those savings were fast evaporating.

“Whall look what the dog drug in!”

A cheery voice boomed and a portly middle-aged woman dressed in a frilled apron approached. Piper saw her coming and returned the smile. They hugged, and the woman squeezed.

“Girl, when I heard what happened, I nearly had a heart attack! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Patty. Just a broken arm and some bruises. Lost my car.”

“No,” Patty exclaimed. “Insurance?”

“Working on it. They say they’ll get me a rental so I can keep up with the deliveries.”

“Oh,” Patty nodded. “Well, that’s good.”

She cocked her head, seeming to notice me for the first time. “And who’s your friend?”

“This is Mason Sharpe,” Piper beamed. “He’s with the Army. He’s the one who pulled me out.”

“Was,” I corrected, extending a hand. “Was with the Army. I’m just a guy now.”

Patty shook my hand—a hearty squeeze. “Well, guy or no guy, if you saved our Piper, we owe you one. What’ll it be, soldier? It’s on the house.”

I didn’t refuse the generosity. Patty took down our orders and shouted to her kitchen staff. Moments later I had coffee and Piper had orange juice—special ordered from Florida, she reminded me. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I’d seen the carton the cook poured from. The juice was off brand, from California.

To get ahead of Piper’s next monologue, I began with my standard repertoire of questions—all the basic, introductory things I’d learned to ask as a homicide detective with the Phoenix police department.

I learned that she was twenty-two, and born and raised in Windale. She said little about family—in fact, she seemed to skirt the subject. She was more interested in describing her present life, which included a passion for art, animals, and people. Piper studied one day a week at a nearby community college, and had since high school, but hadn’t yet locked down a degree. It was hard because she had to rely on government grants and what little money she made working as a barista. Still, she was dedicated. She would finish, some day. Maybe go to a big city and get a master’s degree in fine arts—maybe work at an art museum or even a studio.

In the meantime, it was just her and her cat, who was really very crazy and loved to chase squirrels like a dog. Also, she had friends down by the river, where a community of “the bestest, nicest” old folks lived by themselves. Piper was upset about the Prius because she relied on it to visit those friends, and occasionally to offer them rides to the doctor, the pharmacy, etcetera.

“Mostly it’s the dentist,” Piper said. “You wouldn’t believe how often old people use the dentist.”

I listened as the monologue I’d worked to avoid exploded like a volcano. Piper talked around a mouth full of oatmeal while I focused on yogurt, pancakes, and fresh fruit.

Listening to her, I didn’t feel like I was listening to a peer. Somehow, she felt much younger than that. Not really childish…but childlike. Innocent, even if deliberately and strategically so. Her soul was simple, her thoughts tumbling straight to her lips with no calculative filter in between. I thought there might be some disability at play. Perhaps a small mental inhibition, or some manner of minor brain injury. Everything she said made sense, it just didn’t always relate. It was less a clear line of communication and more a stream of consciousness.

It was like she needed to talk. Desperately. Like it had been a long time since anyone just sat and listened. Even as we cleared our plates and Patty brought fresh coffee and generic California orange juice, Piper crashed on, and I let her.

What else was I going to do? Where else was I going to be? It wasn’t like I could go anywhere until I figured out my truck, anyway. I might as well listen to Piper. Maybe it comforted her, somehow.

Maybe she needed the comfort.

At last, the deluge slowed. Piper packed down her third pancake doused in vegan maple syrup—at least, Patty claimed it was vegan—and sat back with a suppressed belch. She wiped her mouth.

She said, “So that’s why I want you to work for me.”

I blinked. “What?”

“For security—to keep me safe.”

I hesitated, realizing that my mind had wandered. I hadn’t been listening so well as I thought.

“To keep you safe from who?”

Piper rolled her eyes as though this happened a hundred times a week. “From Ashcroft’s people, Mason. Geeze.”

Ashcroft.

The name sounded only vaguely familiar. I chugged coffee to stall for time.

Then I faced her, because this was silly. I didn’t need to stall for time. I don’t work for anybody.

“I think you’ve got the wrong idea about who I am,” I said. “I’m not a bodyguard. I’m not even a rescue diver. That thing yesterday was just…reactionary. I’m glad it worked out, but it’s not what I do.”

“So what about when they come back?” Piper pressed. “What then? I’m a little woman. What am I gonna do?”

“When who comes back, Piper? You keep talking about people coming after you. I’m telling you, the bridge was an accident.”

Piper smacked the table—sudden and loud, sending my silverware jumping. Her faced flushed.

“It wasn’t an accident. It was Bill Ashcroft’s people. They’re coming after me because I’m standing in his way.”

“In the way of what?”

“Man, you really weren’t listening at all, were you? In the way of his casino! Bill Ashcroft is a big-time business tycoon with properties all over the state. He’s like a mob boss—he’s got connections everywhere. Corrupt politicians and cops in his back pocket. He’s a bulldozer. He’s coming for Windale!”

“For Windale? Why on earth?”

“To build a casino.”

I laughed—I couldn’t help it. “Here?”

“Grrrrrr!” Piper growled like an animal. She was shaking all over, sweating at her hairline. She looked like a three-year-old fighting back a tantrum.

Maybe, in some way, she was. But she won the fight. She calmed, and she started again.

“Bill Ashcroft,” Piper said. “It was his people who ran me off the bridge—it had to be. I run the Windale Preservation Society. It’s the largest anti-big-development organization in all of Salem County. We’re dedicated to fighting the spread of Ashcroft’s control—we don’t want a casino bringing crime and noise to our town. I’m organizing grassroots resistance—I’m a real threat! That’s why he’s coming after me.”

“By running you off a bridge?”

“By running me off a bridge, by stalking me in town, by slashing my tires and leaving me death threats. His people even put rat poisoning in Mr. Pepper’s food.”

“Mr. Pepper?”

“My cat!”

I restrained a sigh as Piper went crimson again, eyes bulging. I didn’t want to say the obvious—not only because people were now watching us, but because it felt cruel to tell Piper that she was crazy. My initial suspicions of mental instability had only deepened since our first interaction. I could tell that something was seriously wrong here. I didn’t know what—I’m not a psychiatrist.

But I couldn’t bring myself to crush her, either.

“Look. Piper. I don’t know what to tell you. I’m not a bodyguard.”

“But you were in the Army. You were a secret operator, like those guys who capped Bin Laden!”

“Those were SEALs. I was a Ranger, and I’m not anymore. That was a long time ago.”

“So what are you now?”

“I’m…” I hesitated. Shook my head. “I’m just me. Just a guy with a banged-up truck who is really not enjoying Jersey.”

“Right!” Piper snapped her fingers. “Your truck is banged up. You got money to fix it?”

I didn’t answer. She flashed me an “aha!” grin.

“So work for us. You can be head of security for the WPS. We can’t pay a lot, but it’s something. It’s a good cause! Please?”

She finished the pitch by abruptly interlacing her fingers, like a child praying. Leaning forward over the table, eyes wide.

I stared, suddenly feeling really rotten about myself. Like I was an impatient mailman who had just kicked a puppy off the porch steps.

But I wouldn’t change my mind. I’d told Piper the truth—I’m not a bodyguard, and I wasn’t interested in becoming one. I pushed my plate back.

“I’m sorry, Piper. I’m just not looking to get involved. I wish you luck.”

9

Piper and I exited the booth without speaking, and she led the way out of the diner.

Chin up, pigtails bouncing. All sauce and attitude and indignation. Everyone was watching—not that I cared, but maybe I did. We reached the sidewalk and Piper turned abruptly north, toward Windale. She marched with her good arm folded awkwardly around her cast-encased arm.

Again, it wasn’t childish. Just childlike.

“Where are you going?” I was kicking myself even as I asked. Piper looked back, her nose still high in the air.

“Why do you care?”

I sighed. “You’ve got an arm in a sling and as far as I can see, no car. You just checked out of a hospital. I’m guessing you’d like to go home.”

“So what if I would?”

I rolled my eyes. “Good grief, Piper. Not everything has to be difficult. I’m offering you a ride.”

I started toward the motel without another word. A few paces further, and I heard her following me. Her Converse shoes made little squishy sounds on the sidewalk. We reached my truck and I dug my keys out, deliberately ignoring the smashed front end.

It was hard to look at, and not just because I’d so recently invested thousands of dollars into the pickup’s full restoration. It was hard to look at because, as much and more than anything on the planet, that truck was my home.

I started the engine, and Piper stood outside just staring. I raised my eyebrows in a “well?” expression, and that seemed to push her over the edge. She tugged the truck’s heavy passenger-side door open and climbed onto the bench seat with some effort. It was a low truck, but she was a short woman. The door slammed. She looked for the seatbelt and couldn’t find it.

“No shoulder belt,” I said, dropping the truck into reverse. “Just a lap belt.”

“That doesn’t seem safe.”

I snorted. “Safer than your Prius.”

Maybe it was a low shot, but she took it without comment. We lurched and squealed to the street, every shift and groan of the smashed front suspension tightening my gut like a vise. She directed me right, and I turned.

We passed old homes built beneath older hardwood trees, a grocery store, a post office, and eventually a library. All of it was very clean and neat, with manicured yards and freshly paved sidewalks. There was a Veteran’s Affairs post, a little park with a fountain and an American flag, a city hall and a long metal building that pulled double duty as both a police station and a volunteer fire department.

It was the police station that brought to mind a question I had been avoiding asking. I tried to resist it once more, but couldn’t help myself.

“You said you received death threats?”

“Yep.” Piper’s voice was cold.

“So, have you talked to the police?”

No answer. I shot her a sideways look.

“Well?”

“The police are paid off,” Piper said. “Ashcroft owns them, lock, stock and nuts. He pays them with fat dividend checks from his casino project.”

“And you know this because…”

“Because I’ve seen the checks.”

Right.

“So what about state police? Doesn’t New Jersey have those?”

“Sure. We’ve got an attorney general, also. A legislature packed with representatives. A governor. And you know who bankrolled their campaigns, Mason? Do you? Do you?”

She turned wide eyes on me, wiggling her head. I restrained a smile.

“Bill Ashcroft?”

“Bingo! Man, you’re a winner. I’ll bet you’d like a casino in Windale.”

It was my low shot, coming right back at me. I took it on the chin just like Piper had and followed her directions past a hardware store and an elementary school. It was all very quaint—really nice, actually. A charming small town. I’d seen a few hundred of them scattered from the Carolinas down to Florida and up to Iowa.

I loved them all. I enjoyed their calm, their warmth, their simplicity. They weren’t always easy places to live, and they certainly weren’t easy places to make a buck. But real Americans called small towns like Windale home. I respected them.

At last, we turned down a narrow gravel lane with nothing but fields on every side. Piper’s house sat by itself half a mile off the blacktop, and as my brakes squealed alongside her mailbox, I couldn’t help but shake my head.

It was a small home with a slouching front porch and a rusted metal roof. Very old—likely early twentieth century—and in need of serious updates, but clean enough. There was a swing on the porch, half a dozen wind chimes hanging from the limbs of a maple tree, and lots of birdhouses and bird feeders nailed to anything made of wood—including the house.

It was an eccentric, perhaps slightly tacky blend, but it wasn’t the bird feeders, the wind chimes, or the extensive collection of garden gnomes that drew my gaze. It was the yard signs—fully a dozen of them, staked alongside the street, their bold messages printed in capital letters.

NO CASINO IN OUR TOWN!

BILL ASHCROFT WILL MAKE WINDALE INTO LOSEDALE.

ASHCROFT? MORE LIKE ASHCRAP!

I glanced sideways. Piper still had her nose in the air, her good arm tucked awkwardly between the cast and her stomach. She didn’t so much as blush, and I smiled.

What else was I going to do? This woman might be as crazy as a desert coyote hopped up on crystal meth, but she had some spirit. I couldn’t deny her that.

“Well, Piper,” I said. “It was good meeting you. I wish you the best.”

“Hrumph.” It was literally what she said. Digging in her pocket, she produced a white business card and jabbed it into my hand.

“In case you grow a heart,” she said.

Then she let herself out of the truck, dropping onto the gravel with a crunch of her little feet and slamming the door. She didn’t thank me for the ride. She didn’t say another word as she marched up her driveway with her head rocked back and her spine as stiff as an iron rod.

All spitfire and vinegar. Standing her ground.

Well, good for her.

I poked the card into my pocket and rocked the GMC into reverse. I worked a three-point-turn on the narrow road. The damaged front wheel squealed and jolted with each rotation. I got myself pointed back toward Windale, already thinking about the tire shop I’d passed on my way out to Piper’s place, and whether they could repair my truck. I made it fifty yards down the road and glanced back into my mirror, watching as Piper ascended the steps. Approached the door and twisted the knob. She pulled it open just a few inches, and a little gray cat sprinted out, running for the front yard. Piper turned, shouting. Releasing the door. Taking a step toward the yard.

I was rolling my eyes again.

And then Piper’s house detonated like an atom bomb.

10

It was a gas explosion—I knew that from the color and shape of the fireball even as the concussion jolted me toward the steering wheel. My gaze snapped toward my side-view mirror and I found the house burning, its windows blown out and its roof shredded. Flames reached fifty feet into the sky, the lapboards raining over the yard. It was a hundred-year-old tinder box—it would be gone in minutes.

But what mattered most was Piper. I couldn’t see her.

Cutting the engine, I threw my door open and stumbled onto the gravel lane. I made it to the back of the truck and sprinted toward the fire, heart slamming as I burst through smoke. My eyes stung—my Walmart boots smashed a garden gnome. I found wind chimes tangled in the ditch, and the ASHCRAP sign burned in the front yard. The bird feeders were blown away. The grass was on fire.

And then I found Piper. She lay curled on the ground, choking and writhing some twenty feet from the porch. Covered in dirt and soot with a small gray cat clutched to her chest, she looked like the survivor of a German bombing raid over London. As I slid to my knees next to her, she rolled. Her good arm shook around the cat—the cat screamed. She gasped and coughed and I lifted her by the shoulders to find the backside of her denim vest infested with glass shards. Her neck bled. She gasped and before I could stop her, she was clawing her way to her feet.

“Piper! Hold on!”

It was too late. She was staggering toward the house, still holding the cat close to her chest. Still hacking, stopping twenty yards from the burning porch and just staring.

And then she screamed. Open-mouthed, tongue out, her body shaking like a branch in a hurricane. She bellowed straight into the blaze.

“Ashcrooooft!”

I was back on my feet. I reached Piper and caught her as she turned, tears streaming from burning red eyes, body convulsing. She sort of threw herself at me, and I caught her. I stood awkwardly with both arms wrapped around her, holding her while she sobbed into my shirt.

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. Blood trickled from her cut neck, but I didn’t think she was mortally injured. That by itself was a miracle. I replayed the blast in my mind, watching her turn on the porch. Watching her lunge after the escaping cat.

And then the house went up. Smoke and fire obscured my vision. She must have been hurled like a toy straight across the yard, landing in a heap with the cat held close.

A miracle, yes. A lucky cat, and not just for its own sake.

“I told you!” Piper withdrew from my chest and punched me in the sternum. I stumbled, and she pointed a shaking hand at the house. “I told you he was after me! Now, do you believe me?”

Her face was beet red, long strands of hair tugged loose from her pigtails and coated in soot. I wasn’t sure what to believe. I simply raised a hand.

“Piper, take a breath. Does anything hurt?”

“Does anything hurt?” She blinked. “Did you just ask me if anything hurts, Mason Sharpe? I was just slung like a cat out of a cannon! Everything hurts!”

It was an unfortunate metaphor, but I didn’t think Mr. Pepper was offended. I kept my calming hand up, my gaze snapping toward the house as timbers groaned and the roof caved in.

Yes, the house was dry. In another half hour, there would be nothing but ashes remaining—a tragic accident.

Right?

“Come with me,” I said.

“What?”

“I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“I was just in the hospital!” She shook the cast-encased arm, her gaze snatching from the burning house to the burning grass to the burning yard sign. She cried, holding the cat so close that he struggled to breathe.

Suddenly, all the craziness was gone. All the eccentric obnoxiousness, the offbeat style. Piper didn’t look weird so much as lost, alone, and very hurt.

“Come on,” I said, voice softening. I guided her down the gravel road to my truck, and as we walked my gaze swept the nearby fields. The thickets of brush and hardwood trees. The road behind us.

Looking…but not seeing anything. It was as though we were the last two humans on Earth.

I helped both Piper and Mr. Pepper into the truck, and then we limped along at twenty miles per hour through the heart of Windale and out to the highway where a regional hospital sat alone. I parked at the emergency entrance and helped Piper out. I explained the situation to a nurse in cursory detail.

House fire, maybe a gas explosion. Piper should be examined for broken bones and smoke inhalation. She might need stitches.

“We’ll get you checked out, dear.” The nurse offered a comforting smile. Piper had stopped crying, but she was still squeezing the cat.

“Can your friend keep your cat?” the nurse suggested.

Piper pulled Mr. Pepper closer.

“Hey.” I patted Piper’s back. “I’ll watch after him.”

I took the tabby, his fur smelling of smoke, and stroked his ears as Piper watched through burning red eyes. Then she passed through double swinging doors, leaving me to think of her exploding farmhouse. Of all Piper’s wild theories.

Crazy, right?

I turned for the nurse’s station, still cradling Mr. Pepper. He purred, snuggling into my arm.

“Do you mind if I use your phone?” I said.

“My phone?”

She sounded surprised, as most people are when you ask to make a call these days. Everybody has their own phone—just like everyone has their own pants. But I didn’t have a phone. I’d tossed my last burner into a river some place in Pennsylvania after one too many Jack and Cokes, the smiling face that filled my lock screen too much to look at even one more time.

It was an impulsive decision. Perhaps I would come to regret losing the picture. For the moment, I only needed to make a call.

The nurse handed me a cordless phone and I dialed the number from memory, because it’s a number that no one forgets.

“Salem County Emergency Services. What is your emergency?”

“I need to speak to the Windale police,” I said. “I’d like to report an attempted murder.”

11

Windale PD deployed two cops. They rolled up to the hospital with no lights, siren, or great sense of urgency. I’d given some details to the emergency operator, informing her of the burning house and Piper’s current condition. I recommended that the Windale Volunteer Fire Department have a look at containing the blaze. The house was history, but a wildfire could still be a concern.

Then I relaxed in a waiting room chair with Mr. Pepper in my lap until the two cops strolled in.

Stroll was the right word. Each wore traditional police blue, but they weren’t custom Windale uniforms. These looked more like the generic duds the city might have ordered from a uniform wholesaler—cheap fabric that wrinkled easily and attracted lint. The first cop was middle-aged and overweight, slurping coffee from a travel mug. The second cop was twenty-something and rail skinny with a hook nose. He carried a notepad.

I lifted a hand, and the two officers scanned the lobby. Looking for Piper, I guessed. She was still with the doctors. The cops approached, and I scratched Mr. Pepper behind his ears. He seemed to really enjoy that.

“You called?”

It was the fat cop who spoke. His nameplate read LOWRY. I thought he was probably in charge, but there was no indicator of rank on his sleeve. He was simply older. The second cop’s name was Cooper.

“That’s right,” I said.

Another slurp of coffee. Officer Lowry eyeballed the cat.

“Is that Pepper?”

“Mr. Pepper,” I corrected. “You know him?”

“Son, this whole county knows everything about Piper Haines. Kinda hard not to.”

I didn’t answer. Lowry took a seat across from me, his gut riding his thighs. Cooper joined him, clicking open a pen.

“Okay,” Lowry said, already sounding exhausted. “Start from the top.”

I did—but not from the top of the house explosion. I started with the moment I watched Piper’s Prius get rammed into the Delaware River. I described her rescue and subsequent reappearance at my motel room. I recounted Piper’s monologue at the diner. I told them everything.

Cooper asked occasional questions, but they sounded perfunctory. Lowry almost looked sleepy. I finished my story and waited, still scratching Mr. Pepper behind the ears. I thought he’d fallen asleep.

“That’s it?” Lowry said.

“That’s it.”

I waited, but neither cop spoke.

“You don’t believe me?” I prompted.

“Believe which part?”

“Any part.”

“I believe that Piper ran off a bridge yesterday. I believe that the Windale VFD is extinguishing a fire at her address. Seems there was a probable gas leak—maybe from the stove. Everything in that house was ancient.”

“But?” I felt the qualifier coming, even as Lowry refused to deliver it. He scratched one cheek, fighting back a yawn.

I squinted. “You don’t believe me.”

The two cops exchanged a glance. Then Lowry lowered his mug.

“Where are you from, Mr. Sharpe?”

“Does it matter?”

“Maybe not. But it would be polite to humor me.”

“Phoenix,” I said.

“Phoenix? That’s a big city.”

“One of the biggest.”

“So that’s kind of my point. Windale isn’t like Phoenix. It’s real small. Everybody knows everybody. It’s kinda like…a big family. Take Coop, here. I’ve known him since he was in grade school. He played baseball with my nephews. Now he’s my partner, and he just married my second cousin. I was a groomsman in his wedding—they’ve got a baby on the way. I guess that baby will be my third cousin.”

I waited, eager for him to land his plane. He detected my irritation and lifted a hand.

“The point is, in a community like this…well, we’re kinda careful with outsiders. We don’t like to air our dirty laundry in front of folks we don’t know. It’s not polite.”

“Is Piper Haines dirty laundry?” I suggested.

Lowry flushed. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just…well. You heard her. All these conspiracy theories, all this angst toward Mr. Ashcroft.”

“So he’s a real person.”

“Of course he’s a real person. Frankly, one of the best things that’s ever happened to Windale.”

“You say that because of the dividend checks?”

Lowry squinted. “Dividend checks?”

“From his casino project.”

A sigh. “Did Piper tell you that?”

I didn’t answer. Lowry interlaced his fingers.

“Look, we really appreciate you looking out for Piper. The truth is, yeah, she’s special. You see, Piper lost both her parents in a car accident when she was little. She got pretty banged up herself—suffered some head trauma. PTSD, too. Paranoia. I’m not a psychiatrist, I don’t understand the details. But we look out for our little Piper—she’s part of the family. That’s why I mean it when I say I really do appreciate what you’ve done for her, and if there’s any way this community could return the favor…” he trailed off. “Well, all you got to do is ask.”

I didn’t answer. Somewhere amid his monologue, I had stopped stroking Mr. Pepper. I was getting a strange feeling. Maybe it was simple discomfort with the “good ol’ boy” system, a cultural phenomenon I’ve never particularly enjoyed.

Or maybe it was the fact that Lowry hadn’t connected any dots.

“You’re not at all concerned that Piper’s claims could be legitimate?” I asked.

“Are you, Mr. Sharpe?”

I considered. In truth, the largest part of me didn’t believe Piper, and it wasn’t just because she was offbeat. It wasn’t because I didn’t believe in massive, sprawling conspiracies, either. I’d encountered plenty of such things nearly everywhere I traveled as a soldier, an investigator, or even a private civilian.

Life is a wonderful, precious thing, but humanity itself is a very broken, corrupt thing. I knew nothing about Bill Ashcroft, except that Piper hated him, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he was as crooked as an Appalachian mountain road.

What would surprise me was if a rich, intelligent billionaire would arrange the death of a small town quirk. Even if that quirk had a serious ax to grind against him, why should Ashcroft care? Piper was small and helpless. Annoying, maybe, but not nearly so annoying as a murder investigation. Despite pop culture perception, billionaires don’t become billionaires by whacking every weed that chokes their path. It’s not good business.

So, no, I didn’t believe Piper. Not really. And yet I couldn’t get past the fact that twice within twenty-four hours she had faced wildly unlikely death scenarios, only surviving by the skin of her teeth.

Who is that unlucky?

“I don’t know,” I said. “I called you because I assumed you’d want to investigate. She says she’s received death threats.”

“Death threats from whom?”

I shrugged. “She insinuated that they came from Bill Ashcroft, or maybe his people.”

“That’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

“I know. She thinks you’re corrupt. She thinks Ashcroft cuts you checks.”

Lowry sat up. His partner, Cooper, clicked the pen closed.

“You know, Mr. Sharpe,” Lowry said. “I really do appreciate you. But it’s a fine thing to come rolling into some town you know nothing about and launch accusations against our greatest benefactor.”

“I’m not accusing anyone. I’m only repeating what Piper said.”

“Well, I can tell you, she’s wrong. Dead wrong. And frankly, I take offense to her statements. The Windale PD works hard—we do a lot for this community, and I don’t mind telling you that we aren’t paid much to do it. That’s public service. Do we accept occasional grants from good-hearted folks like Mr. Ashcroft? You bet we do, and we’re thankful for them. That’s how we built our new city hall. A new park. Even remodeled the old library. I guess Piper didn’t tell you about that, did she?”

“Where is Mr. Ashcroft?” I said.

“Huh?”

“Does he live in Windale?”

“Of course not.”

“So he’s from Windale.”

“No. I think he’s from Trenton.”

“Trenton?” I arched my eyebrows. “That’s a long ways from Windale.”

“What’s your point?”

“I’m just wondering why a hard-charging billionaire is so eager to make generous donations to a town he has no connection to.”

“Maybe because he’s a good guy. Maybe because he loves this state, and he’s giving back. Maybe he does it for lots of small towns. How should I know? I can only tell you that Bill Ashcroft has been Windale’s friend for years, and I won’t have his name dragged through the mud by a looney bin.”

“A looney bin? Heck of a name to call a family member.”

He flushed again. “You got anything else you want to report, Mr. Sharpe?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Very good, then.” Both cops stood. “We will notate your report and investigate as necessary. Good day, sir.”

They started toward the door.

“One last question,” I called.

Lowry looked back. “What?”

“Piper mentioned a casino project. Something Ashcroft is developing.”

“For Windale?”

“That’s what she said.”

A snort. “If she knew a dern thing about New Jersey law, she’d know that was crazy talk. Our state constitution stipulates that no casino can operate outside Atlantic City. We’d need an amendment to change that. A state-wide vote.”

“And that’s unlikely?”

“Totally.”

“So where did Piper get the idea?”

“Beats me. Why don’t you ask her?”

He smiled. It wasn’t a genuine smile. Then both cops departed, leaving me stroking Mr. Pepper’s head.

Thinking that nobody is that unlucky.

12

Piper was discharged with four stitches in the back of her neck and a denim vest ready for the trash bin, but otherwise in remarkable physical condition given the circumstances.

Her mental state was another matter. By the time she emerged from the ER her temporary shock had faded, and she once again ran on jet fuel. She babbled about Bill Ashcroft and the hitmen hunting her as I guided her back to my truck. She clambered in, hardly drawing breath, and I turned for Windale. We limped all the way to the motel before Piper drew breath, by which time I had long ago stopped listening. I pulled into the parking lot and cut the engine.

“Piper.”

“What?” She spun on me.

“Do you have some place to go?”

She hesitated, her gaze drifting. All the indignation and outrage of the past day was still there, but something else had joined it. The first hint of fear that I’d seen in her eyes since the moment I pulled her out of the Delaware River.

It was finally sinking in, all of it. Late but relentless.

“I…I don’t know,” she said.

Piper clutched Mr. Pepper to her chest. I thought she might cry.

“Let me get you a room,” I said. “You need to rest. Then maybe you can make some calls. Friends and family?”

The moment I said family, I thought of Officer Lowry and his story about Piper’s parents. How they had died. How she was alone.

Shouldn’t have said family.

But Piper didn’t hold it against me. She simply nodded, and I rented her a small and musty room. Mold grew on the walls near the ceiling. There was probably mold in my room, also, but I hadn’t noticed or cared.

“Try to relax,” I said.

Piper swallowed. She hadn’t spoken in nearly three minutes, which had to be a record.

As soon as the door closed behind me, my shoulders dropped and I stood for a long moment in the midmorning sun, aching and tired and so very…frustrated, I guessed. Selfishly so—it was all selfish, but the thoughts remained.

I should have been in Cape May by then. I should be marinating a ribeye in a plastic bag for a barbecue by the beach. I should be waiting for the sunset, maybe tuning up my violin. Trying not to think about Pennsylvania or Maryland and definitely not thinking about DC or the girl I’d left behind.

Yes, I’d left her behind. I’d done it for her sake above my own. I’d made the selfless choice…and this was how life was repaying me?

I returned to my truck and rattled toward Windale. I passed the same park, diner, and police/fire department building as before, then reached a tire shop I’d observed on my way to Piper’s house.

It was a block building with two garage bays, both open. Gravel filled the lot, and a pickup sat hoisted on a vehicle rack. Two mechanics worked beneath it.

I rumbled to a stop and cut the engine. One guy looked up from his work, but neither addressed me nor departed the shop. I stepped inside, serenaded by country music.

Everything was greasy. Tools and parts and a ton of Mountain Dew cans lay scattered everywhere. It was a real working establishment.

“What can I do you for?”

One mechanic called without looking my way. He was spinning off the pickup’s oil filter, allowing a stream of black fluid into a metal bucket. He wiped sweat from his forehead and slurped Mountain Dew from a can.

“I’m needing some work done on my truck.” I jabbed a finger at the GMC. “You do that kinda thing?”

“What kind of thing?”

“Front suspension work, mostly. Tie rods, sway arms. I’m not sure what else.”

No answer. He squinted at the GMC, then returned to the oil change without a word. I waited while he tightened a new filter, slurping more Mountain Dew.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay…what?”

“Okay, I’ll look at it.”

“Now?”

“When I can.”

I glanced around the shop. The other guy hadn’t so much as acknowledged me.

“So I just…”

“Leave the key on the seat,” he said. Then he was finished with the conversation—I knew it as he headed for a refrigerator and a fresh Mountain Dew. The discussion was over, and I returned outside to confront the smashed front end of my truck.

After five seconds of consideration, I realized there was nothing to debate. So far as I knew, this was the only shop in town. I could try fixing the truck myself, and I might have to, but driving it out of Windale unrepaired wasn’t an option. With each mile since the wreck, the jolts and rattles had worsened. Bent and twisted parts were loosening. The truck was becoming a real hazard.

It had to be fixed. I might not have the money. So…

So leave it here and let him have a look.

It was my only logical play. I dropped the key onto the seat and took my backpack of essentials. Then I returned to the street, and I stood a long moment gazing over rolling soybean fields.

I thought of Piper. I thought of the house bomb and my peculiar conversation with the Windale cops. How defensive Lowry had been of this Bill Ashcroft character.

My hand slipped into my pocket, and I touched the sharp edge of a paper card. I withdrew it, squinting at the inscription.

The Windale Preservation Society — Defending Our Way of Life. Piper Haines: Founder and President.

There was an address printed on the card—Third Avenue, which sounded like a downtown street to me. Pretty close by. I remembered that Piper was homeless, and that I couldn’t afford to keep paying for her hotel room. She’d need somebody else to look after her.

Maybe somebody she worked with?

It was as good a shot as any, and I had no other place to be. Shouldering the backpack, I set off toward downtown Windale.

13

Heat radiated from the asphalt, and I was bathed in sweat by the time I reached the edge of downtown. A few cars had passed, and I hadn’t bothered extending a thumb. It would have been nice to take a load off, but I wasn’t interested in chatting with a stranger…or anyone, for that matter.

I’m usually quite personable. I like meeting people, and I like learning about their lives. It was one of the things that made me such a good detective. But ever since DC…

I just wanted to be alone.

Reaching the first sprawling arms of hardwood trees, I scrubbed sweat from my forehead and surveyed a row of white-sided houses, each with matching picket fences. I’d seen them all before, and there wasn’t anything particularly unique about them. They were clean, well-kept, perfectly ordinary American dwellings. Less like the tall and skinny townhomes of the nearby rustbelt, and more like the faded and worn farmhouses of the Deep South.

Only, these houses were neither faded nor worn. They weren’t new, either. Most appeared to be at least nineteen fifties in vintage, but all were in superb condition. The yards were manicured, several of the driveways recently paved. All the mailboxes matched—black metal with last names affixed to them.

Crosby.

Fauk.

Beckensley.

Smith.

I stopped and cocked my head, surveying it all and suddenly getting a very odd feeling. I’d been too distracted to notice before, but something about the place felt…off. The uniformity reflected a modern, planned subdivision, but this subdivision was neither modern nor planned. It should be a bit mismatched. One yard clean and pristine, the next a little unmanaged. That was what most old neighborhoods looked like—a mix, because people are a mix, and not everybody cares about the small things. You need a homeowners’ association to enforce uniformity.

Was this neighborhood the product of a HOA? Perhaps…but how did that explain the mailboxes? They all matched, exactly. Same model, same brass script. They’d been installed together, and somewhat recently.

By whom?

I continued past a park, clean and manicured, with a large American flag flapping in the breeze. Swing sets and children’s slides. A picnic pavilion. All brand new.

Then came wider sidewalks. Clean brick storefronts with new flower beds, gutters clear of leaves or debris, all signposts straight and rust-free.

And more of those matching mailboxes. Even the businesses had them.

Why?

I found Third Avenue sheltered by the draping limbs of oak trees. A single yellow line ran down its middle—fresh paint—and more wide sidewalks framed it. I checked the street number on Piper’s card as I reached a tall brick sign printed with black letters. It was the Windale Public Library, a stylish building encased with the same brick as the sign, but featuring a newly paved parking lot and an ornate concrete fountain.

I read the number on the sign, then looked at the card. I squinted.

The numbers matched, but nowhere on the sign did I see any mention of the Windale Preservation Society. Had Piper printed the wrong address?

I passed the fountain, glimmering pennies reflecting the sunlight. I stepped into a smell exactly like the smell of every library across the country—musty paper and peace. The carpet was fresh, maybe brand new. The lights were bright and the shelves tall. I stepped to the main counter and rang the bell.

Mrs. Librarian herself appeared. Mid-seventies and dressed in a flower print dress with cat-eye glasses strung on a faux gemstone chain. She shuffled as she walked, smiling at me.

“Hello, young fella. What can we do for you?”

“I think I’m in the wrong place,” I said, producing the card. “I’m looking for the Windale Preservation Society?”

I slid the card across the counter, but the librarian disregarded it.

“You’re a friend of Piper’s?” she said.

“I suppose you could say that. You know her?”

“Of course I know her. Sweet little Piper has been coming in here making messes and asking too many questions since she was just a squirt.”

The librarian laughed, shaking her head. She settled into a chair with an old lady’s sigh, and I stood with my finger on the card, freshly confused.

“So…do you know where to find the Preservation Society?” I asked.

“What’s that?”

I tapped the card. “The Windale Preservation Society—Piper’s organization.”

I pushed the card, and this time she took it. She adjusted her glasses.

“Aw. I didn’t realize the dear had cards printed. I wish she would have asked me, first. I’d like to know before people came knocking.”

“So…there’s no society.”

“Huh? Oh yes, dear. There’s a society. I think I’m a member, in fact.” Another chuckle. She relaxed in the chair. “The library is host to several such organizations. Charities, municipal action committees, that kind of thing. We have a pair of conference rooms in the back. We let Piper use one of them as a kind of office…you know, I think it’s good for her.”

The tenderness in the librarian’s voice defied the objectively pathetic scenario she described. I stared, now silent, and feeling foolish.

How had I not seen this coming? Founder and President, the card said. Fancy titles that conveyed prestige to the uninformed, and I’d accepted them at face value. I’d believed.

“So it’s just…a hobby,” I said.

The librarian shrugged. Her face told me that she had more to say, but was maybe too noble to say it. I thought again of Piper’s quirks, her fixations and paranoia. All her…craziness, if I was being honest. I remembered Lowry’s story about how she lost her parents, acquiring some head trauma along the way.

I returned the card to my pocket. The librarian must have seen something in my face. Her brow wrinkled.

“I’m sorry, dear. Have I upset you?”

“No…I guess I was concerned about Piper. She was in an accident.”

“I heard! I was going to ask her about it when she stopped by.”

“Does she stop by often?”

“A couple times a week, or whenever she has papers to copy. She likes to make fliers to distribute…you know. For her project.”

Her project.

“You mean the thing with the casino?”

This time the librarian didn’t immediately answer. Instead, she turned a little stiff.

“I don’t think I got your name,” she said.

“I’m Mason Sharpe.”

“Are you new to Windale, Mr. Sharpe?”

“Just passing through.”

“Ah.”

Still no answer about the casino.

“I’m only asking because I’m concerned about Piper,” I said. “Her house burned down this morning.”

I didn’t say exploded. That seemed needlessly inflammatory. The librarian’s eyebrows rose.

“She’s okay,” I said. “But she’s…agitated. She asked me for protection.”

“Protection?” The librarian’s voice edged with concern.

“Right, from some guy named Ashcroft. Do you know him?”

Dead silence. The librarian stared without blinking. At last, she shook her head.

“You’re putting an old lady in an uncomfortable position.”

“I’m sorry. That’s not my intent.”

A long pause. She glanced around as though she were checking for eavesdroppers. Then she leaned my way.

“I don’t like to gossip, least of all about a friend. Piper is a friend.”

“Of course.”

I could feel the dam about to break—the truth about to spill. I just needed to give it time.

“Piper…you know, she’s very sweet. She loves this town more than anybody.”

“But?”

“No but. Only that maybe, sometimes…a person can be misguided. A person who lost her parents so young, has suffered so much…we just try to love on her.”

“You’re telling me that Piper is misguided?” I asked.

“I’m telling you that this town owes a lot to Mr. Ashcroft, and maybe not everything you’ve heard about him is fair. You should know that…well. I won’t go there.”

She stopped, looking at her desk and shaking her head. I waited, but nothing came.

“I’d like to help Piper,” I said. It was true.

“We all would,” she said, softly.

It was all she would say, but it was enough. I got the message loud and clear. Without another word, the old librarian rose from the chair and shuffled back to her shelves.

14

Ireturned to the sunshine, standing on the smooth new sidewalks and looking at Piper’s card. I noted for the first time how the paper was too thin to really feel like a business card—how the ink was a little too fuzzy. On detailed inspection, it didn’t feel like a professional business card at all.

Maybe it was homemade, just like the fliers the librarian had mentioned, or the inflammatory yard signs at Piper’s incinerated house. Tools of her one-woman campaign.

But campaign against what?

I surveyed the town through squinted eyes, remembering what Officer Lowry had said about Ashcroft and his generosity, and seeing proof of those claims in every manicured flower bed, every freshly paved street, every matching mailbox. Thousands of dollars’ worth of grants. Money that a small town like Windale couldn’t possibly raise through taxes and fire department barbecues.

Had that money come from a wealthy New Jersey business tycoon with a soft spot for forgotten small towns? Was it all as innocent as Lowry claimed? Was Piper, in fact, just struggling with mental illness?

It certainly looked that way. I’d seen this kind of thing before during my tenure as a cop—a kooky local with too much time on their hands who found conspiracy theories lurking beneath every rock.

Such people were a constant nuisance for law enforcement. They called and visited endlessly, peddling their paranoia, working overtime to recruit the assistance of an overworked police department to chase the shadows in their mind.

A harsh analysis, but in my experience, a true one. Losing parents and suffering physical trauma could birth any number of insecurities and obsessions. That could be the entire story behind Piper’s war against Bill Ashcroft, a man who—by all appearances—had been an immense blessing to this community.

And yet…

Nobody is that unlucky.

I remembered the gas explosion and the bridge wreck. Neither event was a figment of Piper’s tortured imagination. Both events could have—probably should have—taken her life. Two freak accidents that defied logic or chance.

So where did that leave me?

At Piper’s house.

If it really was a tragic accident, I wanted to see the evidence for myself. Not because I wanted any part of this drama, but precisely because I didn’t, and the only way I could leave Windale with a clear conscience was to know for sure that my gut was wrong.

That somebody really could be that unlucky, with no greater conspiracy to blame.

So I started walking again. My body ached from my collision with the Delaware River, to say nothing of the crash that preceded it. I had a headache, and I was getting hungry. But all of those were secondary problems, easily overcome by a lifetime of practice in smothering discomfort, beginning as a child. In fact, that was something Piper and I had in common. We’d both grown up without parents.

We’d both learned to scrabble on our own terms.

The journey to Piper’s address consumed nearly an hour, and I worked up a good sweat by the time I turned off the blacktop. I didn’t smell any smoke, but that didn’t surprise me. Wide tire tracks marked the passage of fire engines. No doubt the house fire had been drenched by hoses, the embers drowned.

As I neared the blackened pit of an erased dwelling, I slowed to scan the horizon. The distant tree line, the empty soybean fields. The occasional houses that stood in between.

I was looking for other people. For vehicles that I hadn’t noticed earlier that morning, for alterations in the landscape. The only thing I found were boot prints, standing puddles of water…

And not a single standing protest sign—not one. Some had burned. Most had been flattened, run over by trucks. Mashed into the dirt, and somehow, that was wrong. None of those signs had obstructed access to the burning house. It was as though the trucks had driven out of their way to smash them.

Maybe not everyone found Piper so innocent.

I approached the house from the front, tracing the muddy path the firefighters had left behind, noting the snake-like trails of heavy water hoses. I neared the blackened fragments of the porch and slowed, picking my way through ashen slurry.

There were dinner forks, twisted and stuck into the earth. Door hinges. A hardbound book about yoga, miraculously untouched by the flames, but water damaged beyond use. Odds and ends from the house, some non-combustible and others saved from complete incineration by happenstance or the Windale Volunteer Fire Department. Many items were out of context—dishes lying yards from where blackened appliances leaned in the debris, a shower rod jammed near the front porch. Metal clothes hangers strewn everywhere.

It was the mark of the initial explosion. A gas explosion, Lowry had claimed, which tracked. A large propane tank rested on blocks fifty yards behind the house. Piper wouldn’t have needed central heating that time of year, but she may have used a gas stove and a gas water heater. There could still be propane service to the house, even in summer. Maybe there was a leak.

But how did it ignite?

That was the question that bothered me most. The explosion hadn’t detonated until Piper released the screen door to chase after Mr. Pepper, and nothing about a closing door should spark a fire.

Not naturally, anyway.

I slogged through muddy ash back to the site of the front door. I pulled the shower rod from the earth and used it to poke through the mess. I found a doorknob, a screen door spring, even a fragment of a rubber doormat. All indicators that I was in the right place.

I squatted, sifting. Eager to find nothing at all, and yet unable to stop. I dug for five minutes, slogging through puddles. I was just about to stop.

And then I found something that should not have been there. It was about the size of a tangerine. I scrubbed my thumb across plastic to displace grit, and rolled the object in my hand. I traced a pair of copper prongs blackened by the fire. The whole device was blackened, semi-melted, deformed.

But still recognizable. My heart fell into my stomach as I stood, just staring.

It was an electric igniter, like the kind you buy at a hardware store to light a gas barbeque grill. An innocuous thing, powered by a single AA battery and easily missed in the muck. Probably, it should have been destroyed.

But it had survived, and the igniter told a story of unbelonging. Because there was no barbeque grill anywhere to be seen, blackened by flames or otherwise—and why should there be?

Piper Haines was a vegan.

15

Itook the igniter and I turned for town. This time the walk took barely twenty minutes, because I was pissed. I was thinking about the blast, and I was also thinking about the wreck on the bridge—how the driver of that Chevy Blazer had yanked right instead of braking. How he’d just kept smashing Piper toward the bridge barrier.

And that giant Lincoln? It fled the scene. A coincidence?

I was growing tired of counting coincidences, but the fact remained that Piper’s explanations were wild nearly beyond belief. Two things could be true at once—Piper’s near-death experiences could be attempted murder, and Bill Ashcroft might have absolutely nothing to do with those attempts. I couldn’t connect those dots. It wasn’t my job to connect those dots.

But I couldn’t walk away, either. Not after finding that igniter. I’d have Piper’s blood on my hands, because somebody was coming after her…and there was an easy way to find out who.

I was so lost in thought that I almost didn’t notice the Dodge Power Wagon parked alongside my GMC in front of the tire shop. It was an early seventies model, powder blue with a step-side bed and giant mud tires. A nice truck, but the Dodge wasn’t what caught my attention.

That honor lay with the man leaning through the open passenger door of my GMC, rooting around inside.

I accelerated, brow furrowed as I circled behind the Power Wagon. My truck’s tailgate was down and all my camping gear strewn about. The guy digging in my cab leaned over the bench seat, the glove box opened, a wad of documents shifting between his fingers. I couldn’t see his face, but he was much too clean to be one of the mechanics.

“Hey!” I snapped. “Can I help you?”

He straightened, nearly banging his head on my pickup’s ceiling. As he extracted himself from the cab, I saw his face. He was middle-aged, with dark hair styled like a forties gangster. His eyes were hidden behind aviator sunglasses. His mouth stretched into a broad smile.

“Whoa there! You scared the mess out of me.”

“Good. What are you doing in my truck?”

“Huh?” His nose wrinkled. “Oh! Right. You must be Mr. Sharpe.”

He extended a hand. I didn’t take it.

“What are you doing?” I repeated.

He withdrew the hand, but the smile remained. Actually, it shifted closer to a smirk. His shoulders remained loose.

“I was looking for your phone number,” he said. “I thought it might be printed on your registration.”

“Why?”

“Sometimes it is.”

“No—why did you want it?”

I wasn’t buying his pretended confusion for a moment.

“Oh.” He tossed the paperwork onto the GMC’s bench seat. “I want to buy your truck.”

“What?”

He tilted his head toward the Power Wagon. “I’m a collector. I haven’t seen a GM this nice in years. Minus the damage, anyway.”

It was true. My ’67 was nice. I’d spent a good chunk of change having it restored—a full rebuild of the inline-six engine and three speed transmission, an aftermarket air conditioner, and a fresh coat of two-tone green and white paint. The truck was gorgeous and ran like a champ.

Minus the damage.

“It’s not for sale,” I said.

“Aww.” He made a face like a child sucking a lemon. “You sure? I’m inclined to be generous. Say…thirty Gs?”

It was indeed a generous number. I’d only paid five thousand for the truck—fully restored as it was, it might be worth twenty.

But money wasn’t the problem. I was getting a weird feeling, and it was somehow bigger than my irritation at finding this guy intruding on the closest thing I had to a home. I sensed a secondary agenda only barely concealed.

“It’s not for sale,” I said again. “And you should think twice before you dig through another man’s truck. That’s a good way to break an arm.”

His eyebrows lifted and his smile faded…but he didn’t move.

“You’re a salty cuss. Maybe that’s why you’ve been making folks so uncomfortable.”

I cocked my head. “News to me.”

“It’s a good town, Mr. Sharpe. Real quiet. Real…trusting.”

“Like a family,” I suggested.

The smile returned. “Yes! Like a family. Like a big family…that just wants to be left alone.”

The smile remained frozen on his lips. I just stared.

Then he patted the GMC’s cab. “I tell you what—I can’t help myself. Thirty-five thousand, and I’ll call my buddy at the used car lot down the road. He’ll cut you a deal. You can upgrade to something more modern. Maybe four-wheel-drive, for camping.” He tilted his head toward the truck bed full of disheveled gear. “Then you can get back on the road!”

He said it nonchalantly—almost like an afterthought. But something in his tone told me that it wasn’t an afterthought at all. It was the entire point of the sales pitch.

Get back on the road. Get out of Windale. No need to wait for the repairs. No need to worry about money.

Just take the windfall…like everyone else in town.

I took a step forward, closing to within two feet of him. I spoke through my teeth. “Get your hand off my truck…or I’ll break it off.”

His smile vanished. Slowly, he withdrew his hand, but he didn’t step away. I never blinked, daring him to give me an excuse. That old GMC was built of solid Detroit steel. It would smash bones as easily as it smashed the rear end of a Chevy Blazer.

But he didn’t attack. He scooped a key ring out of his pocket, instead. He swung aboard the Power Wagon and spun out of the lot, spraying gravel my way.

I looked toward the tire shop. Both mechanics stood there, one sipping on his Mountain Dew, the other smoking a cigarette. Both were watching.

But they weren’t watching the disappearing Power Wagon. They were watching me.

16

Ibarely reviewed the documentation spread across my pickup’s bench seat before stuffing it into the glove box.

A North Carolina registration slip with the name Marley Cullbreth matched the antique license plate bolted to the rear bumper, but that registration was nearly eight years old and my information was nowhere on it. I’d never registered the truck, not only because North Carolina antique license plates never expire but also because I had no home address.

Where was I going to register it to?

Mr. Power Wagon hadn’t found anything with my details on it, which was no doubt his true objective in digging through my glove box. He wouldn’t have found anything in the bed of my truck, either. The only personal credential I carried was the Arizona driver’s license in my wallet.

And yet he’d known my name. He’d known that I was talking to people, and he’d really wanted me out of town.

Enough of this.

I slammed the pickup’s door and glared at the nearest mechanic—he simply slurped Mountain Dew. Then I marched for town, that old Ranger streak taking over as I passed all those matching mailboxes while glaring straight ahead. I proceeded right to Patty’s Diner, where I took a booth in the back and ordered a burger with fries.

No smiles. No please or thank you. I was hot enough to boil blood, and my ire was indiscriminatory. For all I knew, Patty was salt of the earth. She’d given me a free breakfast, anyway.

But Mr. Power Wagon had tried to hand me thirty-five grand, and that was no favor. Fair or otherwise, my disgruntlement spewed toward everyone who lived in this miserable speck of a town.

Patty brought the burger and I packed it down. I drank three glasses of Coke and mopped every fry through ketchup. I paid in cash—I didn’t tip.

Then I stood glaring into the early afternoon sun, surveying Main Street and the cars that rolled past. Noting how many of the drivers glanced my way, eyes narrow and suspicious. Mouths whispering to their passengers, sharing some silent gossip about the newcomer. The outsider.

The troublemaker?

I jammed my hands into my pockets and wrapped my fingers around the half-melted mass of the barbecue grill igniter. The plastic dug into my flesh and I cursed Windale. I cursed the guy in the Power Wagon, the guy in the Chevy Blazer, the moron in that vintage Lincoln. I cursed my sore feet and empty pockets. I cursed my own bad luck in ever having thought of New Jersey. Another wrong place at the wrong time. Yet another blow from a life that simply would not stop kicking me.

This wasn’t my problem. This wasn’t my fight, whatever it was. I told myself that over and over. I stood glaring at the street, muscles tightening until my arms trembled.

And then…I thought of Piper.

Wild and weird. Possibly insane. Definitely helpless.

Was this really a conspiracy? Were dark powers behind thick curtains bent on destroying her?

My gaze settling on a Windale Police Department cruiser parked across the street, sunlight glinting on the windshield. A cop kicked back behind the wheel—a fat, familiar face.

He was watching me.

My blood cooled. My muscles loosened. And I thought: One easy way to find out.

I walked straight for the cruiser. Officer Lowry sat up as I approached. His partner, Cooper, sat up with him. Both eyeballed me as I circled the car, then rapped on the driver’s side window.

Lowry’s lips bunched. The window glided down two inches, then stopped.

“Can I help you?”

“I need a ride to the police station,” I said. “I have another crime to report.”

17

Lowry didn’t ask questions. He just eyeballed me, then jabbed a thumb at the back seat and I climbed in.

We rolled a mile south to the police/fire station. Both cops got out, they let me out, and I marched across another brand-new sidewalk and let myself in.

It was cold inside—the A/C chugged. Behind a reception desk a clerk sat squinting at her computer. She looked up as I entered. The cops marched right on my heels.

“Marge, where’s the chief?” Lowry demanded.

“In his office.” The woman’s voice was nasally. “But you know you can’t bother him. It’s nap hour.”

“Nap hour?” I said. “What is this, a preschool?”

She flushed. Lowry stepped toward me.

“You’ll have to come back⁠—”

No chance.

I barged down the hall, reading the passing door labels until I found the right office.

Frank Fitz, Chief of Police.

I reached for the knob. Lowry, a few yards behind me, barked for me to wait. I pushed ahead anyway. The office was lined by shelves cluttered with books and outdoor magazines. A trio of fishing rods leaned in one corner. The desk was stacked with paperwork…

And one very fat, very red-faced police chief sat bolt upright as I exploded in.

He’d been sleeping, no doubt. Drool ran down his cheek. He scrambled to dignify himself as the two officers caught up to me, both blustering and apologizing all at once. Cooper put a hand on my elbow and I jerked free. I produced the deformed barbecue igniter from my pocket and slammed it onto the chief’s desk.

“You and I need to talk,” I said.

I told the chief everything while his two officers listened. In fact, a lot of people listened—the door stood open, and I kept my voice loud enough to carry. I described the car accident, the detonating house, and all of Piper’s wild theories.

Only, the way I told it, they weren’t Piper’s theories—they were mine, and I believed every one of them. I was fully bought into the idea that a wild billionaire with cash to burn had set his sights on consuming Windale, and that somehow Piper Haines stood in his way. I described the bridge wreck as an attempted murder. I spoke with conviction, obsession.

Much like Piper, really, but a little less erratic. I stayed on target, ignoring multiple attempts by the Windale police to calm me down. When I reached the part about the barbecue igniter, I jabbed a finger at the device as though it were a smoking gun. I concluded my monologue by reminding all present that Piper was a vegan—that she wouldn’t touch meat, let alone own a barbecue grill.

The three cops exchanged glances. The chief looked confused and angry…and maybe just a bit concerned.

“Wait,” he said. “You’re telling me…somebody turned little Piper’s house into a bomb?”

“That’s what I said.”

He blinked, then laughed. He leaned back in his chair and ran a hand over loose jowls.

“Wow. I don’t know what to say except you’re crazy.”

“I’m crazy?”

“Or ignorant. Maybe you’ve never seen a gas leak fire before.”

“I’ve seen a few of them. I was a detective with the Phoenix Police. Twice I partnered with the Phoenix Fire Department to investigate suspicious gas explosions resulting in untimely deaths.”

The bona fides took the chief by surprise, just as I hoped. He cocked his head.

“You were a cop?”

“Only after I was a soldier. Army Ranger, actually.”

I said it without bravado—simply as a stated fact, which it was. The law enforcement background intrigued him, but the mention of my special operations history landed hard, just like it often does with cops. It had been my experience that my military heritage could elicit only one of two reactions.

Either admiration, appreciation, and a sense of instant brotherhood…

Or jealousy, uncertainty, and extreme insecurity. The feelings all men suffer when they aren’t comfortable with the face they see in the mirror, and are confronted by a dog with bigger muscles.

I guessed that I would receive the second reaction from Fitz, and I was right. His lips closed into a tight line as he bowed up in his chair. He sucked his gut in. He rolled his shoulders back.

They were subtle adjustments. He must have thought they were invisible, or perhaps he was completely unaware of his own reaction. Whatever the case, I had him right where I wanted him.

“Mr. Sharpe,” Fitz said. “I’m sure we’re all very impressed with your resume. But this ain’t Phoenix, and it ain’t the Army. This is Windale, and in Windale, I’m the law. Understand?”

It was all I could do not to laugh. He interlaced his fingers, adopting the persona of a scolding father or a disgusted judge.

“I am under no obligation to disclose details of local investigations. But in this case, I don’t mind telling you that our fire chief has this situation well in hand. In fact, he’s already determined that the fire was an accident, and⁠—”

“How?” I cut in.

“What?”

“How did he determine that?”

“Like I said before, I’m under no obligation to disclose investigatory details. It’s our job to enforce the law, and that’s what we’re gonna do. Now I appreciate this evidence—” he swept the barbecue igniter into a drawer. “Kindly refrain from trespassing on potential crime scenes moving forward. That’s a misdemeanor in the State of New Jersey.”

He nodded—very official and final, as though the matter was closed. It was my cue, and I hit it like the bullseye it was.

“Where is the state police office?” I said.

“Huh?”

“I’m going to file a complaint with the state attorney general. This is a corrupt office—I won’t stand for it. I’ll call the governor if I have to. I’ll call the FBI. Somebody tried to murder Piper Haines, and I won’t stop until they’re brought to justice.”

“Mr. Sharpe⁠—”

I exploded out of my chair, jabbing a finger in his face. I was in full form, spitting as I shouted. Face flushing and heart pumping. Very little of my animation had anything to do with the matter of Piper Haines’s latest brush with death—I’d been a cop myself, and knew just how pointless it is to yell at law enforcement.

No, I was yelling because I wanted to. Because I’d wanted something or somebody to yell at for weeks, and fat Fitz was a worthier punching bag than most.

“I’ll take this straight to the president, to the Supreme Court. I’ll have the United Nations involved before I’m done. You and Bill Ashcroft are finished—they’ll bury you beneath the jail. Do you hear me?”

They heard me. They hauled me out by my elbows, throwing me into an overgrown yard behind the police station/fire station. I stumbled, feigning rage and still shouting as the steel door slammed closed.

Then I stopped. I caught my breath, suddenly very calm. I recounted the charade in my mind and evaluated my performance, asking myself if I was convincing—if Fitz was rolling his eyes and admonishing his officers to give me a wide berth.

Or if maybe…he was making phone calls.

I would know soon enough. Likely after dark, in some lonely and vulnerable place. I wouldn’t make anyone work to find me. I wouldn’t avoid those shadowy allies or back streets.

If they were coming, I would be ready.

18

It was three p.m. by the time I returned to the hotel. I knocked at Piper’s room but nobody answered. After cupping my hands around my eyes and peering through a gap in her curtain, I found only Mr. Pepper occupying the bed. Piper was nowhere to be seen, and her absence gave me pause—even a touch of anxiety. I wondered if she’d walked to the dollar store, or maybe Patty’s Diner.

I wondered about darker possibilities, also, but after momentary consideration, I dismissed the concerns. The reality of the situation was still binary—either Piper was simultaneously the unluckiest and luckiest person I’d ever met, or she had a legitimate target on her back.

If the second option was true, she wasn’t out of the woods yet. But for the moment, whatever ghouls danced in the shadows attempting and then reattempting to snuff out her life should probably be held at bay.

Far too much communal attention had been brought on Piper over the past twenty-four hours, and plenty of people cared about her…or at least pretended to. Two near-deaths followed by an eventually successful accident would raise the attention of even the most obtuse Windalian.

Besides all that, if the ghouls were real, Piper Haines shouldn’t be their chief concern—at least for the moment.

That honor lay with me.

So I took a shower. I knocked back extra strength Tylenol to manage my aching body, and I stretched out to nap.

It was a good sleep, unbroken and dreamless, exactly the kind of rest my body had craved ever since my bone-jarring dip into the Delaware River. I embraced the oblivion, relaxed by the painkillers, and might have slept right until midnight if Piper hadn’t returned to the hotel and banged on my door.

“Mason! Are you in there? I brought cookies!”

I scrubbed the sleep from my eyes and checked the bedside clock. It was eight p.m. Piper bustled in with a big tin of cookies from “her office”. She claimed that the receptionist made them, which I assumed meant the librarian. They were fresh and amazing, loaded with walnuts and chunks of white chocolate. I was hungry again and packed down half a dozen while Piper rambled about work.

She detailed a phone call she had made to the New Jersey Division of Fire Safety requesting a special investigation, and described the prospect of legal action against the Windale Volunteer Fire Department for dereliction of duty. She made another appeal for my security services, which I flatly ignored.

It wasn’t difficult to ignore her, because Piper never stopped talking until I finally snapped my fingers.

“Piper!”

“Huh?”

“Where’s the nearest dive bar?”

“Dive bar?”

“Some place outside of town where the lowlifes hang.”

“How should I know?”

I sighed. Piper wrinkled her nose.

“Well…there’s a nasty little place near the highway. Block building—always lots of motorcycles. I think it’s a bar.”

“Any other buildings around?”

“Just fields.”

“That’ll work. Did you ever get a rental car?”

Piper rolled her eyes. “Don’t even get me started on that. They sent me some big gaudy gas guzzler. Can you believe that? I told them I wanted a hybrid. Electric would be better. I mean, hello. The planet is melting, people!”

Piper threw up both hands. I simply stood, taking two more cookies.

“You got the keys?”

“What?”

“I want to borrow your car.”

“What for?”

I shrugged. “I need a drink.”

The rental was an SUV, and it hardly met my standards as gaudy. It was a Kia Seltos, a compact crossover with only just enough leg room. I racked the seat back and used the built-in GPS to map out the probable location of Piper’s “nasty little place”.

Then I headed out, taking my time. I had the windows down and some local radio station blaring. Everyone I passed turned their heads and saw my face flashing beneath bright LED streetlights—another product of Mr. Ashcroft’s generosity, perhaps.

By the time I reached the turnoff to a faded block building surrounded by soybean fields, the Tylenol was wearing off and a cold beer—or maybe something stronger—sounded amazing. Just as Piper described it, the bar sat near the highway interchange, accessed by a long gravel drive. There were no windows, just one door. A neon sign proudly proclaimed the obvious—“BAR”—while a smaller wooden sign staked by the road ventured to be a little more descriptive.

The Mucky Watering Hole—Turn Here.

I did turn, packing down the last cookie as the Kia crashed through mud puddles. There were indeed a handful of motorcycles parked out front, but there were some pickups, also.

In particular, one early seventies Dodge Power Wagon, powder blue with beefy mud tires.

How about that.

I parked and popped the Kia’s rear hatch. Stepping into warm night air, I smelled cigarette smoke and listened as a drunk laughed. The bar’s front door opened, and melancholy music drifted out. Two guys slouched against their Harleys, swapping jokes and ignoring me. Nobody watched as I lifted the Kia’s rear cargo liner to expose the spare tire compartment beneath. The tire was a light-duty donut, but it was the tire changing kit that interested me.

A scissor jack…and a twelve-inch lug wrench with a crooked end. It was lighter and shorter than I preferred, but heck, this wasn’t a big gaudy gas guzzler. I shut the hatch and slipped the lug wrench into my pants down to the crook, dropping the Walmart T-shirt over the top to cover it. Then I started for the bar.

I hoped to make it inside. I hoped to enjoy a drink before the carnival began. Better yet, I hoped no carnival would begin at all—that I would be wrong about everything, and could put this whole town behind me with a clear conscience.

But I wasn’t wrong, and I never reached the bar. I made it barely ten feet.

19

Headlights blazed up the gravel drive. I turned to the growl of heavy engines—V8s paired to aftermarket mufflers. It was a pair of truly gaudy vehicles: a late-seventies International Scout, all black with square headlights, and a mid-eighties Chevrolet K10 pickup with a bull bar hung with fog lights.

Both trucks approached at thirty-plus miles per hour, bouncing over ruts and potholes. I stood in the middle of the lot, my body relaxed as the Scout split one way and the K10 the other. They ground to a stop, and the engines cut off…then the muscle spilled out.

Five guys. Big, burly, and ugly as sin. Tattoos flashed beneath the glare of the parking lot’s lone security light, and the conversation from the smokers gathered outside the bar died in an instant.

As I stood waiting, the fifth and final figure dropped from the K10’s driver’s seat. He was about my height, with bulging shoulders, a goatee, and a mullet that matched the vintage of his pickup. He chewed tobacco as he circled toward me, headlights temporarily obscured by his bulk.

He closed to within twenty feet without speaking. His four friends fanned out behind him, but no one advanced.

At last, Mullet tilted his head toward the bar, and one of his associates broke off. A moment later, the door slammed.

I didn’t need to look over my shoulder to know that the smokers had been invited to return inside—and stay there. I also didn’t need to turn to know that the deployed associate was approaching me from behind.

Not that I cared.

Mullet spat, a long stream so brown it was nearly black. He fished a can of tobacco from his back pocket and packed a fresh wad into his cheek. The lid snapped back on, and he grunted.

“Imma say this once. You need to get in that car and get outta Windale—outta Jersey, in fact. Don’t care where you go or what you do, but you can’t be here. You roll along, and we’ll call it a night.”

My gaze swept from Mullet to his compatriots. Hefty guys, all a little overweight, but muscular, nonetheless. Standing with hands at their sides, staring me down under the glare of the K10’s lights.

I didn’t see any guns. I didn’t see any knives, either. These guys really expected to break me with bare fists.

“Did Ashcroft send you?” I asked.

Mullet didn’t answer, but his lips lifted in just the hint of a smirk, and that was all the confirmation I needed. For that matter, his very presence was all the confirmation I needed.

Calls from the Windale Police Department had indeed been made—and nobody here was a legitimate officer of the law.

Fair enough.

I took a long step toward Mullet. The Kia’s lug wrench scraped against my thigh, still concealed beneath my shirt. I drew within a yard, and Mullet raised one eyebrow.

“When I go,” I said. “What happens to Piper?”

No answer. His teeth clamped down on tobacco and he spat from the side of his mouth.

“Go,” he said. “Or I’m gonna break you in half.”

I smiled.

“I was kinda hoping you’d say that.”

I hit him so fast he never saw it coming—he didn’t even blink. One moment he was smirking and chomping tobacco, smug and confident with his mini-army at hand. The next moment, my index and middle fingers slammed straight into his right eye—as quick as a striking snake, and as hard as a right hook.

Mullet screamed, spraying tobacco juice and crashing backward against his pickup. One hand flew to his eye, the other flailed to break his fall. He was stumbling, toppling, and then my left boot smashed into his right ankle, and a gunshot crack split the night. He shrieked—he was down, and I was spinning.

Left arm up, right hand hooking the lug wrench. Ready to duck an incoming blow…but nobody was there. The four guys stood exactly where I’d left them, slack-jawed and stunned, caught in deadlock.

“Well?” I said, flicking the lug wrench out and catching it by the long end. “Break me in half!”

That did it. They all charged at once, two with fists raised and two more brandishing brass knuckles. Chests heaving, eyes wild, like a knot of charging bulls. They cleared the space between the Scout and the K10 and the first one caught the lug wrench right across his face—I shattered his nose and sent him spinning, repeating my ankle-stomp maneuver as he toppled.

Another gunshot crack of bone, and then the other three were on me. I ducked a sloppy right hook and deflected the incoming flash of brass knuckles with an extended forearm. A third blow glanced off my right shoulder, and then I was returning fire. One smack of the lug wrench into an unprotected gut sent breath exploding through stained brown teeth. A kick to the left shattered a knee joint—screams flooded the night, but I wasn’t even started. I spun in time to catch the next brass-knuckled punch straight to my sternum. It hurt like white fire, but sternums are thick bones, and mine didn’t break. His thrust had brought his body forward, off balance, and I caught his left forearm with my left hand before he could self-correct.

I jerked. He plummeted forward, right across my body. The crook of the lug wrench caught him across the back of the head, steel on bone smashing and crunching. He was out like a light, down on the ground, but two more guys remained. One was limping on a busted ankle, the other was flailing to disentangle himself from the guy with the wrecked knee.

Everyone was screaming. Behind me, Mullet shouted, one arm slapping against the K10’s bumper as he fought to regain his feet.

“Shoot him! Shoot him!”

At last, a gun appeared. It was the guy to my right, clawing a stainless-steel revolver from the small of his back. His feet were still tangled amid the legs of a fallen comrade. He was off balance. The revolver rose toward me.

I cleared the space between us and wrapped a hand over the weapon just as he clamped down on the trigger. The cylinder couldn’t turn with my fingers clamped around it. I twisted hard left, breaking his grip and trapping his finger inside the trigger guard. A knuckle shattered, and he screeched like a barn owl on fire.

I tore the gun from his grasp and backhanded him in the gut with the tire iron. The breath left his lungs, and he gulped. His head went down, and I flicked the lug wrench up and then sideways. Metal collided with his temple, and another one bit the dust.

I spun for the final guy—the one with the busted ankle. He was fighting to claw a tiny black pistol from his pocket, but the frame snagged on his pants, and he was panicking. He tumbled to the ground as I approached, Mullet still shouting in the background.

“Shoot him, Hunt! Do it!”

Hunt wasn’t shooting anyone. I was on top of him before he got the gun untangled. He scrambled backward, and I smashed my left boot into his right forearm, crushing it into the gravel. He screamed, and I pressed harder.

“Drop it,” I said.

He released the tangled weapon. I released his arm, twisted at the hips, and smacked his temple with the lug wrench.

Lights out—four out of five. Only Mullet remained, and as I turned he was scrambling on his side, dragging his busted ankle and clawing his way toward the K10’s open driver-side door.

“Where you going?” I called, cheerful. “Aren’t you gonna break me in half?”

No answer. I followed a blood trail from his smashed eyeball, twirling the lug wrench with one hand while the revolver hung from my left. It was a snub-nosed thirty-eight special—a Taurus Model 85, I thought. An inexpensive but generally reliable firearm. I’d encountered plenty of them on the streets of Phoenix.

Mullet reached the open driver’s door and grabbed the trailing end of a lap belt. He fought to haul himself off the ground—but I reached him first.

“Here,” I said. “Let me help you with that.”

I stepped on his ankle. He shrieked like a branded pig, losing the belt. I leaned over him, reaching into the K10’s cab, pulling a key ring from the ignition.

Two truck keys, small and shiny. Much like the keys to my GMC.

Mullet sat half doubled over as I withdrew, one ankle twisted unnaturally to the side, his right eye streaming blood. He was gasping with pain, clawing at his pocket for a switchblade knife. I swatted his hand with the lug wrench, hard enough to break fingers. He screeched again, and I kneeled next to him, wiping sweat from my nose.

“Wow,” I said. “You really taught me. I should have left when I had the chance.”

“You filthy son of⁠—”

I smacked his busted ankle with the lug wrench before he could finish. He howled and slammed his head into the K10’s sheet metal bed.

“What’s that?” I said. “Couldn’t hear you.”

He was quaking. I tossed the lug wrench onto the ground and went to work with the key ring, still holding the revolver as I removed the two truck keys.

Then I faced him again.

“So here’s the deal,” I said. “You’ve caught me in a really, really bad mood. I don’t know what your story is, and I really couldn’t care less. The fact is, I can’t have you following me, but I can’t bring myself to damage such a beautiful truck. That leaves me with quite the quandary, wouldn’t you say?”

A sob. He shook his head. “I won’t follow you, man. Just leave.”

“Or what?” I asked.

He glared. I thumbed the revolver’s hammer. It clicked, loud and sharp. His breathing quickened as I rested the muzzle against his forehead.

“Who wants to kill Piper Haines?” I said.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I…I don’t know nothing about that. Look, man, you don’t wanna kill me.”

“You’re right. So talk.”

“But I don’t know.”

“So who do you work for?”

“What?”

“Bill Ashcroft?”

He swallowed. His gaze switched right. He didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to.

So that’s how it is.

“Open your mouth,” I said.

“W-what?”

“I said open your pie hole before I open it with my knife.”

His jaw quivered. I grabbed him with the fingers of my left hand and wrenched his mouth open. The two truck keys fit nicely over his tongue. I slammed his mouth closed.

“Swallow.”

He tried to spit the keys out. I pressed his head backward with the gun.

“Swallow, or I’ll store them in your brain.”

That did it. He sobbed. He tried to choke. But he swallowed. I opened his mouth to check—the keys were gone.

“Man, that’s gonna kill me.”

I snorted, decocking the revolver. “You’ll pass them in a couple of days. Walking should help.”

Another cough. He was quaking with pain—mostly from the ankle. I remembered the busted joint and grunted as I stood.

“I guess you won’t be doing much walking.”

I retrieved the lug wrench and left him there, weaving between unconscious, bloodied thugs on my way to the Scout. I took the keys from the ignition and tossed them overhand into the darkness, then I deployed the reamer tool on my Victorinox Locksmith and used it to puncture all four tires.

Finally, I turned for The Mucky Watering Hole…and found four guys in leather vests standing slack-jawed next to their motorcycles, just staring.

Pocketing the revolver, I wiped blood from the lug wrench and crossed the parking lot. I stopped ten feet from them and glanced over my shoulder at the carnage behind me. I shrugged, semi-apologetic.

“They started it.”

One guy belched. He shook his head.

“That’ll be the last time.” He extended a hand. “Beer?”

I accepted his bottle and drained it. I ducked my head, and they nodded back. Not another word spoken.

I headed for the Kia.

20

Ireturned to Windale with the bloodied lug wrench riding the floorboard next to me, the Taurus revolver stuck nose-down in the cupholder. I found the grungy little motel sitting empty save for the clerk’s mud-colored Ford Tempo. He eyeballed me as I turned in, and there was something in his gaze that I didn’t like.

A little surprise, maybe. As though he hadn’t expected me to return. It made me wonder how many people in this town were bought off—how many were watching me and reporting to an invisible enemy about my location.

Leaving the Kia running, I cleared my room out first. My backpack, duffel bag, my violin case, and all my personal effects fit into the Kia’s back seat. Then I reached Piper’s door and knocked hard.

“Piper! Wake up.”

She came to the door dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt printed with a smiling oak tree—the tree actually had a face. Her right arm still rode in its sling.

“Mason, what⁠—”

“Come on,” I said. “Time to check out. Get your things.”

“Huh?”

“I said get your things. Let’s go.”

There was just enough urgency in my voice to spark some movement. She went for her bag and five minutes later she was finally ready, babbling questions as I loaded her stuff and guided her to the passenger’s seat.

“Get in.”

“Wait. Where are you taking me? What’s this about?”

“I don’t have time to explain, Piper. Get in.”

She did. I threw the Kia into reverse and caught the clerk’s eye as I backed out. He was speaking on a phone—he watched us as we routed for the street. I turned the Kia south, away from downtown Windale…and then we were off.

I had no idea where to go. It was difficult to think with Piper resuming her trademark babble, Mr. Pepper riding in her lap.

“What the freak are you doing, Mason? Stop driving so fast—you’re burning too much fuel. Do you have any idea how much greenhouse gas a car like this produces? I’m getting hot just thinking about it! Why is there blood on your shirt? You smell like beer—have you been drinking? Is that a gun?”

“Piper!”

I smacked a hand against the wheel, and Piper blinked. She opened her mouth for the next tirade, but I spoke first.

“Just sit. Quietly. Please.”

Piper flushed, but to her credit, she acquiesced. We rode in silence for ten minutes, returning to the highway district and clipping past fuel stations, restaurants, and chain hotels. The Kia’s tank was full, which was good—I was paranoid enough keeping a lookout for heavy trucks ready to ram me off the highway without worrying about being jumped in a gas station parking lot.

Mullet and his boys had made the mistake of confronting me with fists instead of bullets, and I couldn’t expect them to make that mistake a second time. The Taurus only held five shots.

“What happened?” Piper’s next question was uncharacteristically calm. She sat with her good arm wrapped around Mr. Pepper, hugging him close to her body. The cat eyeballed me without blinking.

He did not look pleased.

“Just give me a minute,” I said.

Piper gave me twenty minutes, and I drove for all of them. Way south of the highway along the Jersey shore of the Delaware River. We turned inland at Pennsville Township, my gaze switching from one mirror to the next as I monitored for a tail.

If there was one, he was better at remaining hidden than I was at detecting tails. I certainly saw no beefy vintage trucks. The highway darkened as we proceeded into rural Salem County, and then eventually reached the town of Salem right on the Salem River—apparently, one name was good enough for coastal Jersey.

Turning off the main thoroughfare, I navigated sleepy narrow streets at random until I reached a marina situated just outside of downtown Salem. It was a speck of a place—industrial, not recreational. A pair of small tugboats were tied off beneath dockside cranes alongside all the usual scattered maritime junk. I pulled the Kia behind a dumpster and cut the lights off, but left the engine running. With the revolver in my lap, I wound my window down and spent another five minutes just listening for footsteps, approaching engines—any sound of incoming trouble.

There was nothing. Just the whisper of wind on the water, the smell of soggy wood and engine oil, the creak of the ropes tying the tugs to shore.

Then Piper made a growling sound through her teeth.

“Grrrrr, Mason. You’re killing me. Is this a kidnap or what? What happened?”

I looked her way, one hand tapping the smooth surface of the Taurus’s cylinder. The wood grip was worn perfectly smooth. It fit in my hand like a glove.

I’ve always liked revolvers.

“You need to leave town,” I said at last.

Piper squinted. “What?”

“I did what you asked. I investigated your claims.”

“And?”

“And I have no idea which way is up or who the devil is, but you’ve majorly pissed somebody off, and they’re not fooling around. I met five of them tonight.”

“Who? Ashcroft’s people?”

I ran a hand over my face, noting two weeks’ worth of razor stubble. I wasn’t sure if I’d lost my razor or just stopped caring. The beard wasn’t intentional.

“I don’t know who they were,” I said. “They weren’t in a chatty mood. They tried to jump me, and I got the feeling that they knew something about you, also.”

“Wait. Tried to jump you. What does that mean?”

I didn’t answer.

“Did you whoop them?” Her voice rose with delighted animation. I looked her way, noting shining eyes and an open-mouthed grin. Mr. Pepper had fallen asleep, but Piper was running at full throttle.

“They’re serious, Piper,” I said. “I’ve seen this kind of thing before, more than once. Different name, different town, same crap. Whatever they’re up to, you’re in the way, and you need to get out of the way if you want to live.”

Piper’s smile faded. “Are you…saying I should give up?”

I swore. “I’m saying you should wise up, Piper. I’m saying you should stop picking fights with grizzly bears and get a hobby. Move to a big city, find a job at an art studio. Protest climate change and buy another Prius. I don’t care what you do—just don’t do it there.”

Piper withdrew as I spoke. She clutched Mr. Pepper behind her cast-wrapped arm, breathing like a winded horse. She was shaking.

“What’s wrong with you?” I said.

“Me? What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you?” She shouted the final question. “I thought you were a soldier—a good man. Now you’re asking me to just roll over and quit? Surrender? Are you out of your mind?”

“No, Piper. I’m very much inside my mind—more than you, it seems.”

“What does that mean?”

I didn’t answer. Her eyes grew wide.

“Say it.”

I shook my head.

“Say it,” she snapped. “Call me crazy.”

I still didn’t answer. She punched me in the shoulder with her good arm.

“Say it, you coward!”

“You’re crazy!” I shouted. “Is that what you want to hear? You’re crazy, insane, eccentric, weird. I don’t know what you are, but I didn’t come to Jersey to play hero. I’m sick of playing hero. Do you hear me? I’ve been a soldier and a cop and everybody’s savior but my own—and I’m sick of it. If you don’t leave this town, they’re going to kill you, and so help me, I won’t shed a tear. It’s not my problem.”

It was my turn to breathe hard. My blood pumped, my face burned. I was sweating despite the Kia’s churning A/C. I glared at her, and she glared right back. Mr. Pepper glared, too.

Then, finally, Piper faced forward. She pulled the cat close. She lifted her chin.

“This is my rental car. I’m happy to let you drive me back to Windale so you don’t have to walk. Then I want my keys.”

I snorted. I flicked the headlights on and threw the Kia into gear, and we spun out of the marina. I drove us through Pennsville Township and turned north for the highway.

Piper didn’t say another word. She sat in icy silence while my heart continued to hammer. My own words echoed in my ears, and I hated myself for them. I hated myself for the shouting, the tone, the anger.

Most of all, I hated myself for saying things I didn’t believe—didn’t want to mean. Those words weren’t me. They never had been me.

What’s happening?

At a red light north of Pennsville I checked my mirrors once more, but I saw nothing that aroused my concern. Ahead on my right sat a major chain hotel. The parking lot extended behind the five-story building, offering concealment for the Kia.

I turned in without comment, steering to the back.

“What are you doing?” Piper sounded more angry than concerned.

I parked the Kia beyond the shelter of the hotel’s dumpster. I breathed deep and slow.

Piper gave me the time.

“If I take you back to Windale, they will kill you,” I said. “Maybe tonight, tomorrow, or next week. They’re only waiting for me to get out of the way. You can’t rely on miracles to save you.”

Piper’s chin jutted. “I don’t believe in miracles. The universe has a plan.”

I snorted. “I don’t think your enemies give a flying spit wad about the universe’s plan.”

“They don’t have to. Karma always wins.”

“Karma?”

“Part of the universe’s plan.”

Right.

I thumped one finger on the wheel and shook my head.

“I’m not waging a war with you, Piper. I won’t do it.”

“So don’t. Hand me the keys and go your merry way.”

I glanced sideways. “Won’t that be bad Karma?”

She shrugged, miming my voice. “It’s not my problem.”

My gut tightened. I looked away and cursed myself for even thinking of Jersey. No—the curse went so far beyond that. I should have never set foot in Washington. Better yet, I should have never set foot in Iowa. That was where this domino effect of heartbreak really began. I was happy rolling out of St. Louis in my newly restored pickup. I was good. I was free.

And now?

“Please, Piper.”

I looked back. She simply shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“Why? Why can’t you just let this go?”

A long pause. Piper squinted a little. She seemed to be peering right through me, evaluating my very soul. Contemplating.

Then she grunted. “You really want to know?”

I wasn’t sure if I did, but I had a feeling I didn’t have a choice. What was I going to do, anyway? Pitch her the keys and ride off into the sunset?

I would never sleep again. I wouldn’t deserve to sleep again. Her blood would be on my hands as surely as if I had killed her myself.

“Get me a room,” Piper said, tilting her head toward the hotel. “If it’s not safe in Windale, we’ll sleep here.”

“And then?” I said.

“And then I’m gonna show you,” Piper said. “And if you still don’t understand, I guess the universe was wrong about you.”

Without another word, she opened her door. She got out with Mr. Pepper tucked into the crook of her cast-frozen arm. She marched for the hotel’s main entrance, leaving me cursing my entire existence.

And knowing that I was going to follow.

21

Islept poorly, dreaming of the Chesapeake Bay and a smile like the sunrise. Strawberry blonde hair and bright green eyes and the best laugh—the best laugh.

The dream played on repeat, and for just a moment or two, I believed that it was real. That I hadn’t left DC. That she and I were together, and that it would work. That life hadn’t cheated me out of love and happiness a second time.

But every time, I would awaken. Eyes snapping open in a New Jersey hotel room I couldn’t afford, staring at a pitch-black ceiling and looking right to find Mr. Pepper eyeballing me from the edge of Piper’s bed.

Not blinking. Not purring. Showing no mercy—just like life.

Rising with the sun, I tugged on worn boots and left Piper sleeping. I found a continental breakfast waiting in the lobby and I packed down three plates of mediocre powdered eggs and greasy sausage. The breakfast staff shot me sideways glances, but I didn’t care.

For all I knew, this might be one of my last meals before inevitable poverty ripped me down to a street corner and a cardboard sign. Barely three hundred bucks remained in my wallet, and I still had a wrecked truck to sort out.

Maybe I should have taken Power Wagon’s thirty-five grand.

Piper joined me on my fourth plate. I wasn’t hungry, but I was still eating. She fixed her own plate of fruit and dry toast, wrinkling her nose at my sausage but not commenting. She ate one-handed in silence, sleepy eyes blinking, her smiling oak tree shirt covered in cat hair.

“Where are we going?”

My tone was curt, maybe even cold. I wasn’t interested in going anywhere, and yet I had nowhere else to be. Maybe I just wanted to punish Piper for the mess I found myself in.

“Wilmington,” she said, popping green grapes into her mouth.

“Delaware?”

“No—Mars.” She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Delaware. Sheesh, Mason. Wake up.”

I knocked back watery orange juice to block out another curse. Piper sipped the same and wrinkled her nose. I thought of her “specially imported from Florida orange juice” back at Patty’s diner, and the memory unleashed an unexpected wash of guilt in my chest.

I sat staring as she sucked a grapefruit slice, fidgeting in her seat and humming an irregular tune. Her gaze drifting across the lobby and out into the parking lot, not paranoid but curious. Alive. Vibrant. Preoccupied with thoughts unspoken.

Crazy? She looked crazy. I wouldn’t pretend otherwise. But I couldn’t help thinking that Patty had never called her crazy. The librarian never had. None of those members of Windale society who didn’t want Piper dead had ever condemned her. They imported her orange juice. They fixed her vegan meals, at least nominally, and provided a special office in the back of the library. They humored her; they loved her.

Sure, there were some white lies involved. Maybe that was wrong. But whatever the story of Piper’s eccentricity, she had half her community loving her, and the other half trying to murder her.

Where did that leave me? A coward stuck in the middle?

“What are you looking at?”

I blinked, snatched back to the present. Piper was staring, almost scowling. I finished my juice.

“Nothing. You ready?”

I drove while Piper navigated. North back to the highway, west over the Delaware Memorial Bridge. If Piper suffered any PTSD from her recent near-death encounter in the murky waters below, she didn’t show it. She sat humming and bobbing her head, Mr. Pepper riding in the crook of her cast-frozen arm, purring as she scratched his head.

The tune wasn’t anything I recognized. I didn’t think it was any established tune at all. It seemed to be one of her own spontaneous composition, rising and falling at random. Both chipper and whimsical, marking the pace of her tumbling thoughts while leaving me to stew in my own.

Piper directed me through downtown to the outskirts of northwest Wilmington. She wouldn’t tell me where we were headed. She only gestured to indicate turns, sometimes with barely enough time for me to switch lanes. When we finally pulled into the gravel lot of a semi-abandoned industrial district, I leaned low to squint beneath the roofline.

Only one building appeared occupied, a small warehouse with a concrete loading dock. Two minivans were backed up near it, their hatches open. Pallets lay strewn about, multi-colored grocery sacks arranged between them. Two women and a man worked the dock, packing the bags into the vans.

“There,” Piper said. “Back in.”

I complied, reversing the Kia into the open slot between the two minivans. Piper climbed out without further comment, and I cast another sweeping glance.

I didn’t see anyone who aroused suspicion, but I kept the captured revolver close to hand in my front right pocket, all the same.

“Hey, Tom!” Piper’s voice turned cheery as I exited the Kia. Already she had the rear hatch open, and was turning to accept a hug from a tall guy about as broad as a matchstick.

“Piper, Piper, Piper! You had us worried to death. Are you okay?”

The women were gathered around also, hugging her and exclaiming. One cried. The other kissed her on the cheek.

I just stood back, hands in my pockets. Feeling awkward again.

“I’m fine,” Piper said. “Lost the Prius, but I’ve got a rental! I was hoping to get another load. The last one is still in the river.”

“What?” Tom’s eyebrows wrinkled. “Already? You should be resting, dear. We’ll send somebody else to Windale.”

“Who? Phil?” Piper snorted. “He’ll be lost in five minutes. Don’t worry, I brought help. This is Mason.”

Piper gestured and I extended a hand. Introductions were made without any explanation of our current endeavor…although I was beginning to connect the dots, and feeling like an even bigger ass as I did.

It was a food bank. The grocery sacks were full of canned goods. Piper Haines was a courier.

They tried to kill a Good Samaritan.

My chest tightened. Not just at the injustice of it all, but most especially at my own words yet again echoing in the back of my mind.

Not my problem.

“You mind giving us a hand, Mason?”

It was Tom. I blinked my way back to the present. “Sure. Which ones?”

“Whatever you can hold,” Tom said. “It’s all going out today.”

I lowered the Kia’s back seats and we packed the SUV with enough canned goods to squat the rear end. Piper mostly directed, requesting toothpaste and household cleaners, and rejecting a sack of mangos because, “Melba will make herself sick eating them”.

At last, the Kia was full, and Tom and the others hugged Piper again. I got behind the wheel and started the car as Piper scooped Mr. Pepper off her seat. She cranked up the A/C. I looked sideways.

“Where next?”

Piper smiled, looking a little smug.

“Back across the bridge,” she said.

“And then?”

“And then, Mr. Sharpe, you’re going to see what Bill Ashcroft wants to destroy.”

22

We returned to Windale and Piper guided us north of town. Beyond the mechanic’s shop, where my truck remained untouched in the parking lot. Past the gravel lane that led to her house. Turning west toward the river along a winding county road.

Piper resumed her wandering hum during the ride, not so much as glancing toward her burned-out house. We passed through a grove of trees choked by brush, the Kia shuddering as busted asphalt shook the tires.

And then, all at once, I saw the Delaware River glimmering under the midmorning sun, five hundred yards ahead and about thirty feet beneath a low bluff. It stretched from left to right, blocked only by occasional trees…and small clapboard houses. Early twentieth century in vintage, much like the homes in downtown Windale.

But that was where the similarities to Windale ended. Of the several dozen homes that lined either side of a cracked and pothole infested two-lane street, none featured a yard less than half an acre in size. None lacked an old school detached garage with a wooden door, towering trees in their yards, or pristine views of the passing river.

And none were in good repair. Standing in total contrast to the freshly painted, fully manicured houses of downtown Windale, these homes looked as though they hadn’t been properly maintained in decades. Paint peeled, and front porches leaned. Some had missing windows patched with plywood, while more than a few had a tarp nailed down over their roofs. Shingles were busted, driveways cracked and heavy with dead leaves. I saw almost no vehicles, and what few I did see were old and rusted. The yards were overgrown, the bushes untrimmed. The mailboxes neither matched nor even stood up straight.

The street looked completely abandoned—forgotten. But it wasn’t.

As the Kia turned down the road, I noted rocking chairs moving on front porches. Faces, old and weathered, looked out of front windows. Doors swung open, and suspicious eyes stared at us. They were all old people—elderly, really. Every one of them appeared nervous as I mashed the brakes, bringing us to a stop on Piper’s command.

Then Piper pushed the door open, fighting her way out of the seatbelt with one arm. She dropped onto the busted road and called cheerily to the front porch.

“Hey, Melba! It’s Piper. You hungry?”

Everything changed in that moment. The entire tone of the whole street. Suspicion evaporated into broad smiles. Elders on walkers and leaning on canes stepped onto sidewalks. Piper circled to the back of the Kia and activated the hatch, calling for my help.

Then the distribution began. One smiling face and grateful voice at a time—one sagging porch and creaking front door. I followed Piper, carrying heavy loads of grocery sacks packed with dry foods and household goods, entering houses that smelled of must and mildew, their floors groaning and half their electrical not working. I unpacked groceries straight into pantries and onto aged dining room tables. I met Melba and Henry and Johnny—the last of whom was deaf, and so of course everyone yelled at him. I passed rows of family photographs hung on walls overlaid by fading wallpaper, many of those pictures shot in washed out color or black and white.

I saw families gathered around automobiles from the forties, fifties, and sixties. I recognized military uniforms of every branch. I saw newborn babies, and brides in wedding dresses, and kids playing on tire swings with the same houses that now surrounded me standing in the backdrop.

It was a lifetime of local history, several generations of heritage all contained on this single busted street. With the slow tide of the Delaware River churning in the background, many of the smiling faces who greeted us matched the much younger faces in those photographs.

And everyone recognized Piper. Everyone hugged her, kissed her, thanked her profusely for the food, and most of all they wanted to know if she was okay. How she had acquired the broken arm, and what had become of her Prius. Apparently, word of Piper’s exact mishap hadn’t reached the neighborhood, and to my surprise, Piper didn’t enlighten them.

“Just had a little fender bender,” she said. “I’ve got the rental for now. Say, didn’t you need some toilet paper?”

So it went for nearly four hours. It was a slow grind up the street, maneuvering from one house to the next, often stopping to visit for ten or twenty minutes while Piper loved on the elders and repeatedly introduced me as “my friend Mason.” By the time we emptied the Kia some place near the end of the street, I wasn’t feeling small.

I was feeling microscopic. The tiniest, grungiest, most worthless worm on the planet. Something selfish and useless and as meaningless as dust on the wind. I didn’t deserve the smiles and warmth the elders extended. I didn’t deserve the hugs or the profuse gratitude.

I didn’t deserve anything. I just finished with the groceries and at length climbed into the Kia, looking to an old street sign where it hung from a single nail at the top of a rotting wood post. The font was faded—the sign was vintage.

Riverside Lane.

I swallowed, imagining that sign as it must have looked freshly mounted, all these homes freshly constructed. Clean yards and new cars. Barking dogs and laughing kids. Everyone smoking, everyone reading the news on paper instead of their phones. Heroes departing in uniform and coming back tall and proud and injured in ways nobody else would ever truly understand.

Getting married. Having kids. Laying down roots. Growing old.

And eventually, one day…

Being forgotten.

The passenger door opened and Piper climbed in. All the elders were headed back into their homes, more than a few offering final waves. Piper waved back, but she didn’t say anything. The Kia’s engine hummed while I continued feeling microscopic.

And I didn’t fight that feeling…because I had it coming.

“They raised me,” Piper said, her voice very soft. “After my parents died, I was headed for the system. I was just a kid. But these folks took me in. They…” she stopped, swallowed. I glanced right and realized her eyes were watering. “They didn’t have the money. Didn’t have the energy. Most could barely take care of themselves. But they took care of me, Mason.”

She faced me. “They’re all my parents. They’re my family.”

I looked away, this time not to the houses, but to the bluff. The river sweeping gently by beyond it, a crystal ribbon bright with summer glory, the distant gleam of Wilmington some place far beyond.

A peaceful spot. A gorgeous spot.

A perfect spot.

“It’s here, isn’t it?” I said. “This is where Ashcroft wants to build his casino.”

“Yep.”

“And they won’t sell,” I said.

“Not a one of them.”

“Because of you?”

“Because this is home.”

Home. The word rang hollow in my mind. Not because I didn’t understand it, or hadn’t ever experienced it…maybe because I had so long ago given up on it. Surrendered it in favor of this wandering, groundless lifestyle. This vagrancy.

And yet one look down Riverside Lane, and I felt that connection again. Dormant, but awakening. I imagined the tire swings and the children and the warmth…and I felt it.

“He’s got everything he needs except this slice,” Piper said. “Big chunks of land between here and Windale for parking lots and a golf course. But nothing is as nice as this place. He wants the view for his hotel.”

She spoke through her teeth, staring at the river.

And at last, I thought I understood. I shifted the Kia into drive, and we bumped down Riverside Lane, back to the twisting county road. I turned toward Windale. My stomach was growling, and I wanted lunch.

But more than that, I wanted to stop feeling small. I wanted to stop trying to run.

I wanted to focus all that frustration on something good for a change. Something like the campaign to save Riverside Lane.

23

We ate at Patty’s—not only because it was convenient, but because the food was delicious. I ordered another burger with fries and offered Patty an apologetic dip of my head for my prior behavior. There wasn’t much left in my wallet, but I knew I’d have to tip her well this time.

Piper wrinkled her nose at the mention of my half pound burger, but she didn’t complain. She ordered a chef salad with no meat, eggs, or cheese, and vegan ranch. I watched as Patty poured dressing from a gallon sized jug that most definitely came from the nearest Costco, and most definitely was not vegan.

But much like Piper, I kept my thoughts to myself.

The food came, and we ate in silence. I maintained steady surveillance over the diner’s entrance, but I didn’t see any vintage trucks or limping thugs, and neither did I expect any. Not here, not in broad daylight, with so many witnesses around. If my developing theories about an illegal casino were anywhere close to accurate, that wouldn’t be how a guy like Ashcroft would play things, anyway.

His men would jump me later, some place dark and vulnerable, just like they’d already tried at The Mucky Watering Hole. I had instigated that confrontation with my declarations of war at the Windale Police Station, and I didn’t regret that move. I had identified my enemy and had some idea what to expect. I was braced for escalation—probably gunfire, at some stage.

But those were future problems. For the moment, the investigative side of me took precedence over the combat side. I was thinking about Riverside Lane and that crystal view. I was imagining a sprawling casino resort, complete with a hotel and a golf course. And I had questions.

Wiping ketchup from my mouth, I pushed my plate away and gave Piper time to finish her salad. She didn’t seem to have much of an appetite—without the meat, eggs, or cheese, the salad was mostly lettuce and I couldn’t imagine that it was very tasty.

“I need to understand a few things,” I said.

Piper slurped imported orange juice.

“Like what?” Her voice lacked its usual enthusiasm. She sounded very tired.

“You said that this guy Ashcroft wants to build a casino. You said he already has land for a golf course and a parking lot. How do you know that?”

“It’s no big secret. Everybody knows. He’s been campaigning for support for a couple of years.”

I thought of the pristine sidewalks, the freshly cleaned and painted houses. All the little parks—all the matching mailboxes.

Campaigning.

“I talked to the Windale police,” I said.

“They’re corrupt.” Piper spat the words like bad chewing gum. I lifted a hand.

“I talked to the Windale police,” I repeated. “One of them said something about New Jersey casino law. Apparently, gambling is restricted to Atlantic City?”

A snort. Piper shook her head but didn’t answer.

“Well?”

“You really think laws are gonna stop a guy like Ashcroft?”

“I have no idea. I don’t know Ashcroft. But if that cop told me the truth, you’d need a constitutional amendment to expand gambling across the state. That’s pretty hard to come by, even for a billionaire.”

“Not when that billionaire has bankrolled the campaigns of half the state legislature. When he’s friends with judges and prosecutors and the governor.”

Piper said it like I was a moron, her voice heavy with impatience. She jabbed at her salad, gaze drifting across the table, her eyes a little red. She was so much a shell of the spunky young woman I’d met two days prior, and I couldn’t help but marvel at what made the difference.

Not a car crash into a river. Not an exploding house, or a broken arm. It was Riverside Lane that made the difference—a lengthy tour through rotting houses and a forgotten society of loved ones.

Piper’s heart must be the size of Texas, and yet I still couldn’t buy her narrative—not quite. A casino of the sort she described might cost a hundred million dollars to build. Years of hard work, a lot of risky investment.

A smart billionaire wouldn’t pour that much money into a project that was guaranteed to face legal headwinds. Not even if he owned half the state legislature and the governor’s office. It just didn’t make sense.

I was still missing something, but I parked the issue for the time being. There were other questions at hand that might matter more—questions like who was behind Piper’s attempted murder, and who had hired them.

If I could prove a homicidal conspiracy, everything else would be superfluous. Bill Ashcroft, or whoever wanted Piper dead, wouldn’t have time to worry about steamrolling a village of elders out of their homes. He’d be preoccupied with staying out of prison.

I only needed a thread to pull.

“You said Ashcroft tried to buy the lots on Riverside,” I said.

“One of his companies tried,” Piper corrected.

“Right. And the residents said no.”

“Yeah.”

“So…then what?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did he give up?”

“Are you kidding?” Piper’s spunk returned. “That guy never gives up. He’s been pushing ever since.”

“Pushing how?”

“Well, he offered more money at first. A lot more money. When they still said no, he went away for a while.”

“And then?”

“And then things started going wrong. All up and down the street, you know? Stuff went missing. The power started failing. Two houses flooded from busted water pipes. A logging crew working on an adjacent lot started clearing trees at night—making all kinds of noise. Nobody could sleep.”

Harassment. The steady drip of water into a metal pan, calibrated to drive even a stable person crazy. It wasn’t a new trick.

“What about guys in trucks?” I said.

“Trucks?”

“Old school trucks, like mine. Did you ever see any of them trolling around?”

Piper considered. She nodded.

“Yeah…actually, Melba said something. She said there was this one old truck that rolls down the street a couple times a week. The guy never stops or gets out. He just drives real slow, staring at people.”

“What kind of old truck?”

Piper shrugged. “I don’t know. Some planet-killing junk.”

“Did Melba mention a color?”

Piper chewed her lip. “I think…I think she said it was blue.”

“Light blue?”

“I don’t know.”

I remembered Power Wagon and his powder blue Dodge. It felt like a possible match…but there must be hundreds of blue trucks in South Jersey.

I returned my attention to Piper and found her crying behind her plate of rabbit food. With the fork held between white knuckled fingers, a heavy tear sliding down a rosy cheek, she seemed to have forgotten that anyone else was around. Lost again, she sat in a daze, fixated on whatever cascading thoughts built toward one obsession.

Her home. More than Windale, bigger than that row of battered and rotting houses. She looked helpless, and I could only imagine how helpless she felt.

I touched her arm, and Piper looked up, still crying. She swallowed but didn’t wipe the tears.

“I don’t know what else to do,” she said. “It’s like fighting the wind. You flail and fail, but it just keeps knocking you down and won’t stop coming.”

Heavy blinking. I squeezed her arm.

“You’re strong, Piper. You’re fighting for those who can’t fight for themselves.”

“What does it matter if I can’t win?”

I considered. I withdrew my hand and reached for my wallet. I left cash on the table for Patty—enough for the meal and a double tip. Then I stood.

“Maybe we just haven’t won yet.”

Piper squinted. “We?”

“You said you needed security, Piper. Consider me signed.”

Piper stared a long moment, one final tear dropping from her face. Then a massive grin stretched her cheeks, popping her dimples. She exploded out of the booth and wrapped me in a one-armed bear hug, squealing like a schoolgirl. When she released me, all the grief was gone—the fog had parted, and old Piper was back.

“I told you the universe sent you.”

I grunted. “I don’t know about the universe, Piper. But I know a thing or two about hunting bad guys.”

“You know how to catch Ashcroft?” Hope radiated from her voice like heat waves from a furnace. I considered, drawing a toothpick from the table dispenser and pressing it between my lips. Replaying the last two days…and settling at the start.

At that moment on the Delaware Memorial Bridge, just before Piper’s Prius flipped over the edge.

“I know where to start,” I said. “Come on. We’ve got work to do.”

24

Itook Piper back to the same hotel we’d stayed in the night before and paid for another night. Then I left her to feed Mr. Pepper and walked across the street to a convenience store where I purchased a pre-paid smartphone—all phones are smart these days, it seems. After the phone purchase and the second hotel night and paying for lunch, exactly thirty-eight dollars remained to my name.

Okay then.

Stepping onto the hotel’s pool deck with the captured Taurus revolver in my pocket—a worthy pawn item, if nothing else—I used the new phone to dial Sergeant Hull of the Delaware State Police. He answered with a chipper, “Yello!”

“Sergeant, it’s Mason Sharpe. We met at the⁠—”

“At the river!” Hull exclaimed. “How are you, soldier? Plenty sore?”

I forced a laugh. “Nothing like a day at Benning. I’ll be all right.”

“That’s the spirit. What can I do for you?”

“I’m calling about the accident. I was hoping you might have a copy of the report.”

“Oh, right. For your insurance claim?”

I just grunted. Truth be told, I was driving without insurance…just as I had for the past two years.

“DRBA will have that,” Hull said. “The guys who fished you out of the river. You can call them…I have their number around here somewhere.”

“Can’t you access the report?” I asked, a little hopeful.

“Uh…well, yes. But I mean, I can’t send it to you.”

“That’s okay. I just need the details of the guy I hit. That Chevy Blazer.”

A pause. I wondered if Hull could smell my deceit. Then I heard a keyboard clacking, and Hull hummed to himself.

“You got something to write with?” he said.

“Sure.”

I switched the phone to speaker mode and accessed the notes application. Hull read off a license plate number.

“Wade Whitlow—that’s the other driver.”

I made a note.

“You have an address?”

“Uh…no. Why would you need an address?”

I thought quickly. “Maybe my insurance will need to mail him a check.”

Hull snorted. “If you ask me, he should be mailing you a check.”

I very much agreed, but it was a moot point. I wasn’t worried about collecting damages…at least not for the moment.

“It’s okay,” I said. “The plate number should be enough. I appreciate the help.”

“Sure thing. Stay frosty!”

I hung up with Hull and stood staring at the license plate number. Six digits, both letters and numerals. I tried a web search of the name Wade Whitlow, adding various references to the local region, but found nothing useful.

Certainly not an address where a would-be murderer might be hiding.

Momentarily stumped, I scratched one bearded cheek, thinking of the license plate database I used back at the Phoenix PD, and how easy this question would have been to solve if I could just log in. I could place a phone call back to the department. My old partner still worked there. She might help…

But no. Jacquie Richardson was more than a partner, she was a close friend that I hadn’t spoken to in some months. To call her would unleash a torrent of questions I didn’t feel like answering. I thought I had a better idea.

Fishing through my wallet, I found the worn white paper card tucked behind my nearly evaporated cash supply. It was printed in plain black text with the seal of the Federal Bureau of Investigation stamped in one corner. The office address was for the Hoover building in Washington, DC. The title was special agent.

I dialed the number. The voice that answered was precisely as I remembered it—curt, direct, and totally bereft of any enthusiasm. Seasoned with a heavy Boston accent.

“Special Agent Kirsch.”

I smiled despite myself—not because the voice brought back any particularly fond memories, but because Linda Kirsch was perhaps the only portion of my visit to DC which remained positive in my mind. We hadn’t hit it off—far from it. But before the dust had settled over a particularly nasty counter espionage operation, I’d won Kirsch over. I’d even earned a copy of her business card and a promise to render assistance should I ever require it.

I figured now was as good a time as any to cash in that favor.

“It’s Mason,” I said. “Mason Sharpe.”

A slurp of coffee. Kirsch’s voice warmed maybe three degrees.

“Mason. What’s happening?”

I wasn’t sure if she was asking for an update on my personal life or was diving straight into the reason for my call. At least she remembered me.

“I, uh…I’m good, Kirsch. How are you?”

No answer.

So the point of the call, then.

“Listen, I could use your help with something.”

“Shoot.” Still calm, still monotone.

“I was involved in a car accident. I’m having some trouble locating the owner of the other vehicle. I have the license plate number, though. I was hoping you could run it for me.”

A pause. “Did you contact local law enforcement?”

“Yep.”

“And?”

I considered various lies before settling on the truth. “It’s complicated, Kirsch.”

“Complicated like you’re about to go rogue again?”

I switched the phone to my other ear. “I’m just trying to find the other driver. My truck is all banged up. It wasn’t my fault.”

A long pause. Then Kirsch sighed. “What’s the number?”

I read off the six digits. Kirsch popped gum and typed. A mouse clicked. Silence filled the line.

“So…what’s new with you?” I asked.

A snort. No answer. I smiled again.

“Eighteen-oh-nine Sylvester Road, Alloway Township. Sound about right?”

I scrambled to record the address in my digital note. “Wade Whitlow?” I asked.

“Nope. Jesse Vaughn. Who’s Wade Whitlow?”

I squinted, momentarily confused, but thinking quickly. The name on the traffic report Hull provided may have been a fake…or else the Blazer was owned by somebody other than the hairy redneck who drove it. Regardless, the address was helpful.

“My mistake,” I said. Then, before Kirsch could ask any more questions: “Have you ever heard of a guy name Bill Ashcroft?”

“Bill who?”

“Ashcroft. From New Jersey.”

“Am I from New Jersey?”

“Your accent isn’t.”

“Well, there you go, then. Who’s Bill Ashcroft?”

“Some billionaire businessman. Conflicting reputation. I thought maybe he’d crossed the bureau’s radar.”

Another slurp of coffee. “Never heard of him. What’s your interest?”

I kept my voice nonchalant. “Just curiosity.”

“Uh-huh.” Kirsch’s tone told me she didn’t believe a word I said. I decided to press my luck.

“Why don’t you have a look and shoot me a text? Just for old times’ sake.”

“Is this really how you wanna cash in that favor? Because it’s a one per customer kind of offer.”

Kirsch.

“So don’t have a look,” I said, knowing Kirsch would. “Maybe I’ll cash that favor another way. You never know when I might stumble into a global conspiracy.”

Another snort. “Stay out of trouble, Sharpe. I’m not a superhero.”

Kirsch hung up, and I tapped the address into my notes app. The phone’s GPS loaded just as an inky dark cloud obscured the blazing sun, casting a shadow. I thought I detected thunder as a low rumble over the horizon.

I studied the GPS. The address lay eighteen miles to my southeast, deep inside Salem County near the tiny incorporation of Alloway Township. I switched to satellite view but couldn’t see much. There was a lake—Alloway Lake—surrounded by several winding streets, including Sylvester Road. A few houses, although the specific address I zeroed in on was covered by trees and I couldn’t identify a structure. The terrain looked slightly hillier than the surrounding farmland. It was plenty rural.

The home of Jesse Vaughn? Or perhaps Wade Whitlow. Either way, if I could find the missing Blazer, I might find the guy who drove it. And if I could find him—if I could nail down the party responsible for Piper’s attempted murder, and prove that it was an attempted murder—then the FBI would do the rest of the heavy lifting. I would call Kirsch and cash in that favor for real. I could be done with this, and Piper would be safe.

Rocking my gaze toward the sky, I noted the developing bank of storm clouds blowing in from across the Delaware River, and tracked their progress inland. Already the sun was obscured, shadows blanketing the hotel. I could taste rain on the air, and the thunder grew a little louder. Lightning flashed with it.

It was a summer thunderstorm, probably quick, but also likely to be loud. I considered the eighteen mile ride out to Alloway Township, and figured this was just as good an opportunity as any. I would borrow Piper’s rental car and leave her ensconced in our hotel room. It wasn’t a fortress, but with security cameras, desk staff, and a host of other guests, Piper would be a difficult target, and I would be distracting Ashcroft’s people, anyway.

With any luck, this would all be resolved by nightfall.

25

Iunderestimated the speed and intensity of the coming storm. By the time I was five miles inland of the Delaware River, the rain began, beating in oversized drops against the Kia’s roof while wind battered its body panels. The sky darkened until headlights were not only a legal obligation but also a necessity. I drove with the built-in GPS as guidance, turning south at Woodstown and passing through sprawling farmland into eventual forest spread over low, undulating hills.

The landscape was not nearly so isolated as empty Alabama or desolate northern Arkansas, but definite countryside for an urbanized state like New Jersey. I passed only a handful of houses, the Kia’s windshield wipers mounting a steady resistance against the growing rain. When I reached Sylvester Road, I found a paved two-lane in desperate need of being re-paved. Potholes and busted chunks of concrete jolted the Kia while tree limbs swayed in the gathering wind. The next crack of thunder was so loud it shook the SUV, and I flicked the wipers up a notch.

I found street number 1809 on my second pass. Only three of the four digits were affixed to the mailbox—the zero was missing, maybe blown off by another storm. The mailbox itself was battered and rusty, leaning atop a post that was planted in a car tire filled with concrete. The driveway was gravel, heavily rutted by wide tires.

Like the tires mounted to a certain mid-eighties Chevrolet Blazer.

I proceeded two hundred yards down Sylvester, turning a corner and sliding the Kia as far as I dared off the blacktop. It was two-wheel drive and would stick easily in wet mud. Worse, I had to conclude that the little SUV was already a known quantity amongst Piper’s enemies. If push came to shove, I might need to abandon it.

I would take no chances, regardless. Stepping out of the Kia and into the pelting rain, I kept all my essentials with me, including the Taurus revolver, tucked into my front jeans pocket. I locked the rental but left the key fob under the wheel well.

Then I turned for the woods, dropping through the ditch and angling for the driveway leading to number 1809.

Long before I located the winding gravel path, I was soaked to the skin. Rain beat down between the trees while occasional flashes of lightning lit the darkened afternoon as bright as midday. A bed of loblolly pine needles formed a carpet beneath my boots, dampening each step to near silence as I turned east to follow the drive. Thus far, the ground had been relatively flat, but as distant lights gleamed between a mix of pine trees and scattered sweet gums, I thought I detected a slope turning downward toward distant Alloway Lake.

There was a house—no, not a house. It was a single-wide mobile home. An old trailer clad in bright yellow sheet metal. It sat atop precarious concrete block pillars, its windows gleaming blue under the next flash of lightning. As I curved away from the drive and approached the trailer from its front corner, I thought I detected another glint of blue glass somewhere to my right-hand side. A thick cluster of trees choked by underbrush obscured my view, but the next flash of lightning reflected against red taillights, and then I was sure.

It was the Chevy Blazer—no doubt about it. There might only be a handful of that exact model in all of New Jersey, but even if half a dozen matching vehicles roamed this very county, I knew this was the one because the back right corner of the truck was still smashed where my pickup had plowed into it. I recognized the New Jersey license plate number a moment later, expelling any lingering chance of misidentification.

This was definitely the vehicle in question, but it wasn’t the only vehicle in question…and the second was every bit as interesting: a late-seventies model International Scout riding on four brand-new tires.

How about that.

I shrank into a crouch as I glided through the brush, no longer aggravated by the rain, but thankful for it. It served as a screen—a noise barrier and a deterrent against posted sentries. Not that I really suspected Wade Whitlow or Jesse Vaughn or whoever these fools were to post sentries. They felt more like the reckless, brute force types. The hired muscle, the simple-minded cannon fodder. I’d met such men before all around the world.

And I knew exactly how to deal with them.

Reaching the edge of the tree line, I concealed myself behind a thicket of wild blackberry vines and took my time scoping out the yard. It wasn’t big—maybe a hundred yards wide, and three hundred deep. Not far ahead of the parked trucks, the ground dropped off at a steep angle, leading to the western banks of Alloway Lake, which was only visible if I craned my neck. The trailer itself sat level only because the concrete pillars it was constructed on grew progressively taller—the far end of the trailer sat fully eight feet off the ground, without any skirting to conceal dangling pipes and electrical wires.

Several lights shone from behind the trailer’s windows. I couldn’t see any people, but I heard voices. They were distant—not from inside the trailer, but from down the hill. Tacking left through the woods, I faded from tree to tree until I could see all the way to the edge of the lake, about fifty feet of elevation beneath the trailer.

It was a dock…or a pier. I wasn’t sure what to call it. Mostly it looked like a floating gazebo with a metal roof, about thirty feet across and stocked with a smoking barbeque grill. Four guys were gathered beneath it, two around the grill and two more kicked back on lawn chairs, sipping beers. The two near the grill were totally unfamiliar to me, but I recognized the others even, at two hundred yards’ distance.

One was stocky with a massive beer gut and a scraggly beard—he was the guy who drove Piper off the Delaware Memorial Bridge. Wade, or Jesse, or whatever his name was.

The second wore a leg cast and featured a mullet to end all mullets. Straight out of the eighties, a perfect match for the Chevrolet K10 whose keys no doubt still resided in his bowels.

Hello, old friend.

I watched the proceedings for about five minutes, noting the number of empty beer bottles scattered around the gazebo and the sloppy way the group carried on. There was some discussion under way, maybe some debate. I couldn’t make out the words over the rattle of rain on the gazebo’s roof, but as one of the grill masters turned on Mullet and waved a pair of tongs, I thought I could identify the belligerents. It was Mullet against the rest—and the rest were sneering. Laughing. One held his gut and mimed stomach pain.

It was a full-on roast of the key-eater, and the tone of it relaxed my mind. These guys might be violent—given the right circumstances, they might even be dangerous. But for the moment, I liked the lay of the land. Gathered at the river, they had left the trailer totally exposed for my inspection.

Infiltrating it was next on my agenda.

26

Ibreached the trailer via the front bay windows just above a rusted hitch. Each pane was held in place with nothing more than moldy caulking, long dry and cracked by age. I deployed the flat-tipped screwdriver from my Victorinox and went to work scraping the caulk out, fighting for several minutes before I grew impatient and simply waited for the next crash of thunder.

Then I shattered the window with the butt of the knife and reached through the hole to disengage the latch. The window scraped and stuck on dirty rails, but I got it open. Blowing water from my nose, I bent an ear toward the open gap and listened for voices. Shifting feet. A TV or a shower running. Any sign of occupancy.

I heard nothing, but I smelled plenty, and all of it was foul. Body odor, stale clothes, rotten food, and cannabis. A lot of cannabis, so strong I nearly choked.

Turning my face away from the window, I sucked down fresh air and blinked stinging eyes. From the bottom of the hill a fresh chorus of uncouth laughter broke above the rattle of rain on the trailer’s roof. Nobody sounded any closer, and I still couldn’t hear anything from inside the trailer.

I entered head first, lifting my body over the sill and wriggling straight onto a stained mattress littered with sour clothes. Everything I smelled before redoubled in intensity. There was no A/C running and the interior of the trailer was suffocating. I was choking and hyperventilating all at once, planting my feet on sticky carpet and nearly tripping over a forgotten pizza box.

There were shoes everywhere. A box of spilled condoms. A dusty calendar hung on the wall proudly displaying the year 2014. A shotgun leaned in one corner, and a sagging door hung from one hinge, offering access to a hallway. The floor creaked as I moved, and the next crash of thunder shook the walls.

The place was wrecked. Decrepit. Past ready for a bulldozer, but still in obvious operation. I proceeded down a hallway, attempting to hold my breath as I passed a filthy bathroom. A closet opposed the bathroom, then a second bedroom. It was half the size of the first, but twice as full. One bed with no sheets. More clothes. Porno mags and more pizza boxes. A TV that looked as old as the trailer.

I continued, noting an unsettling shift in the flooring as I reached the kitchen. No, it wasn’t the flooring at all. It was the trailer’s frame. Was a pillar shifting?

The kitchen was no cleaner than the rest of the trailer, but mercifully better ventilated. Beyond the kitchen lay an open living room/dining room with faux wood-paneled walls, stained and sagging furniture, a card table laden with empty beer bottles and what certainly looked like an eight ball of coke.

Oh, and cannabis. Of course.

I kept my body sheltered by the hallway as my gaze flicked from one window to the next. Only one offered a view of the lake, and I couldn’t see the gazebo. The patter of rain on the roof was loud enough that I couldn’t hear the voices, either, but I could see the parking lot. I could see both vehicles and the trees beyond.

Everything looked exactly as I had left it, the rain beating down harder than ever and likely discouraging any beer runs to the trailer—at least I hoped so.

Time to work.

I reached automatically for my back pocket—the same pocket where I kept rubber gloves during my tenure as a homicide detective. No gloves were there, of course. Just my new phone. I wrinkled my nose at the prospect of searching the trailer bare-handed, but I’d come this far…and I knew what I was looking for.

Electronics, first. Phones and laptops, anything that might contain text messages or emails. Secondary interests included notepads, receipts, photographs of subjects under surveillance, or to-do lists scratched on the back of receipts. All of those items had helped me bust cases before. It’s truly amazing what evidence slips past the attention of even the most dedicated criminal mastermind, and none of these guys fit that description.

Of course, any communication illegally obtained would be inadmissible in court, but that hardly mattered. Once Linda Kirsch knew where to dig, the rest would be history.

I started with the kitchen drawers and sifted through trash, plastic eating utensils, dirty grilling implements, and the usual utility junk. There were plenty of receipts and even a few notepads, but nothing that interested me.

I cleared the kitchen and moved to the living room, digging past sticky couch cushions and barely noticing the smell any longer. I found boxes of rifle and handgun ammunition in another closet, along with a third long gun—some deer rifle. Coats and hats, more boots.

But no evidence of attempted murder. No phone numbers scrawled alongside names like “bossman” or—better yet—“Bill Ashcroft”.

Patience. It’s not always easy.

One room remained at the far end of the trailer. It was a third bedroom—this one a master bedroom, apparently. There was an attached bathroom and another bay window. I eased the door open and found the room flashing in sudden brilliant blue under the next crack of lightning. The window stood uncovered over a bed—and the bed was occupied. A woman lay flopped out across it, tangled in the blankets, dressed in stained pajamas.

I froze, my heart rate spiking as the fading lightning left the room nearly black. As I remained motionless in the doorway, I thought I heard heavy, rhythmic breathing. It came and went in regular cycles, and as I slipped toward the bed, I detected no change in the pattern.

Slowly, I dipped a hand into my pocket. I found the MacroStream and switched it to its lowest output mode—just fifty lumens—before I withdrew it from my pocket.

Soft blue light played across the filthy carpet, offering enough ambient glow for me to see the bed. I traced the woman’s body and located her head, a tangle of dark hair and a mouth that hung open. She was young—not yet thirty, but her teeth were stained dark and her skin pale. It clung to her bones like a paper wrapping as she breathed in labored heaves.

I squinted, pivoting the light…and then I saw the spoon. Crooked on the nightstand alongside a lighter, a syringe, and a small bag of brown powder.

Heroin. God help you.

Turning from the bed, I began with the nightstand. The drawer contained a handgun and more drugs. There was no second nightstand. I searched a closet full of sour clothes and even more firearms—cheap, abused weapons that looked like they’d filtered through a half dozen pawn shops.

But still, no electronics. No memos of recorded directions or photographs of Piper Haines.

Come on. There’s got to be something.

I cleared the master bathroom and returned to the bedroom, finding the woman right where I’d left her. Outside, the rain had finally slackened, reduced to a steady shower. The thunder was more distant. I looked to the gazebo and found all four men on their feet, with Mullet riding crutches.

I was almost out of time.

The last object in the room was a dresser. Four drawers, covered in dust. I began at the top, shifting through tangled socks and underwear, tank tops and another stack of ammunition boxes. The second drawer was the same, the third was nearly empty.

I kneeled for the fourth, tugging it open to reveal another mound of dirty clothes packed in tight. Shirts and sweatpants. A small blanket, and…something hard?

I pulled the clothes back. I touched smooth metal with a sharp corner. It was a box—no, it was some kind of compact metal container. About the size of a large book, it shifted under my touch. I dug the container out and tried the lid, but it was secured with a built-in key lock.

Another handgun? Unlikely. All the other firearms were stored unsecured. Why lock this one?

The box also felt too heavy to house a handgun—too heavy to be cash. Something rattled inside, shifting and sliding. My mind spun with the possibilities…and then I heard the truck.

A heavy surge of a large motor paired to an aftermarket muffler. Brakes locking, tires sliding on gravel, and a horn blaring. My head snapped backward toward the unconscious woman, but she didn’t so much as twitch. I dropped the box and drew the revolver, moving to the bedroom door and looking out over the living room. Through the nearest window. Into the makeshift gravel drive.

A new vehicle had arrived. Powder blue with a step side bed and a heavy, slamming door. It was a Dodge Power Wagon, and the guy who had attempted to purchase my truck was bailing out. Heedless of the rain, he stuck two fingers between his lips and whistled so loud I winced.

“Wade!” He shouted. “Get up here!”

There was urgency in Power Wagon’s voice that defied basic impatience. It was something approaching emergency status—full alert. I placed my thumb on the revolver’s hammer, but didn’t cock it. I breathed in slow, patient cycles, watching as the newcomer disappeared beyond the window frame.

“Move it! All of you.”

Another impatient demand. A voice I recognized called back—it was the voice from the Delaware Memorial Bridge, the Blazer’s driver.

“Geez, Jesse. Chill. Gimpy here can barely walk.”

Cursing. More boots crunching. I stepped backward into the bedroom and slid along one wall, approaching the window over the bed. Watching as the Blazer driver—Wade, I guessed—approached Power Wagon. Jesse.

“What’s eating you?” Wade snapped. “Meat’s ready to come off the grill.”

“Shut up,” Jesse snapped. “How long have you been here?”

“What?”

“How long?”

“Uh…like, an hour, maybe.”

Jesse cursed. His head was moving on a swivel, searching the trees. He blinked in the rain, and long before he turned back to Wade, I knew what he was going to say.

“You see that Kia when you pulled in?”

“Huh?”

“The Kia,” Jesse snarled. “It’s parked out on the street a couple hundred yards from your mailbox.”

“So?”

“So, I got a call from Pete back at the motel. That Army guy who pulled the quack from the river?”

“Yeah?”

“He’s driving a red Kia.”

27

Iwithdrew from the window even as the impact of Jesse’s detective work finally penetrated Wade’s concrete skull. Jesse shouted to the others, and pounded up the slope. I looked back to the bed, but the woman was still passed out cold. The only place for me to hide was the closet or the bathroom. Both were bad options.

I shrank behind the half-open door, pressing my back to the wall and contemplating what a pitiful defense five shots of .38 Special is against five angry men. The front door exploded open, and I stood perfectly still. It wasn’t Jesse—he was still outside, shouting for Wade to get the guns. My gaze snapped toward the closet full of pawn shop boom sticks and I clenched my teeth.

Take the guns into the living room. Don’t come in here.

But Wade turned for the bedroom door. His feet thumped toward me, and the trailer shuddered, grinding against concrete pillars. The door swung open, and I held my breath as he barreled past.

Wade turned straight for the closet and ripped the door open, ignoring the unconscious woman on the bed. Ripping past clothes and grabbing a pump shotgun, a Ruger 10/22 with a synthetic stock, and a deer rifle with a dented scope. He turned, fumbling with the weapons and fixating on the task at hand. He wasn’t looking at the alcove behind the open door—he might walk right past me. His buddies outside were calling, urging him to hurry with the guns. Engines rumbled to life.

Then Wade saw the open bottom drawer of his dresser and the metal lockbox lying atop a mass of tangled shirts. He stopped cold, the guns held against his chest in an unwieldy tangle. He looked toward the bed, acknowledging the woman for the first time and finding her as unconscious as before.

With his mouth hanging half open, I could actually see the wheels turning behind his eyes. My heart thumped and my finger wrapped around the revolver’s trigger. I mentally begged him to snap out of it. To forget the lockbox and head for his shouting friends.

But he didn’t. His eyes swept right. They passed the door and the alcove.

And then they snapped back.

I kicked the door and exploded away from the wall even as Wade’s gaze widened. I could have shot him right between the eyes—even a thirty-eight promises mortal death at ten feet.

But the shot would be loud, and there were still too many thugs waiting outside. I chose to pile drive Wade instead, lowering my shoulder and slamming into his chest.

The wad of long guns drove the wind from his lungs just as he was starting to shout. He toppled backward, and we both hit the floor—a meaty thud of no less than five hundred pounds. Wade’s head struck the carpet and the trailer shuddered. Someplace beneath us, metal squealed. The trailer rocked six inches to the left. Wade dropped the guns, and I dropped the revolver, going for his throat.

I needed him out cold—before he could scream, before anyone could rush to his rescue. I sank my fingers into his neck and pressed, locking off Wade’s windpipe just in time to stop the next scream.

But not in time to stop the kick. It may have been planned, it may have been lucky. Whatever the case, his foot caught on the base of the bed. Bunched thigh muscles, calibrated to support the weight of his bulging beer gut, thrust. He rolled left, and I couldn’t keep him down. I slammed into the floor, left shoulder biting the carpet. The trailer shuddered and shifted again. I lost my grip on his neck.

Wade jerked free. He attempted a shout, but I hit him first—bare knuckled, right to the nose. Bone crunched and his head smacked the floor a second time. From just above us, the woman moaned, and Wade kicked again, landing a strike to my shin.

“Wade! Let’s go!”

It was Jesse shouting over the grumble of his Power Wagon. Wade attempted a cry in response, but more than backup he wanted vengeance. I could see it in his eyes, bright with fury. He clawed toward me just as I attempted to roll away from his thrashing legs. I landed on the bolt handle of the fallen deer rifle and grunted in pain. The woman’s head lifted off the bed.

“W-Wade?”

Then Wade was on his knees. He was clawing at his sagging gut, reaching for his belt. I saw a knife handle, and I slapped the floor, searching for the fallen revolver. I scrambled backward. Wade stepped forward on his knees, one heavy thump.

Then I felt it—another shift, a shudder. The trailer slid three or four inches toward the lake. I was on my side, instantly frozen. I lifted a hand.

“Wait!”

Wade wasn’t listening. He drew the knife in a flash of gleaming steel, his eyes wild and crazy. Jesse blew the horn on his Power Wagon. Wade roared and slung himself forward, launching three hundred-plus pounds of ballast toward my position at the end of the trailer.

And that did it. Whatever rusty, improvised methods had been used to secure the trailer to the concrete pillars, they had deteriorated beyond use. The pillars themselves were unstable, maybe washed out, or maybe just structurally insufficient to perform their most essential function.

The trailer shifted again, harder this time. I felt us sliding forward. Wade felt it too—finally, and too late. He landed on the floor as I rolled away from his sweeping knife. The woman moaned again.

Then we were off. Crashing free of crumbling pillars, slamming into the ground eight feet below. The shock wave of the collision sent my head smacking against a faux wood-paneled wall. I saw stars and rolled toward the bay windows. Outside, tree limbs scraped, and the trailer bucked over rocks, but it was still sliding. It was headed down the hill, gaining speed, turning sideways and bouncing off a hardwood.

Wade shouted. The woman groaned. Clothes and guns tumbled past me. I scrambled to get my feet under me as the rushing, jolting, bouncing trip intensified. I looked left in time to see the woman roll her head, eyes wide but glassy. Wade snatched at the trailing edge of her blanket, fighting for something to cling to and half pulling her off the bed.

Then, with a thunderous crash, we hit the lake.

28

However fast the trailer was sliding by the time it reached the waterline, it was fast enough to crush aluminum and shatter windows.

A spray of murky brown cascaded across the bed even as shards of glass rained over the carpet. I shielded my head while the woman—finally awake—voiced a disoriented scream. Wade thrashed and inadvertently kicked me in the thigh. I rolled and stuck my hand into six inches of bubbling water.

It was flooding in through the busted window. A tidal wave filled the bedroom, weighing down the end of the trailer and dragging it even further into the water. We were still sliding—slower than before, but enough to amplify the flood. I finally reached my knees and flailed for a firearm.

Wade was still alive. Jesse and his goons, back on the hill, were still alive. I was stuck inside a trailer headed to the bottom of a lake in South Jersey.

How did this crap keep happening?

“Imma kill you!”

It was Wade, and his threat was meaningless. He was tangled in a blanket, the woman flopping out on top of him in all her intoxicated glory. I found the deer rifle and dragged it out of the growing flood. Three feet of water filled the bottom end of the room and more was still surging in. The trailer had finally stopped sliding, but the room would flood entirely before the water leveled off.

I needed to be gone by then—as far as humanly possible from Alloway Lake. Kicking through the mess, I pulled the rifle’s bolt and checked the load. It was a 30-06, an old Winchester that had seen better days. I rammed a round into the chamber and kicked toward the door, glancing back only once to ensure that Wade hadn’t abandoned the woman.

She was still flopped on top of him. He was elevating her head out of the water, thrashing and slipping and glaring daggers at me.

“Imma gut you, boy! Imma gut that pigtail whore with you!”

I swung the rifle, locking the foggy crosshairs on his face. Wade froze, eyes wide and face washing pale. I flicked off the safety and placed a finger on the trigger—but I didn’t pull.

“If I see you again, I’ll kill you,” I said flatly.

I held the gun on him a long beat. He didn’t so much as blink. Then I lowered it. Wade resumed thrashing. I turned for the door and was halfway there when my foot smacked something metallic.

It was the lockbox. I scooped it up just as another windowpane shattered. A fresh torrent of water washed across Wade’s balding head. He howled. I barreled through the door and climbed the trailer’s slanted living room. The water hadn’t reached beyond the bedroom yet, but everything was a mess. Furniture piled against the walls, kitchen cabinets hanging open with dishes strewn everywhere. Outside, Jesse and his gang shouted as they drew near.

I ran right past the open front door and scrambled to the kitchen. I clawed my way up the hall to the front bedroom. I scrambled over the bed, finding the window open just the way I’d left it.

Jesse was headed down the hill. So were the two guys I’d seen with Wade out on the gazebo—I didn’t see Mullet. I let Jesse and his small army pass the front of the trailer, headed for its front door. Then I wriggled through the window, dragging the gun and the lockbox with me.

I hopped off the trailer hitch, boots squishing in a rutted track torn by the trailer on its way down. The concrete block pillars at the top of the hill were busted and toppled. Jesse’s truck ran with the door open, lights blazing. I started at a run, tearing through the ruts even as Jesse shouted behind me.

“Wade! Wade, where are you?”

I was halfway up. My heart hammered. I glanced back, and none of the three guys were visible. They had entered the trailer. I heard their shouts but couldn’t make out their words.

Then I heard another shout from the top of the hill. A desperate cry.

“He’s there! He’s right there!”

It was Mullet. I recognized the voice and my gaze snapped left, beyond the Power Wagon to the hood of the International Scout. Mullet leaned against the truck, wielding a crutch and flailing for a sidearm. One handed, I snapped the Winchester into my shoulder and flicked the safety off. I sighted through that fogged scope at barely thirty yards. I pulled the trigger, shooting for the ground at Mullet’s feet and not really expecting to hit anything other than dirt. I just wanted him to jump—to run for cover.

But Mullet’s luck was as bad as his haircut. The full wrath of the 30-06 smashed into the same ankle I had already busted, tearing through the cast and bringing him down like a falling tree. He bit dirt as a Glock pistol spun out of his hand, a blood-curdling shriek ripping from his throat.

I reached him and scooped up the handgun. I was breathing hard, but the next shots were easy—four pops to the front tires of the Scout and the Blazer, all with the pistol.

From down the hill, the voices of Jesse’s army turned my way. A rifle cracked and a bullet whined over my head. I looked back to find two men drawing aim as Jesse appeared through the trailer’s door.

There was no time to return fire—and no need to return fire. In another moment I had the Power Wagon between myself and them. I dumped the firearms and the lockbox into the truck’s bed and I ran for the open door. One bullet smashed a side-view mirror, and Jesse howled for his men to hold their fire.

Then I was in. I mashed the clutch and snatched the floor shifter into reverse. Tires spun as the door slammed. I cut the wheel and circled behind the Scout. I looked down the hill to see Jesse and his men rushing for me, but they were much, much too late.

Crunching into first, I unleashed a howl of old school Detroit power from the engine bay. Then I was off, barging up the driveway.

Headed for Windale.

29

Ididn’t go back for Piper’s rental car—I didn’t have the time. I wanted to put as much space between myself and Jesse’s murderous thugs as possible.

It was now clear to me that Jesse Vaughn—whoever he was—ran the ground crew responsible for Piper’s attempted murders and my own attempted beat down at The Mucky Watering Hole. I hadn’t actually seen an antique Lincoln parked at Wade’s trailer, but I’d seen plenty of other antiques and I had to assume that whoever was driving that Lincoln hadn’t accidentally swerved at all.

This whole thing was a setup, and all these guys worked for somebody bigger than Jesse. I couldn’t yet prove who that was, but I was going to find him. I was going to ensure that never again did he even think of hurting Piper Haines, or any of the impoverished elders living out on Riverside Lane.

Two miles south of the highway district where Piper waited at our hotel, I pulled the powder blue Power Wagon off the road behind an abandoned service station, tucking it deep amid waist high grass. I liked the truck—it ran as well as mine, with more horsepower and a nasty snarl of exhaust. I might have liked to keep it around for a while, but it was an iconic vehicle, and I didn’t want to hand any corrupt cops the opportunity to lock me up on theft charges.

Better to hoof it the rest of the way, I decided. I could arrange for alternative transportation later.

Wiping my fingerprints off the wheel, driving controls, and the Winchester, I kept only the Glock—which turned out to be a model 23 chambered in .40 S&W. Not my first choice in either brand or caliber, but nine rounds remained in the magazine, and they would all punch hard.

Tucking the weapon into the small of my back, I finally turned to the lockbox. It lay in the Power Wagon’s seat, wet and dirty. Placing it on a concrete slab behind the service station, I fished through the truck’s bed, pushing aside a spare tire and a barbecue grill with no legs. I found a camp ax rusting near the bottom of the bed—more of a hatchet, really.

Three blows, and the lockbox’s cheap latching mechanism collapsed. The lid hinges were bent, but another blow of the ax forced the lid open. The heavy contents shifted and clanked. I rotated the box to look inside…

And found poker chips. A lot of them—maybe four dozen, blue and red and green, not made of cheap plastic but of heavy clay composite. They were casino quality, which tracked, because there was a casino crest stamped and painted into each of their faces, all the same.

The Atlantic Royale — Casino and Resort.

I rotated one chip in my hand, testing its weight and rubbing the face. It was black, a hundred-dollar piece. Many of its brethren were hundred-dollar pieces also, but not all. Several were purple five-hundred-dollar chips, and three were orange thousand-dollar tokens. In total, there had to be six or seven grand worth of casino currency in that box, plus a small amount of regular cash—four hundred and thirteen dollars.

What?

I inspected several of the chips up close, checking for inconsistencies or indicators of counterfeit production. There was nothing. All the chips matched perfectly and felt as legitimate as any poker chips I’d ever handled…not that I have a ton of experience with casinos.

How did a guy like Wade, who lived in a rotten shack of a trailer, have so many high-value casino chips stuffed in his dresser drawer?

Simple question, obvious answer. I took the chips and packed them into my pockets. I folded the cash into my wallet, breathing a momentary sigh of relief to have refreshed my evaporating net worth.

Then I slung the box deep into the tall grass. I left the Power Wagon’s keys in the ignition, and I started north again. Up a two lane to the highway district, walking with a little clink in my pockets from the heavy chips.

Just before I reached the hotel where I’d left Piper, I saw the cruiser. It was one of the Windale Police Department cars, an old school Crown Victoria painted white with simple blue markings. I could tell that the driver saw me, also, and that he was interested in what he saw. It was Officer Lowry, and he tracked my progress up the sidewalk for a hundred yards, but he didn’t move to intercept me. He lifted his radio instead, and that told me everything I needed to know.

I bypassed the hotel. I walked to a twenty-four-hour diner just beyond and I took a booth where I could sit with my back to the wall. I ordered a Coke from the menu along with a cheesesteak sandwich and fries. So close to Philly, I thought it might be pretty good.

I was just enjoying the first long slurp of fizzy deliciousness when the Windale cruiser pulled into the lot.

Then a second one.

And a third.

Four cops got out. They marched in with their hands on their pistols, barging straight across the diner to the great interest of the three other patrons who sat scattered around the room.

I ignored them. I took another long sip of my Coke. Lowry himself stopped at the end of my table, only inches away. He cleared his throat.

“Mr. Sharpe?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t lift my head from the soda straw, either. I simply lifted my gaze, like a kid.

Lowry glared. “Stand up. You’re under arrest.”

30

Ididn’t stand up. I simply swallowed my Coke and looked from Lowry to his pals. Cooper was there. The other two I didn’t recognize. Everyone looked universally disagreeable.

And everyone was holding their sidearms—still holstered, but ready.

“No,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. No, I won’t stand up. And no, I won’t be arrested.”

Teeth clenched—I could hear them—Lowry leaned low, much closer to me than any intelligent law enforcement officer should be.

“You listen to me,” he growled. “You’re gonna get out of that booth and you’re gonna come with me, or we’re gonna make you.”

I sipped more Coke. Then I shook my head.

“No.”

Lowry flushed. He reached for his cuffs.

“You touch me and I’ll break your arms.”

I said it as calmly as though I were reporting the weather. Lowry blinked. One of the other cops unsnapped the retention strap on his holster—something he should have done before exiting his car if he really expected trouble.

“What are you gonna do?” I said. “Shoot me?”

“You’re under arrest for assault,” Lowry said. “For property destruction.”

I knew what he meant, but Alloway Township was a long way from Windale—a long way outside of his jurisdiction.

“I’m responsible for neither assault nor property damage,” I said. “But if you feel so strongly, call the Salem County Sheriff’s department. The incident to which you’re referring to took place within their jurisdiction. I’d be happy to tell them all about it.”

I slurped Coke as one cop eyeballed another—but nobody moved to enforce their threats.

Because they couldn’t.

“That’s my sandwich,” I said, tipping my head toward the incoming waitress. “Do you mind?”

The cops moved awkwardly aside, and I grunted in anticipation.

“Oh, yeah. That looks like a good one. You guys eat here often?”

No answer. I poured ketchup and mopped a fry. It was spectacular.

“I know cops like you,” I said, my voice quiet as I cut the sandwich in half. “You’re like a tool. A hammer, or a leaf blower. You’re bought and paid for, used in whatever way your owner decides. When you’re old and rusty and won’t start on a cold morning…well.”

I looked up from my plate, fixating on Lowry. “You made a bad career move, signing on with whoever you’re working for. He’ll be out of business here shortly, and if you’re not riding a two-inch mattress inside a concrete box someplace in the middle of nowhere…you’ll be holding a cardboard sign on a street corner, begging for your cheesesteak. That’s a guarantee.”

Lowry’s nostrils flared. He leaned low again.

“You have no idea who you’re messing with.”

“I have some idea, and I’d love to meet him.”

Lowry straightened very suddenly, his gaze flicking left and right, as though he’d just remembered how many witnesses were in this room. He hiked up his belt.

“Okay, Mr. Sharpe. Play it your way. Next time they give us a call…maybe we’ll just bring the coroner.”

I said nothing. He lifted his chin, very satisfied with his lame threat. Then he turned and led the cops out. They all got in their cars and pulled away. I watched them go, noting through my peripheral that everyone else was still watching me.

Then I returned for my sandwich and took a big, healthy bite. Because I was famished—and the cheesesteak was amazing.

31

Ipaid with Wade’s cash, taking a moment to shake the cramps out of my muscles as I departed the diner. My clothes were filthy—stained with lake water and a smattering of blood—but I’d mostly dried off since the end of the storm. The sky had cleared, and the sun set in the west. It was warm on my skin.

I felt good and was just turning back for the hotel when my pocket buzzed. I didn’t recognize the number, but the area code was 202—Washington, DC.

“Hello?”

“What are you up to, Mason?”

It was Kirsch—as sweet and smooth as busted concrete.

“Hello to you too, Linda. What makes you think I’m up to anything?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It might have something to do with the billionaire you asked me to run a profile on. A billionaire who, I might add, has been investigated three times for racketeering and twice fingered by the SEC for insider trading.”

“But never prosecuted,” I guessed. “What a miracle.”

“I don’t like your tone of voice,” Kirsch said. “I don’t like the fact that I used a monitored government network to look into this guy, and I especially don’t like the fact that I don’t know where you are or what you’re in the middle of.”

“But you like Elvis, right? Everybody likes Elvis.”

Her teeth ground. I smirked. Maybe I had ingested a little East Coast sarcasm with my cheesesteak, or maybe I was just in a good mood after having told off a squad of corrupt cops.

Whatever the case, I’d endured the bad company of my own rotten mood for weeks. I wasn’t going to turn away a little mental sunshine on Linda Kirsch’s behalf.

“What did you find?” I said.

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because you’re a nice person.”

“I’m not a nice person.”

“No, you’re not. So maybe you’ll tell me because that’s your only chance at learning what I’m up to. And like any good special agent, you’re crazy curious.”

A long pause. I was content to wait. I popped a mint from the diner into my mouth and enjoyed the peppermint rush.

“He’s a real estate mogul,” Kirsch said, at last. “A power broker in Trenton. A major political donor, and a big player in Atlantic City. He owns his own casino, free and clear. That’s where most of his money comes from.”

“The Atlantic Royale?” I said.

“How did you know?”

“Lucky guess.”

Kirsch snorted.

“What was Ashcroft investigated for?” I said.

“He wasn’t. Not really. Some of his companies were investigated, which is sort of the same thing. Like I said, he’s into real estate. He owns property all over New Jersey—two or three office complexes in Newark, apartment buildings in Trenton, a beach resort in Cape May. He bought it all at below market value. Sometimes, way below. The bureau received tips that he might be playing dirty. Strong-arming people, using purchased leverage in Trenton as a shield while he bankrupted competition and seized their assets. Bandit trading.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Before you could prosecute him, your witnesses stopped talking.”

“Or changed their story. Or dropped their charges. A couple even disappeared—we still haven’t found them.”

“And the casino?”

“That’s his crown jewel. A six-hundred-room hotel, a five-thousand-seat auditorium, massive indoor pools and a spa…and, of course, the actual casino. One of the flashiest in AC, they say.”

“He built it?”

“He…acquired it. It’s something the bureau was interested in. Apparently, the casino was inherited by the three children of its founder. They made the mistake of holding the property in a partnership, and one of them was a surgeon.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Ashcroft sued the surgeon, and the good doc couldn’t pay up.”

“Bingo. Ashcroft sued for malpractice on a gallbladder removal. The case was tried in Jersey in front of a Jersey judge and a Jersey jury. Ashcroft won damages in excess of ninety million dollars.”

“For a gallbladder surgery?”

“Yep. And like you said, the surgeon couldn’t pay. His insurance fell short, and Ashcroft targeted his assets. The casino made the list. Before it was over, Ashcroft acquired the property for pennies on the dollar.”

“And I’m guessing that Jersey judge maintains an open casino tab.”

“Maybe. The bureau couldn’t prove anything. But…there’s a pattern of litigation with Ashcroft. He sues a lot. He wins a lot.”

I considered, sucking the mint and watching the traffic drift by. Across the street, a Windale cop car sat at a coffee shop. Cooper watched me, and I suddenly felt the urge to blow him a kiss.

What the heck was in that cheesesteak?

“What about Windale?” I said.

“Win-what?”

“Windale. It’s just across the Delaware River from Wilmington.”

“Never heard of it.”

“No connections with Ashcroft?”

“Not that I recall. Should there be?”

Nope. But there are.

I crunched the mint and turned for the hotel, disregarding Cooper and keeping my kiss.

“This was helpful, Linda. Thanks for the call.”

“Hold up there, bucko. Now it’s your turn.”

“What?”

“What are you up to?”

I paused on the sidewalk, choosing my next words with care. Considering Ashcroft in his ivory tower with billions to spare, and all he could think about was his next target. A helpless community full of helpless people, just struggling to live out their last days in peace.

Ashcroft was a vulture. A predator. The worst of the worst.

I’d seen it before.

“I’m cleaning streets,” I said. “I’m sweeping until they shine.”

Then I hung up, and headed for the hotel.

32

Iknocked three times before Piper opened the hotel door. I hadn’t brought a key, and I was just beginning to worry when a small voice said, “One moment.”

Beyond the door, something heavy shifted. Something else squeaked. I thought I heard Piper grunting. At last, the latch rattled, and the door opened two inches, catching on its chain.

Piper twisted her head, only exposing one pigtail and one eye. She looked both ways down the hall, then back at me. I raised both eyebrows.

“You’re alone?” Her voice was quiet—uncustomarily so.

“Yeah,” I said. “Let me in.”

She shut the door. The chain rattled. Then she opened it again.

I pushed inside and nearly tripped over an ironing board. It was propped against the wall just inside, a heavy armchair filling the foyer beyond it.

“What the heck?” I said. “Did you move all this?”

“I was barricading the door. Hurry, get it shut.”

I pushed the door closed and jumped out of the way as Piper leaned into the armchair. She shoved it against the door, grunting and heaving before she added the ironing board like a wedge. She shook it all, trying the door handle.

She was sweating. She was red-faced.

“What happened?” I said.

Piper wiped her forehead. There was something different about her. All the spunk, the careless disregard for repeated brushes with death, was gone. She looked nervous, shifting on her feet.

She was afraid.

“Piper.” I touched her shoulder. “What happened?”

“They…they came,” she said.

“Who came?”

“People looking for me. They had a hotel key.”

“They came inside?”

“They tried. I had the chain fixed.”

“So what happened?”

Piper picked at her nails.

“Piper…”

“I was in the bathroom!” she said. “I sprayed them in the face with hairspray.”

“Hairspray?”

“It burns really good.” She smiled, just a little. “They jerked back from the door and I got it closed again. I got the ironing board wedged and they couldn’t turn the handle. I called the police and they ran.”

“You called the Windale Police?”

A shrug. “I called nine-one-one.”

“Did anyone come?”

Piper didn’t answer. Her lip trembled. She was fighting back tears.

“They…they’re scary people, Mason. They have all the money, all the power. I’m just one girl! What am I supposed to do?”

She was shaking. I stood awkwardly alongside her, a lump in my throat as she turned watery eyes on me. More than scared, she seemed magnificently discouraged. Defeated, even. It was as though all the violence of the past two days was finally crashing in. I’d seen it before, back in the Army.

All people can break. The strong ones just take longer to do it. It hurt to watch, but even more than that, it made me angry to realize that I’d miscalculated—I’d underestimated just how aggressive my enemies might be. Security cameras and hotel staff notwithstanding, they had made another play at Piper.

This thing, whatever it was, had escalated once more.

“You know,” I said, forcing a smile. “You’re pretty scary yourself.”

She snorted a half laugh, but the smile was genuine. She scrubbed her eyes. “You don’t really think that.”

“I’m not scared. But I’m on your side. I’d hate to be them.”

More wiping. She swallowed.

“They’re getting bolder…”

“They’re afraid,” I said. “You’ve rattled their cage, and I’ve done some rattling myself.”

She looked up, eyebrows raised. “You found something.”

“I’m not sure. Maybe a lead.”

“Something with Ashcroft?”

“Yep. You ever been to Atlantic City?”

Piper licked her lips, looking nervous. “That’s…that’s where he lives…”

“Sometimes you gotta go into the dragon’s den if you want to slay the beast.”

“Won’t that be…”

“Dangerous? Tremendously. The universe may never be the same.”

Piper’s brow furrowed. She shoved me in the arm. I winked.

“Pack your stuff.”

“You have my car?”

I hesitated. “Yeah, about that. We’ll need a replacement.”

“You wrecked it?”

“I had to abandon it. The rental people should send another.”

“I…don’t know about that.”

“So we’ll rent another.”

Piper avoided my gaze. “I…uh…I’m kinda short on money.”

I smiled, producing a poker chip from my pocket. It hummed as I thumped it into the air, orange and white paint flashing. Piper caught it. Her eyes widened at the denomination.

“Don’t sweat it, Piper. The Atlantic Royale has us covered.”

33

I’d never been to Atlantic City.

While in the military, I occasionally visited various small-time casinos scattered across tribal reservations within driving distance of Army bases. Once I even attended a bachelor party in Vegas, which was a weekend that might have enjoyed me more than I enjoyed it.

Gambling just isn’t my thing. I’ve never been good enough at making money to feel comfortable with risking it at a game where the house always wins.

But this time, I wasn’t playing with my money. In fact, I didn’t really have any money. What I had was four hundred bucks in cash, which was just enough to cover the twenty-four-hour rental of a Cadillac CT5 V-Series sedan. Packed with all the premium amenities of a luxury vehicle, what appealed to me more than massaging seats was the 6.2-liter V8 engine jammed under the hood. The CT5 was the lovechild of American muscle and American indulgence, and Piper hated its guts the moment the Wilmington rental company dropped it at the entrance of our hotel.

“Seriously? You couldn’t find a hybrid?”

“I hate the cold, Piper. Global warming is my friend.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Would you rather walk?”

Piper scowled, but she restrained herself from further protest. I wound the Cadillac’s seat back and settled in behind a leather-wrapped steering wheel. The curved digital screen offered a full infotainment system and a set of sport-style gauges. One tap of the accelerator, and the growl of the engine was more than enough to put a smile on my face.

“Ugh. I knew you were one of those people,” Piper covered her face with one hand. I simply shifted into drive, launching us away from the hotel like a missile. Piper squealed, and I cut the wheel hard to the right, sliding onto the street and ripping right past Cooper and his parked car.

Lights flashed behind me and Cooper pretended to give chase, but long before he could exit the coffee shop’s parking lot, we were racing up the on-ramp of the New Jersey Turnpike.

In just a mile, I swung us right onto US Highway 40, east to Atlantic City. I settled into the left lane and set the cruise just over the speed limit to hold myself back. The car was so torquey that it invited abuse, gobbling up asphalt like a road-eating machine. Piper sat pinned in her seat, eyes wide and fingers wrapped around both arm rests, fighting back a smile.

“See?” I said. “It’s kinda fun to be one of those people.”

We settled in for the drive and I mapped out the location of the Atlantic Royale casino on the Cadillac’s infotainment system. We’d need to go there first, to convert some of Wade’s chips into useable cash. After that, I planned to rent another hotel room some place close by—a property where Ashcroft and his goons didn’t have access to internal security cameras. It could serve as an operating base for the duration of our visit to AC, and with armed casino security just a phone call away, it would be a safer place to leave Piper than the roadside chain hotel had been. She could barricade the door and lie low.

Meanwhile, I would return to the Atlantic Royale. I planned to take a seat at a prominent table. Draw the right attention of the right people.

If all went well, I would confront Bill Ashcroft himself by midnight. And unless he wanted his entire business empire to bleed to death on the AC boardwalk, he and I were going to make a deal.

34

We saw the lights first. Glowing in the distance, a mottled pattern of neon reds, yellows, oranges, and blues. High towers glimmered against the backdrop of the Atlantic Ocean while passing billboards advertised all the biggest, most exciting casinos in the city. Premium hotels with premium restaurants. Entertainment venues, concerts, sports exhibitions, and strip clubs.

And yes—gambling. A lot of gambling. Cards or slot machines, take your pick. Most casinos advertised cash credit and complementary rooms for new gamblers, meal vouchers and alcohol provided. Every glamorous photograph, every crafted advertisement dripped with seduction; with promises of thrills and decadence and oh-so much fun.

It was a compelling pitch, but little more than a facade. Long before we reached Atlantic Avenue, the truth of America’s East Coast entertainment capital was revealed. The sparkling casino towers were brighter than ever, but the actual streets of AC were some of the more merciless I’d ever seen in America.

You could feel it in the very air—see it in the busted sidewalks, the sagging and dilapidated storefronts and houses with bars mounted over their windows. On nearly every corner, panhandlers gathered, homeless people sleeping in alleyways or even on the sidewalk. We passed multiple ACPD patrol cars pulled to the side of the street with lights flashing, cops gathered around small knots of contentious drunks and feuding lovers. Trash and smashed glass littered the gutters, and street signs leaned on their posts—more than a few of them decorated with bullet holes.

It was like Las Vegas if Las Vegas had been invaded by armies of rival gangs. As bad as ghetto Atlanta or impoverished New Orleans, as hard as the meanest corners of Phoenix. I didn’t need to be an ex-cop with thousands of hours spent patrolling seedy streets to understand the sickness saturating the surrounding neighborhoods, but the experience certainly added nuance to my observations. The problem was as clear as day, underscored by the bright neon of casino billboards.

It was disparity—crushing, ruthless, unbreakable economic dissonance. A chasm that separated the very poor from the ultra-rich, with all the middle class drowning in the middle. The hallmark of all places marred by corruption and exploitation, a familiar melody that echoed in my ears from deployments to the Middle East and Africa.

Nothing new. Nothing unique. And yet so particularly brutal, at the same time.

I glanced sideways and found Piper gazing wide-eyed at the passing decay. It was an understandable response, but still reflected some naivete. It made me wonder if she’d ever visited a city bigger than Wilmington.

“This is what he wants to do to Windale,” she whispered.

I said nothing, easing the Cadillac to a stop at a red light. A panhandler called to us, but I ignored him. When he raised his voice and began cursing, I eased the Glock from the small of my back and calmly rested it on my thigh.

He saw it. He moved along.

Piper saw it, and she only swallowed.

The main drag in AC was Pacific Avenue. Running north-south only one block off the boardwalk, it featured access to all the major casinos and hotels, bright lights growing brighter as the sun faded.

It was nothing like The Strip in Vegas—this was more subdued, and not even half as wide. Many of the hotels featured parking decks on the inland side of the road, with walkways connecting them to the main casinos. Valets bustled in and out, and the GPS displayed another mile to the Atlantic Royale—a ten-minute drive.

I eased the Cadillac beneath the portico of a name brand resort and sat for a moment surveying the other cars, the incoming guests, the bellmen and valets. All the hotel service staff wore ties, vests, and slacks. Most of their patrons wore…pretty much anything. Flip-flops and shorts, T-shirts or button downs with Hawaiian prints. The overall vibe reminded me more of Panama City than Vegas. It wasn’t relaxed so much as…budget?

“Here’s the plan,” I said. Piper still hadn’t spoken—she was still staring wide-eyed. “You go inside and wait in the lobby. I’ll be back in half an hour with cash for a room.”

“You’re…you’re leaving?”

I leaned across her seat, pointing through the glimmering glass of the hotel’s main entrance toward a security desk situated in one corner. Two men stood behind it, both bulky with hardened muscles. Both sporting full-sized pistols and spare magazines.

And neither of them was smiling.

“You see those guys?”

“Yeah…”

“Casino security. You sit in the lobby where they can see you. If anybody approaches, scream like the planet is burning.”

Piper blinked. Squinted. Then shot me a glare.

“You’re really impossible, you know that?”

I winked and ran my window down. The valet shot me a smile faker than that of a wax mannequin.

“Good evening, sir. Will you be checking in?”

“Take the lady inside,” I said, passing him a twenty. “I’ll be back in a few.”

He accepted the bill without further comment. Piper got out, and I watched until she was safely inside. Then I growled out of the portico. I drove the final mile to the Atlantic Royale and found a twenty-story tower not more than half the size of the chain resort I’d left Piper at, but just as bright. The portico spread like half of a pie, flaring toward the sky with neon lights tracing its edges. The same valets were there, the same patrons in T-shirts and flip-flops.

Just not as many of them.

I left the engine running, flatly ignored the valet, and marched right to the rotating front entrance. Beyond heavy plate glass, a sprawling lobby greeted me, paved in crimson carpet with ornate columns supporting a high ceiling. There was a fountain with a Greek figurine spraying water from her hand—a curving bar that ran a hundred feet or more from the hotel desk and around the corner. Waitresses in skimpy cocktail dresses, balancing trays of liquor. The entrance to a restaurant to my left, a host in a full three-piece suit checking in diners dressed like beach vacationers.

The air smelled of injected perfumes and too many bodies, a blend of relaxing music melding with voices and a distant chime that any American should recognize.

Slot machines. Dozens of them. The noise came from my right, opposite the restaurant, deeper into the belly of the tower. More neon lights, another grand entrance framed by columns and an arching, faux diamond studded sign.

Lady Luck Awaits…

I surveyed the lobby, differentiating hotel staff from guests and noting at least one armed security guard. Then I turned for the casino and approached the exchange cage where cashiers sold chips—and bought them.

“Good evening, sir. What denominations can I get for you?”

A presumptive question—everything about this place was calibrated for profit.

“Cashing out,” I said, producing Wade’s chips from my pockets. The cashier took them without comment and scanned each one of them under an infrared light, checking for an invisible mark to confirm their legitimacy.

I hadn’t expected the security measure, but it made sense, and all the chips checked out. They were genuine Atlantic Royale currency—held in bulk by a man who had attempted to murder Piper Haines.

Wasn’t that interesting?

I took my payout in large bills, folding them into my wallet and heading for the Cadillac. On my way out, I made eye contact with the security guard, and I held his gaze, neither smiling nor nodding.

He squinted, and I exited. I got into the Cadillac and returned to the chain resort. I had the valets there hold the car. I booked a suite on an upper-level floor and paid in cash. The resort wanted a hefty security deposit—I didn’t object.

Then I led Piper to the elevator, my mind already spinning with what I’d seen at the Royale. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but something about the tone of the place felt…wrong. Vaguely off, like a song just out of key. It could have been my predisposed bias against the owner, or perhaps a learned distaste for crowded, noisy environments.

But I didn’t think so. It felt deeper than that—it felt more like my investigative instinct, whispering to me.

“You ever stay in a hotel like this?” I said, noting that Piper was picking at her nails as we approached our room.

She shook her head. I slid the key and the door lock buzzed. I pushed the door open, and invited Piper into a whole new world.

A wide sitting room with ornate couches and a minibar half as long as the Cadillac. Plush carpet and heavy curtains framing a window that overlooked the boardwalk and the churning Atlantic Ocean far below. Doorways leading to separate bedrooms, a dining table and the entrance to a bathroom that I could already see contained a soaker tub.

Chocolates on the pillows and room service menus stacked on a table. A gentle fragrance of wildflowers, and a notecard already displayed on the counter with my name printed in calligraphy.

Welcome, Mr. Sharpe.

Piper turned wide eyes on me, her open mouth stretching into a smile. I simply nodded. While she scurried to the room service menus I cleared each room, checking every closet and inside the shower…just in case.

Satisfied, I returned to find Piper executing a happy dance, babbling about the quality of the vegan menu. I lifted a hand until she calmed.

“I’ll be back soon. Keep the door locked and don’t open for anyone. You can watch TV but keep the volume down. We’ll order food when I get back. Okay?”

She stood frozen a split second. Then, before I knew what was happening, she dropped the menu and wrapped her good arm around my body. She pulled me into a makeshift bear hug, squeezing until I grunted.

“Be careful, Mason.”

I patted her on the head and winked. She headed for the couch, and I headed for the door. As soon as it closed behind me, my smile had faded.

I tucked the key into my pocket…and turned for the lion’s den.

35

It was dark by the time I returned to the Atlantic Royale, and that unsettled feeling returned. But I was no longer convinced that it had much to do with the Royale itself, so much as Atlantic City at large. There was something wrong about the entire place, and it was deeper than my distaste for the grotesque excess of the town.

Beneath the flashing lights and faux gold, faux diamond, faux silk facade that hung over it all, it was like cancer ate away at the very bones of this town. Like it was all a lie, hanging on by the thinnest of threads.

Like Atlantic City itself was a house of cards, one breath away from collapsing.

I returned to the exchange cage and bought two hundred dollars in twenty-dollar chips. Then I waded onto the casino floor, passing bank after bank of flashing slot machines with rolling dials and chiming speakers. None of them featured the levers of yesteryear, now replaced by simple plastic buttons that patrons pushed over and over while they sat on benches, feeding in quarters and gazing glassy-eyed at the display.

Beyond the slots came two steps, leading down a level. Roulette wheels clicked and craps dice bounced. Dealers smiled ear to ear when they pronounced winners, their faces dropping when the house won and they scooped chips into their own stacks. Voices cheered and moaned in disappointment—more of the second than the first. Small crowds gathered around gamblers on hot streaks, while others sat alone at blackjack tables dully tapping two fingers while they slurped from an endless supply of free booze, slowly fading into blackness.

It was like the edge of purgatory. An endless mire of half-awake, half-alive people plugged into a machine that slowly sucked their blood away. Even the smiles felt fake, the laughs forced. As I took a seat at a blackjack table and stacked my twenty-dollar chips, I couldn’t help but notice the dark circles hanging beneath the dealer’s eyes, her clothes not quite fitting, the traces of needle scars exposed on her wrists.

She looked beyond tired, no more alive than her customers.

“Good evening, sir. This is a fifty-dollar table—is that okay?”

I didn’t answer—I simply placed a hundred dollars’ worth of chips on the betting circle. The dealer squinted—surprised, maybe. Her hazy eyes flicked toward me. I rolled my hands palm up, as if to say: Well?

She dealt. Two cards for me, a nine and a seven. Two for herself, a queen and a face-down question mark. I tapped the table—she dealt me another card.

Four of spades.

I tapped again. She paused, shooting me that confused look. I raised my eyebrows. Slowly, she reached for the deck. One more card.

Six of diamonds. Bust.

“Aw, too bad,” she said.

“You cheated.” I said it as monotone as a teacher calling roll.

She blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re dealing seconds.”

“Sir?”

“You’re dealing the second card from the shoe—you dropped the first under the table. I want to see your manager.”

“Sir, I didn’t⁠—”

“Manager. Please.”

My tone was still flat, but there was no negotiation in it. She flushed, the confusion turning to indignation. Gathering the cards to the middle of the table, she lifted a hand to signal across the room. Thirty seconds later, a tall guy dressed in a three-piece suit with a polka dot bowtie approached.

“Good evening, sir. Is there a problem?”

“You’re the floor manager?”

“That is correct. How can I⁠—”

“Where’s the casino manager?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I want to see your casino manager.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

“You want to lose your job?”

“What?”

“Casino manager, now. Or I’ll burn this place down.”

Something flashed across his eyes—genuine concern, or maybe just anger. He marched off, snapping code words into a lapel mic. I turned to the dealer, who remained frozen behind the table, still dazed.

“Anything to drink around here?” I asked.

The floor manager returned in two minutes, accompanied by three men. By the look of the middle one—expensive black suit, gleaming shoes, and an Atlantic Royale lapel pin—he was the casino manager. The other two were most definitely plain-clothed security. They had that bouncer look to them, bulging muscles all juiced with steroids, and not a lot happening between the ears.

“Sir, I understand you wanted to see me?”

“You’re the casino manager?”

“That’s right. What seems to be the problem?”

I rocked back a gold tequila on the rocks. It was premium stuff—no burn as it slid down, as smooth as Mexican honey.

I shook my head. “No problem.”

“Sir?”

I reached for my pocket. Both swollen security guards tensed, but I only drew my wallet. The Arizona driver’s license housed inside had been issued five years prior, but Arizona licenses last for an astounding twelve years. The ID was good. I passed it to the casino manager, and he squinted.

Then stiffened.

“I’m here from Windale,” I said. “I want to see Bill Ashcroft.”

36

Ipassed my remaining hundred bucks worth of chips to the dealer as I stood, shooting her a wink. She looked as confused as ever, as did the floor manager and the security guards.

The casino manager, however, got the memo. His gaze hardened, and he retained my driver’s license.

“Come with me,” he growled.

I was escorted across the floor, beyond banks of slot machines and through a metal door into a bland tile hallway. The casino manager waved the floor manager off, but the swollen security guards stood at my elbows, neither speaking.

“Wait here,” the casino manager said, his voice cold. I pocketed my hands and watched as both juice boxes tensed.

I smirked. “You guys like yoga?”

No answer. The casino manager was gone for only a minute—long enough to make a phone call, I thought. Bill Ashcroft might not be in town…but he had to be somewhere, and why not his crown jewel casino?

When the manager returned, I knew I was right. He pocketed a phone and stared at me for a long moment. He checked my ID again, then tilted his head.

“Search him.”

I expected the precaution, but the aggression of their next move still took me by surprise. Both guards propelled me against the wall, shoved my legs apart with thrusts of their boots, and conducted a full pat down that crossed well beyond the threshold of violation. They took my wallet, my phone, my flashlight and my Victorinox Swiss Army knife—I’d left the captured Glock in the Cadillac. All items were surrendered to the manager, who took his time with the oversized Victorinox, opening the stainless-steel blade and squinting.

“Per New Jersey law, Mr. Sharpe, blades such as this cannot be carried in places where they are not ‘manifestly appropriate’. Do you find this knife appropriate in a casino?”

I didn’t answer. He kept the knife and tilted his head once more. His guards grabbed my elbows and frog-marched me down the hall like a prisoner of war.

It didn’t seem like manifestly appropriate treatment, but I kept my complaints to myself. Thus far, I was getting everything I wanted.

We reached an elevator, and golden doors rolled open to reveal an ornate car. Eighteen floors were accessible by a menu of buttons, but the top two required keycard authorization. The manager swiped his, and selected floor nineteen—the executive office, I guessed. Likely located just beneath a penthouse suite where Ashcroft lived, suffering from the discomforts of a gallbladder surgery gone wrong.

How tragic.

I was right about the nineteenth floor. A sprawling lobby featured a fountain, leather couches and an espresso bar, along with a litany of abstract art that probably cost more than my career earnings in the US Army…and still looked like paint sloshed on canvas to me.

The manager led me to a tall mahogany door, pausing as he put his hand on the knob. He turned, and something icy entered his gaze.

“It’s a long drop to the sidewalk,” he said.

“So noted.” I feigned a yawn, and he bristled. The latch clicked. He walked ahead, the two guards walking just behind me. We entered not an office but a hallway—low lights and more paint-sloshed art. Cameras mounted near the ceiling, glaring down at me.

Then a final door. More mahogany. I smelled salt air tainted by tobacco smoke and blinked in unexpected dimness. The next room sprawled to either side—floor-to-ceiling windows lining it, looking out over the Atlantic Ocean. There was a huge desk and a pair of couches. A chess table set with five-inch pieces, and a bar stocked with unlabeled decanters full of rich brown liquor. A few more art pieces. A twelve-foot fish tank housing an actual shark—no, two sharks. Each about eighteen inches long, banded brown and gray.

And weapons—swords hung on the walls, an antique revolver displayed in a shadow box, and a leaver action rifle encased in glass atop the minibar. The whole place was the perfect cliché of a mob boss’s headquarters, like something ripped out of a comic book or an old movie. Polished and overtly orchestrated, there was nothing authentic about it. Nothing genuine.

It was bizarre and brazen. Too much money and no true style, but what drew my eye wasn’t the sharks or the weapons or the art. It was the open glass door that led to a balcony overlooking the boardwalk far below, and the man who stood there puffing a Churchill cigar.

He had his back to me, but even in the dim light, I noted graying black hair and a rich black business suit that glistened in the city lights. Smoke clouded around his head, hanging on the windless night. He didn’t turn.

“Wait here,” the manager said.

I kept my hands in my pockets. The manager stepped onto the balcony. The man with the cigar lifted it to his lips and drew a long pull. He breathed out slowly, then reached his hand over the railing and flicked the cigar into the dark. It vanished with a flash of orange, and then he finally turned. He adjusted his suit and entered the office, leather-soled shoes clapping on the floor, head held high as he crossed the threshold.

And when he saw me, his mouth stretched into a broad smile.

“Mr. Sharpe! What a pleasure to meet you. Won’t you sit down? I’ll get you a brandy.”

37

The guards were dismissed, and I was ushered to a couch, but the casino manager remained. Ashcroft himself—I recognized him from a photo I’d found in an online business journal—stepped to the minibar and poured two tumblers with something honey-colored, humming to himself as he did it.

He was middle-aged, and in excellent shape. With styled hair and practiced calm, his persona fit the context of his office hand-in-glove.

He looked like a mob boss. Like a billionaire casino owner who employed third-rate thugs from trailers across the state to force his will upon the weak and helpless. Maybe I was assuming too much, but I didn’t think so. I ignored the proffered drink as Ashcroft extended it, and his plastered smile stretched a little further.

“They warned me you were a stiff one. No doubt the Army taught you that.”

Ashcroft withdrew the drink, but didn’t retreat. If he was waiting for a reaction at his mention of my military heritage, he wouldn’t get one. It was no great secret.

“You know,” Ashcroft said, circling to the opposing couch. “We may not be as genteel as the folks down in Carolina, or Georgia, or Arkansas…but we still have manners in New Jersey. Did the Army beat those out of you, also?”

He sat cross-legged and sipped from his glass. He was still watching me, perhaps again hoping for a reaction. Truth be told, I was a little surprised that he knew about Carolina and Georgia. Not so much about Arkansas—that little adventure generated headlines. Maybe he just guessed about the others.

“I’m not here on a social call, Mr. Ashcroft.”

“Ah,” Ashcroft lifted a finger. “Bill, please. I’m not much on formality.”

“Just pretense.” I pointedly scanned the room, settling on the broadswords crossed over a gas fireplace. “You know, Bill, per New Jersey law blades like that are illegal if not ‘manifestly appropriate’. Although, I guess the office of a cheap criminal is about as appropriate a place for a dull broadsword as any.”

Ashcroft’s smile finally faded. He sat with the drink resting on his knee, his casino manager somewhere out of sight behind me. After a long stare, Ashcroft said, “Just why exactly are you here, Mr. Sharpe?”

“You know perfectly well why I’m here.”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Then let me refresh your memory: Piper Haines.”

Ashcroft didn’t so much as flinch. He tapped the side of his glass, taking his time. Sipping more brandy. Then he looked over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows.

“I don’t know the name, sir.” The manager answered the question without asking for clarification. Ashcroft looked back to me and shrugged as if to say: There you have it.

“You know her,” I said. “You hired Jesse Vaughn and his crew of bumpkin thugs to knock her out. They tried twice—once by shoving her off the Delaware Memorial Bridge, and once by blowing up her house. Piper has a remarkable ability to survive, and…” I leaned forward, “she has acquired a very short-tempered friend.”

Ashcroft’s demeanor hardened. I saw it in his eyes—just a flicker come and gone—but the venom was there.

He cocked his head. “Jesse Vaughn?”

“Windale, Bill. I’m talking about Windale. About the land you’ve been gobbling up to build a casino. I’m talking about Riverside Lane.”

Another pause, and this time I thought he was considering. Maybe debating.

Then the manufactured smile returned, and Ashcroft snapped his fingers.

“The Preservation Society! Isn’t that what they call it? That girl with the pigtails.”

“Piper Haines,” I said.

“Is that her name? I honestly forgot.”

“So you don’t deny knowing her?”

“I may have met her once. At a city hall meeting in Windale. She came to…well. Protest, she said. It was honestly more of a social disturbance. I think the police had to escort her out, but I could be mistaken. I’m a busy man, Mr. Sharpe. I have a lot to keep up with.”

“One casino to run…another to build,” I said.

“And who told you that? This Piper Haines?”

“Is it true?”

Another long pause. More clicking of his fingernail against his glass. It was really annoying. I imagined that tumbler shattering against his Botoxed forehead.

It was a satisfying picture.

Finally, Ashcroft set his glass down and leaned forward. He interlaced his fingers.

“Look, Mason. May I call you Mason?”

“You can call me whatever you want. Just tell me the truth.”

“Your truth or mine?”

“Is there a difference?”

“There’s always a difference. We live in a relative world. Take Piper, for example. Her truth is a vision of propping up a decaying society on the grounds of sentimental devotion. Noble, perhaps. But logical? Reasonable? I’ve been in real estate for…wow. I’d rather not say. And you know, business is a lot like politics. Whatever deal you want to strike, there’s always somebody there to defy progress.”

“So you acknowledge the casino build.”

“New Jersey law prohibits casinos outside of Atlantic City.”

I grunted, thinking of the trash-strewn sidewalks outside. The aging buildings, the bar-covered windows. The homeless people and the sparsely populated casino floor. I’d sat down alone at the blackjack table.

What did that say?

“I don’t care why you’re buying the land,” I said. “I only care that you’re bullying people to do it. You tried to have Piper killed. Twice.”

“So she claims.”

“Is she wrong?”

“Of course she’s wrong.”

“Is that your truth?”

Another smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Ashcroft twiddled his thumbs for a long moment, then he suddenly stood.

“Come with me.”

I didn’t move. Ashcroft stopped at the end of his couch. He cocked an eyebrow.

“I could have had you thrown out of my casino by your ears, Mr. Sharpe. I chose to indulge you. Now it’s my turn.”

I considered, then I stood. The gentle footfalls of the casino manager trailed me across the office. We turned a corner into a windowless anteroom occupied by a lengthy conference table. The room was dark, but at the flip of a switch, bright lights dispensed illumination over the table…and the model it held.

It was a sort of a diorama. Like something a fifth grader might construct for school, only much more detailed and precise. Six feet long and as wide as the table, it featured trees, roads, power lines, and a wide blue stretch of rippled water that I immediately identified as a river, despite the lack of an opposing bank. There was a current.

All of that was context. The real subject of the model rose from a low bluff on the banks of that river. Towering as tall as the Atlantic Royale, sparkling with tiny plastic windows, gold trim, and a sign that gleamed with real LED lights, the hotel was joined by a complex of shorter buildings. A restaurant, an arena. A circling driveway with a giant fountain and a rolling golf course beyond. A sprawling parking lot.

A huge development.

“The Windale Royale.” Ashcroft swept his hand like a game show host presenting a sparkling new car. “A five-hundred-sixty-room luxury hotel featuring a rooftop pool, an eighteen-hole golf course, a five-thousand-seat state-of-the-art arena, two four-star restaurants, and an entertainment suite to rival Vegas. Mr. Sharpe…you’re looking at my magnum opus.”

I stood with my hands in my pockets, regarding the flashing neon sign and the lines of crystal windows. The pie-shaped arena. The undulating golf course.

Maybe I’m just architecturally illiterate, or maybe I just prefer open countryside. Whatever the case, I wasn’t impressed. I wasn’t looking at anything new. I was just looking at more of the same, regurgitated with fresh paint.

“What happened to casinos being illegal outside of Atlantic City?” I challenged.

Ashcroft wagged a finger. “Ah, ah. Entertainment venue. That’s what this is.”

“So, no gambling?” I shot him a look that said I didn’t buy a word of it.

“Well. No on-site gambling. We may offer comfortable lounges where guests can engage in internet games of a…” he rocked his head. “Speculative nature.”

“Gambling.”

I shook my head—disgusted, but not with Ashcroft. I was disgusted with myself. With whatever business partners and banks and bureaucrats who had signed on to this brazen scheme. With the whole nasty, sordid system that enabled it.

Nobody ever learns.

“Why are you showing me this?” I said.

It was the only valid question. Ashcroft had no need to reveal confidential business designs to a total stranger. I wasn’t an investor—I wasn’t a bureaucrat whose stamp of approval he required.

There was something else here.

Ashcroft traced the top of the hotel model with one finger, wiping off a minuscule layer of dust. He smiled, admiring his project like a parent watching a child scrawl her ABCs.

Proud and contented. He looked at me.

“Are you not a gambling man, Mason?”

“I’m not a fool.”

A grunt. Ashcroft didn’t seem offended.

“No, Mr. Sharpe. I can see that you’re not. So let’s talk about what you are. A soldier—an American hero. A patrol officer with the Phoenix police department, and then a decorated homicide detective.”

“Once upon a time,” I said.

“The job title changes, but the man endures. The soldier that fought wars, the cop that fought crime…that’s a pragmatic man. A man who believes in achieving the objective.”

Ashcroft pointed to the model.

“You see a hotel. A couple of restaurants. An arena. But what you should see are eleven-hundred high-paying jobs. Half a billion in local economic impact. Increased tax revenue for the county to build better roads, fire departments, schools, parks. Better medical care, better quality of life. Increased life expectancy. It’s a snowball effect—the Royale is just the tip of the iceberg.”

Ashcroft’s voice escalated in excitement as he spoke. I remained motionless, picturing none of the things he mentioned because I couldn’t get past the image of Riverside Lane. Of all those impoverished people who needed help now…and weren’t getting it, despite the mailboxes and fresh sidewalks running all across town.

Because Ashcroft was a liar. This had nothing to do with people.

“What about Riverside Lane?”

Ashcroft sighed. “I thought you might ask. I’m offering premium compensation for every acre. Three- and four-times actual market value.”

“Uh-huh. And what if it’s not about the money? What if they just won’t move?”

A long pause. I saw that flicker in his eyes again. That momentary flash of ice, come and gone.

“I didn’t have to bring you here,” Ashcroft said. “I didn’t have to indulge a moment of your aggression. We’re having this conversation because, despite whatever you’ve come to believe, I’m not a monster. I’m just a businessman trying to build value for his customers…just a guy trying to make a deal.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You brought me here to make a deal?”

“I’m willing to recognize the value you could provide,” Ashcroft said. “Miss Haines, I admit, has been a challenge. She’s got the people on Riverside Lane ignoring common sense. I’ve worked to bring them around, thus far unsuccessfully. But perhaps with the aid of somebody Miss Haines trusts…negotiations could resume.”

Ashcroft’s smile returned, matched with a transparent good ol’ boy affectation. I looked him in the eye and I could hardly stomach it. It was so cheap that I wanted to upend the model right off the table. Smash it on the floor.

But I didn’t. I took a step around the table instead, my voice low.

“You know what I think, Bill? I think you couldn’t care less about the people of Windale. I’d be surprised if you’d ever set foot on Riverside Lane, and you certainly don’t know the name of a single person who lives there. You’re not interested in making deals with Piper Haines any more than you’re interested in paying me off—you just need the wheels in motion, and you’ll grease anything to make it happen. Because—” I stopped a yard short of Ashcroft, lowering my voice, “You’re nothing more, nothing less, and nothing but a blood-sucking parasite.”

I finished, and the ice overcame Ashcroft. His body stiffened, his nostrils flared. The hatred boiling behind his gaze was as all-consuming as a raging wildfire.

And it told me everything I needed to know.

“You should leave,” Ashcroft said.

I smiled—just a little. I nodded.

“I think I will. But I’ll be back.”

38

The casino manager and his two muscled thugs escorted me to the rear exit of the Royale, where they tossed my personal effects to the concrete and advised me to never return—or else.

I waited until they left to recover my wallet, driver’s license, truck keys, MacroStream, and Victorinox. Last of all was my phone, which had busted on the concrete. Cracks ran through the cheap screen, but the device still functioned. It displayed a new text message from Kirsch that read:

Call me.

I tried to call her as I routed the Cadillac onto Pacific Avenue, but the call went to voicemail. I dumped the device into the console while I swept the sidewalks around me for any sign of trailing gangsters—or country bumpkin thugs—and, for the moment, saw none.

That didn’t mean they weren’t there. If I was right at all about Ashcroft, this war had only begun.

Check on Piper.

It was the next logical step. I returned to the resort where I’d left her and took the elevator to our suite, mind spinning as I calculated the chess match ahead of me. The obvious, logical answer was the same as it had been from the start—to give up, give in, and get out.

Let Ashcroft have his gaudy development and counsel the folks on Riverside Lane to take the cash. They were going to lose anyway, eventually. With all the money and political power on his side, Ashcroft wouldn’t be stopped. It was better to survive and start again someplace else.

Only, that’s not how America was supposed to work. It wasn’t supposed to be a game of deep pockets versus shallow ones, the politically connected versus the politically neglected. And be it Jersey or Phoenix or Afghanistan…I really hate bullies.

I scanned my keycard and the hotel lock buzzed. Inside, the laughter of a sitcom track greeted me, joined by the complex scents of half a dozen different foods. I turned the corner to find Piper sitting cross-legged on the couch, a room service tray resting on the coffee table with multiple plates strewn around, many of them only half consumed. There was a milkshake glass. Tacos with alfalfa sprouts bristling from their tops. A soup that steamed.

“Mason!” Piper said, catching my eye. “Check it out! It’s all delicious!”

Her positive energy collided like a battering ram with the bad mood Ashcroft had left me in, but maybe that’s what I needed. I paused, half-tempted to lecture her for breaking my rules and opening the room door…also inclined to just let it go.

Before I could decide, my busted phone buzzed, and I checked the screen to find Kirsch’s number.

“Mute that,” I said, gesturing to the TV.

Piper obliged, crawling from the couch. She had changed into banana yellow pajamas decorated with a sixties-style flower print. It hurt just to look at.

“What did you find?” Piper said. “Did you meet Ashcroft?”

I didn’t answer, fighting with the cracked screen to answer the call. When I did, Kirsch’s voice came through as a garble. I switched the phone to speaker mode.

“Linda, it’s Mason. Can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear.”

Kirsch sounded as monotone as ever as Piper scurried in. She leaned close with eyes wide, craning to see the caller ID. It was just a number. I gently pushed her back and lifted a finger to my lips.

“You texted?” I said.

“Yeah. I got an update on that guy Ashcroft—and his development plans.”

“Let me guess. A twenty-story entertainment venue with a golf course and a couple of restaurants? Windale Royale.”

Piper flushed at the name. I held up a finger, keeping her silent.

“Sounds like you’ve been digging, too,” Kirsch said.

“You could say that. I just got kicked out of his office.”

A snort. “In that case, you’ll already know what I’m about to tell you, but since you’ve dragged me into the middle of this quagmire, I’m going to say it, anyway. Cut bait. Whatever your beef with this guy, let it go. It isn’t worth it and you won’t win.”

Piper looked ready to explode. I lifted my finger again, glaring.

“He’s strong-arming locals,” I said. “There’s a patch of land occupied by a bunch of retirees. They won’t sell. He’s going to push them out.”

Kirsch grunted. “Doesn’t surprise me.”

“He’s done this before?”

“If he has, there won’t be any evidence. I called the field office in Jersey. Turns out your guy Ashcroft has quite a reputation in the Garden State.”

“A criminal reputation?”

“More of a power player’s reputation. A king maker, even. He’s plugged into every political and social circle from Newark to Cape May, and it seems like they all owe him favors.”

“That’s what the Jersey field office said?”

“That’s all they would say. I got the impression even they were careful with him. Like I mentioned before, Ashcroft is a litigious fellow. He rarely loses a lawsuit.”

“That’s because he owns the judges,” Piper snarled.

“Who’s that?” Kirsch said.

I sighed. “This is Piper. She’s…a friend.”

Long pause. I decided to resume control.

“Look, Kirsch. This guy is a problem. I believe he’s attempted murder, and he’ll attempt it again to lock down this Windale deal. He’s planning an internet gaming lounge at the resort—offsite gambling, essentially, but I’m sure he hopes to grow it from there. He’ll flatten anything and anybody to make it happen. He already tried to bribe me.”

“Bribe you?” Piper’s eyes grew wide. I waved her off.

“I need something I can stick him with,” I continued. “Everyone has a vulnerability.”

“I’m sure he’s no exception,” Kirsch said. “Unfortunately, your friend is likely right. He could own judges. Somebody to shield him from legal entanglements. And don’t forget, he’s a billionaire. You’re a bum.”

“Gee, thanks for the reminder.” I didn’t hold back the irritation in my voice. Before I could stop her, Piper lunged into the conversation.

“Ms. Special Agent? It’s Piper. I’m the girl Ashcroft tried to kill. Look, there’s got to be some way to nail this guy. You’re with the FBI, right? Can’t you launch an investigation?”

Another snort. “Seems I already have. But to answer your question, no. There’s nothing official I can do without evidence of a federal crime.”

A federal crime.

The words rang like a bell in my mind.

“But if he did commit a federal crime that could be investigated outside of Jersey,” I said.

A pause. “In theory.”

“So there’s our opportunity. We pin him for something beyond state jurisdiction. That circumvents his legal shield altogether.”

Piper grinned. Kirsch was less enthusiastic.

“Maybe you missed the part where I said he was a billionaire. Do you have any earthly idea what that word means? How many lawyers he has on retainer? This isn’t like busting a coke dealer, Mason. Guys like this don’t make mistakes, and if they do, they’re so complex and concealed you’d never find them.”

I heard Kirsch—I understood what she was saying, and I knew she was probably correct. Intellectually, it all added up.

But this wasn’t an intellectual matter. I wasn’t thinking so much as remembering—all those lonely old people out on Riverside Lane. Forgotten, neglected. Each with a story to tell and so much life they had lived, now dismissed and disregarded.

And about to be flattened. About to be rammed straight into the river, just like Piper.

“I hear you,” I said. “That’s my problem. I just need a vulnerability, Kirsch. Some loose thread to tug at. You’re a good investigator—I know you found something.”

A long pause. I waited, letting the silence do the work. When Piper opened her mouth, I shook my head.

There was no use in pushing Linda Kirsch. She wasn’t easily manipulated. Either she would help, or she wouldn’t, and she needed to be allowed to make that decision herself. I would only add the smallest bit of motivation.

“I’m asking, Linda.”

A muttered curse. A car’s gear shifter clunked into park and Kirsch sighed like she hadn’t slept in days.

“There was…one thing. It probably doesn’t matter. But it stuck out.”

“Yes?”

“Remember that Ashcroft is litigious.”

“You said he sued a doctor to steal his casino.”

“Right. Well, there was this other lawsuit I found. Something one of the Jersey agents mentioned. Ashcroft Enterprises versus Carfano Holdings. A local Atlantic City dispute.”

“Who’s Carfano?”

Yet another snort. “I guess you’ve never been a cop on the East Coast.”

I was growing impatient, but there was no value in showing it. “I’m from Phoenix, Linda.”

“Right. Well, Carfano is a…business organization. A family of business organizations, actually, run by a family.”

“A mafia?”

“Kinda. Not like the old days. The Carfanos are much tamer than the old school Sicilian types. They have to be. We keep them on a tight leash.” A little smug pride entered her voice.

“So what’s the deal with Ashcroft and Carfano? They had a business dispute?”

“It seems so. Julius Carfano lives in the Atlantic City area and wanted to open a strip club across the street from Ashcroft’s casino. Big, gaudy place. The kind that attracts a big, gaudy crowd.”

“Not Ashcroft’s crowd,” I ventured.

“No, not at all. And rumor has it that Ashcroft wasn’t happy about the development. He filed a petition for an injunction against Carfano on environmental grounds.”

“On what?”

Kirsch sighed. “Look, I don’t know. Something about sea turtles or some crap. Some endangered species found on the strip club’s proposed build site.”

“Planted by Ashcroft!” Piper said, jabbing a finger.

“So what happened?” I said.

“What do you think happened? It was a mess. Carfano pulled out of his deal. The lot was sold for pennies on the dollar, and after it was determined that endangered sea turtles were not threatened by construction…a parking garage was built. By Ashcroft Enterprises.”

“He bought the lot?” I said.

“Seems so.”

“Conniving fiend!” Piper squawked. I glared. She covered her mouth and mumbled an apology.

“Faking an environmental hazard has to be a federal crime,” I said.

“I’m sure it is, but you’ll never prove it. If Ashcroft was smart enough to set that up, he was smart enough to cover it up. The Carfano thing only caught my eye because the Carfanos are such a household name here at the bureau. I thought maybe Ashcroft might be in bed with them…but it seems the opposite. Just another petty lawsuit.”

I considered, narrowing my eyes. Turning Kirsch’s narrative over in my mind, and picturing it from a different angle. Not the perspective of a federal agent like Kirsch, but a rogue third party…like myself.

“You said this guy Julius Carfano lives in the area?”

“Not in the city, no. Somewhere nearby—Linwood, I think. Why?”

“Can you get his address?”

Another pause. “What are you thinking, Mason?”

“I’m thinking the enemy of my enemy is my friend—and nobody understands dirt like another criminal.”

39

Ashcroft had deployed troops.

I noted the jet-black Chrysler sedan parked across the street from our hotel room, not moving, just idling. Nobody got out of the car, and although it was illegally parked, two police cruisers passed it without so much as slowing.

Why should they? The car was familiar. The boss’s check was good.

I lowered the curtain and glanced once to the note in my hand, a Linwood address scribbled across it. A quick application of my phone’s GPS app produced directions. Julius Carfano’s residence was just twenty minutes southwest of the city, parked on the mainland in an elite neighborhood. Getting there wouldn’t be a problem. Gaining an audience with a gangster was a bridge I would cross when I reached it.

But what about Piper? If I left her behind, I couldn’t be certain that Ashcroft’s goons wouldn’t make a play. It would be nuts of them to try with armed security on sight, but after pushing Ashcroft’s buttons I didn’t like the idea of leaving Piper unattended.

Then again, did I really want to take her to the home of a known crime boss?

Piper was already gathering her things. She loved the Carfano angle and was running wild with hopeful theories about what anti-Ashcroft evidence he might hold, babbling endlessly as she crammed clothes into a suitcase, still wearing her flower power pajamas.

She intended to come along, and that fact presented a third and final challenge—telling her otherwise would trigger an argument I didn’t feel like dealing with.

In the end, I took the path of least resistance. I used the hotel phone to dial the valet stand and asked them to bring the Cadillac three blocks south of the resort to the entrance of a restaurant I found on a hotel flier.

“Uh…we’re not really supposed to do that, sir.”

“For a hundred bucks?”

No answer.

“Two hundred.”

That was the magic number.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll see you at the restaurant.”

I hung up. I glanced over my shoulder.

“You’re…not going to change?”

Piper glanced down the length of her banana-yellow outfit. She frowned.

“Why? It’s nighttime.”

Sure, and you stick out like a flashing neon light.

I almost told to her change—then I remembered that this was Atlantic City, and everyone stuck out like a flashing neon light. Maybe flamboyance would serve as camouflage.

Just let her wear it.

I motioned for the door, and Piper trailed her suitcase. I breathed deep as we entered the hall. Whatever came next, I had an eerie feeling that it wouldn’t be nearly so simple as either of us hoped.

We lost Ashcroft’s goons with ease. They were monitoring the front of the resort, and we left via a side exit, taking a back street behind a dinner show theater before circling back to Pacific Avenue. A hundred yards from the restaurant, I saw the Cadillac waiting, exhaust bubbling from its quad tailpipes, a nervous valet checking his watch. I sped up, Piper’s puffy pink night slippers squishing on the sidewalk just behind me as she huffed to keep up.

“Mr. Sharpe?” the valet called.

“Yep.”

He shot a confused look at Piper, then shook his head as though to erase the whole situation from his mind.

“Keys in the cupholder, sir.”

I passed him two Benjamins, and we both climbed in. I glanced into the mirror to find the valet jogging toward his post. I didn’t see the black Chrysler. For the moment, I didn’t see any suspicious cars at all.

Roll.

The beefy V8 howled. Piper connected her phone to the Cadillac’s infotainment system and displayed the route. It was a direct path, leading us inland along the Atlantic City Expressway. Traffic faded within moments of departing the main drag, and darkness closed around us.

Linwood itself was a humble enough place, at first. Small suburban homes, shopping strips, and a handful of churches. But as we neared our target address, the homes and the lots they occupied both grew larger. The shopping strips and churches faded. Occasional Porsches, Maseratis, and Range Rovers occupied the driveways. The streets wound as they approached the meadowlands and marshes near Skull Bay. Subtle driveway lights replaced the pole-mounted streetlights as the electric service went underground. More and more houses featured gates.

This was big money. Most of these people were probably investment bankers or business owners, elite lawyers or mega successful plastic surgeons.

But at least one of them was an alleged crime boss. As we closed on Julius Carfano’s house, I couldn’t help but marvel at how quickly I had resorted to consorting with the dregs of society to take down Bill Ashcroft—a man who I technically had no personal beef with.

One glance to my right to find Piper staring open-mouthed and wide-eyed at the passing homes, and any second-guessing vanished from my mind. I thought of her growing up parentless on Riverside Lane, the permanent guest of elders with shallow pockets. Scrounging to make ends meet. Walking when the car broke down. Yet finding happiness. Finding a life that was truly her own, a life worth fighting for.

And I drove on.

We reached Carfano’s house only to find that it wasn’t a house at all—it was a full-blown mansion. Parked at the end of its short street with its back facing the marshes, it was only two stories high but sprawled at least a hundred feet wide, with a drive that passed through an iron gate before disappearing behind a ten-foot block wall. The style of the home was stucco with a Spanish roof. I couldn’t see much beneath the second level because of the wall that surrounded it, and also because of the palm trees—actual palm trees—that jutted like statues, their leafy green tops swaying in the breeze.

They were the first palms I’d seen since leaving Florida. Standing in sharp contrast to the wind-swept red cedars that surrounded the property, isolating it from distant neighbors, the palms were clearly imported, or else…fake?

I squinted, then remembered that it didn’t matter. I looked once to Piper, again hesitating over her security. Tempted to second-guess myself.

She snapped me out of it. “Let’s go!”

I eased onto the driveway, noting the cameras. I stopped at a security panel where a keypad joined a call button and a speaker.

I mashed the button, and a red light blinked. I waited.

Then a scream—an unearthly, inhuman scream—ripped through the speaker. So loud and so sudden I flinched, only recognizing it as the howl of a big cat a moment before an East Coast voice took over.

“Who are you?”

The question was as cold as the cat’s scream. I looked dead into the empty black eye of the nearest camera.

“My name is Sharpe,” I said. “I’m here to see Mr. Carfano. I want to talk about Bill Ashcroft…and endangered sea turtles.”

40

The red light turned dark and nothing but the rumble of the Cadillac joined the rush of the sea breeze. I smelled salt, wet earth, and a distant barbecue grill. It reminded me of the barbecue igniter at Piper’s house, and my hand tightened around the wheel.

I glanced into the mirror. There was nobody behind us—the main Linwood thoroughfare lay blocks behind. We sat at a dead end—a trap, really.

But I already knew I was walking into a lion’s den. I just didn’t expect to hear a lion roaring at me when I pushed the call button.

At last, the red light blinked again. The voice returned, no more friendly than before.

“Who did you say you were?”

“Mason Sharpe.”

“You work for Bill Ashcroft?”

I snorted, deciding to add a little theater of my own. It couldn’t hurt.

“Quite the opposite.”

A break. Piper leaned forward, and I pressed her back into her seat. I wasn’t sure if the cameras could see her yet, and I didn’t want them to.

“What do you want?” the voice said.

“I want to see Mr. Carfano.”

“Why?”

“That’s for his ears only.”

One final pause. Then, with an electric buzz, the gates ahead of us swung inward. The voice on the speaker said simply, “front door”, and I rolled ahead. Red flags fluttered in my mind as I cruised past the wall and added power to climb the drive.

The palms might be fake, but they were convincing fakes. Ornate rock gardens spilled out beneath them, a bubbling fountain cascading down a stone waterfall before landing in an ornate pool. The house itself was even bigger than it looked from the street. L-shaped, with a two-car garage and a Maserati Lavante sitting cocked at the base of wide brick steps. A flickering porch light. Windows that arched and were framed by stucco.

And additional cameras concealed beneath the eaves, their lenses reflecting the Cadillac’s headlights as I turned alongside the Maserati and cut the engine. Piper reached for the door, but I touched her arm, shaking my head.

“Wait.”

She turned wide eyes out the window, looking right past the sports car to the massive house beyond. I noted the wonder in her face, the vague longing…

And I understood. I’d been an orphan myself. The siren of financial security, however deceitful it might be, is difficult to ignore.

“Lean back,” I said.

Piper complied as the house’s front door opened. A big guy stepped out—dressed in black jeans, black boots, and a black T-shirt. He openly carried a sidearm, his bald head reflecting the flickering porch lights as he marched toward us.

He was not smiling.

“Whatever happens, you do exactly what I tell you, and say nothing. Okay?”

I glanced sideways. Piper was now fixated on the incoming muscle mass. She nodded once just as the bald guy reached my window.

“Down.” It was the voice from the gate speaker. I complied with his order.

“What do you want?”

“I told you. I want to see Mr. Carfano. It’s about Bill Ashcroft.”

“What about Ashcroft?” His tone remained semi-disinterested.

“Actually, I’d like to take him out.”

That statement earned a dark sparkle in his eyes. He considered, bending to look beneath the Cadillac’s roofline.

“Who’s the kid?”

“Hey!” Piper broke in. “I’m twenty-two⁠—”

I snapped my fingers, already regretting my decision to bring her.

“She’s with me,” I said.

The big guy spit. He eyeballed me a moment longer.

Then he walked away without comment, entering the house and shutting the door. Piper drew a breath, and I shook my head. She closed her mouth and waited.

He was gone for two minutes—I counted the time by the Cadillac’s clock. Then the door opened and the big guy appeared, drawing a chunky finger across his throat. I killed the Cadillac’s engine, and he tilted his head.

“Not a word,” I reiterated.

“I’m not a kid,” Piper said, but she kept her voice low. We got out of the car, and I lingered behind the open door, thinking of the Glock 23 I’d stowed in the console. I’d need more than one round to neutralize a guy this bulky, even with forty caliber.

Then again, shooting anyone inside their own house with an illegally carried weapon was likely to earn me a direct ticket to prison, and this guy was almost certain to pat me down anyway.

“Behind me,” I said. Then I shut the door and started up the steps. The big guy watched us coming, sweeping me head to toe. Then he simply stepped aside and gestured through the open front door. We entered a foyer paved in marble, high walls hung with oil paintings, much like Ashcroft’s office, but at least these paintings depicted recognizable landscapes. Beaches, mostly. There was a coat rack hung with jackets. A table laden with flowers.

And mounted to the wall directly above that table was an AK-47—plated with gold and fit with a polished redwood stock and hand guard. Like something straight out of an eighties gangster movie.

The door shut, and without a word, the big guy propelled me against the nearest wall. He kicked my feet apart and began patting me down, finding nothing save my wallet, Victorinox, MacroStream, and busted cell phone.

Relaxed with my palms pressed against drywall, I glanced left as he produced my wallet and dug out the Arizona driver’s license, flipping it over, squinting at the picture, his jaw working as he chewed the side of his tongue.

At last, he looked at me. Shoved the ID back into the slot and put the wallet into his pocket. The other items he left on the table beneath the golden AK. Then he turned for Piper.

“She’s clean,” I said.

He snorted and reached for her shoulder. My hand closed around his forearm before he could reach her, fingers digging in, bringing him to an instant halt.

“I said she’s clean. You touch her, and you won’t be.”

His dark eyes snapped toward me. Teeth flashed, and for a moment I thought I might have to make good on my promise. Then a blood-curdling scream ripped through the house, sudden and menacing. It was the same sound I’d heard before, from the call box at the gate, but much louder. Only yards away.

A big cat—a big, wild cat.

“Well?” a voice shouted. “Where are they?”

The big guy yanked his arm free. One shove against my spine sent me stumbling up the hallway. Piper muttered another “Hey!” as she was similarly propelled.

We crossed past wood-paneled walls hung with more paintings. There was a parlor, and a curving staircase leading to the second level.

Then a step down. Bright light washed from overhead, high windows revealing a multi-level pool deck. Leather couches filled the middle of a sunken living room, a massive TV mounted above a fireplace, two more steps leading up to a kitchen and a wide dining room. The rug on the floor was stitched with jungle print.

I reached the edge of the sunken section, stumbling as the big guy shoved again, but grinding to an immediate halt.

Because seated on one of those couches, sprawled back like a Roman emperor with a gut the size of a refrigerator spilled across his lap, short and swollen arms protruding like the arms of a balloon figure, was one of the biggest guys I’d ever seen.

Wrapped in a skin-tight tank top that allowed grotesque amounts of chest and arm hair to billow out, he was kicked back with an extra-large pizza box resting open next to him and a giant glass of wine in one hand. He smiled at us as we entered, veneered teeth slick with marinara sauce, forehead gleaming with sweat, hair thick with grease.

It was shocking, disgusting. But he wasn’t the reason I had ground to a sudden halt.

The reason was the tiger—a massive, muscled white Bengal, his head low and his lips curled. Headed right toward us.

41

Ididn’t move—I barely breathed. The tiger was halfway across the sunken living room, a low growl emanating from his throat as he neared. The fat guy hadn’t stopped smiling and hadn’t spoken. The bald guy behind us stood motionless, and Piper was still as a statue.

Everybody was watching the tiger, his lithe body rippling with contained muscle as he took the two steps out of the sunken living room with a single leap, landing between Piper and me, and stopping.

His neck stretched. Giant nostrils flared, milky blue eyes widening. He was sniffing us…but he wasn’t looking at either of us. He stared right at the wall, unblinking.

He was blind.

I inhaled a slow breath, gaze switching toward the fat guy, and glaring. He chuckled soundlessly, his gut giggling, marinara-smeared cheeks jigging with it.

Then the tiger moved. His head swept toward me. His lips lifted higher, revealing massive flesh-ripping fangs. He took a half step forward.

I sensed more than knew what came next, and braced myself.

Don’t flinch.

The tiger howled, that blood-curdling shriek ripping through the house as he lunged toward me, teeth snapping. He didn’t quite reach me—those bone-crushing jaws fell just short, teeth snapping like a gunshot. But between the sudden shriek and the apparent attack, it was all I could do not to tumble backwards.

The only thing that kept me still was the knowledge that a fat, juicy dinner rested on a couch only yards away, and the tiger had ignored it. There was no way he actually wanted my smelly hide.

The jaws closed, the howl died into a snarl, and then the tiger turned as abruptly as he came, dropping back into the living room. He reached the couch where the fat guy lounged, and leapt onto it like an overgrown house cat, flopping out. He purred—not quite like a house cat, this was more of a low growl—and the fat guy laughed. It was a high pitched, whiny sound. His gut shook, and he at last wiped his lips.

“Wow! Not so much as a blink. You’re one cold-blooded customer, aren’t you?”

The shrill voice carried a strong New York accent. I stood motionless, glaring at him with Piper breathing in short little gasps next to me.

“Julius Carfano?” I said.

The big guy fished a giant slice of New York-style pizza from the box and took a big, juicy bite. He smacked as he chewed, squinty little eyes rolling from me to Piper, then to his bald security guard. His eyebrows lifted.

“ID says Mason Sharpe,” the guy said. “Phoenix.”

“Arizona?” the squeaky voice asked.

No, genius. Croatia.

I thought it, I didn’t say it. The big guy licked his lips, then turned back to me.

“You’re a long way from home, Mr. Sharpe. What brings you to Jersey?”

Bad luck in spades.

It was another thought that I kept to myself.

“I’m just passing through.”

A snort. “Not quickly enough to satisfy Billy Ashcroft, I take it.”

I said nothing.

The fat guy finished his slice, wiped his mouth, and belched. It was a long, rumbling sound. The tiger yawned and the fat guy scratched him between the ears, streaking marinara sauce on white fur. The tiger made that awkward purring sound again.

“I call him Tony,” the guy said. “Like Tony Montana?” Another high-pitched laugh. “He’s blind, you know.”

“I know,” I said.

“Deaf, too. A real hard case. But he can smell good. I guess he liked the smell of you…otherwise you’d be dead!”

I didn’t believe it, but I didn’t comment. The fat guy kept scratching his oversized pet.

“What do you want?” he said at last.

“You’re Julius Carfano?”

A grunt. “I am.”

“It’s my understanding that Bill Ashcroft torpedoed your strip club build. He rigged an EPA claim, then stole the land.”

Carfano didn’t immediately answer, but his gaze turned a shade colder. He reached a fat finger behind his lip and pried out a chunk of pizza crust, inspecting it before sucking it from his fingertip.

“What of it?”

“It seems we have a mutual enemy,” I said.

A short, shrill laugh. “Bill Ashcroft is your enemy?”

“He’s trying to kill me.”

Piper interjected, and I gritted my teeth. I shot her a sideways look, but it was useless. She was fixated on Carfano and his panting tiger.

“Kill you?” Another snort. “Why would he wanna do that?”

“Because he’s trying to build another casino in Windale where I live, and I’m gonna stop him.”

She said it with all the gusto of a prosecutor promising to lock up a serial killer, and I exhaled a mental sigh. Carfano eyeballed her a moment, his head rocked back and eyebrows arched as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

Then the laugh resumed. Not a chuckle this time, but a single prolonged “Heeeeeeeee” played like a depressed key on a pipe organ. He grabbed Tony by the ear and shook the tiger’s head. The big cat made a snorting sound, jerking his ear free and shaking his head.

“You know what?” Carfano nearly shouted. “I believe you mean it, little lady. I bet big bad Billy Ashcroft is shaking in his boots right now. Probably just holed up in the Royale snorting lines of blow, screaming at his hitmen.”

The chuckling resumed. I glanced sideways and noted Piper’s face turning dark. Her fists clinched, and I reached to calm her.

Before I could do anything, Carfano abruptly stopped chuckling. He shoved the pizza box aside and rolled forward, grunted. Dropping both feet to the floor, he swept his beady gaze from Piper to me.

Then he said, “What do you want? What do you really want?”

Piper drew a breath, but I spoke first.

“We want to take out Ashcroft,” I said. “I’ve got a partner in the FBI who can launch a federal investigation outside the realm of his corrupt New Jersey judges, but to do that, we need some kind of lead. We’re here because we thought you could help.”

Carfano looked at the bald guy, arching his eyebrows again. Then back at me.

“You serious?”

“Do I sound like I’m joking?”

He grunted, tapping one fat finger across an even fatter knee.

“You know who I am?”

“Julius Carfano, feline fanatic.”

The joke failed to produce a laugh. Carfano licked his marinara teeth.

“I think you should leave,” he said. “I’m not in the business of helping the FBI.”

“This isn’t about helping the FBI. It’s about eliminating competition.”

“And you think I have trouble with competition?”

“I think you missed out on a big-time strip club. Who knows what opportunities may arise if Bill Ashcroft were out of the picture?”

A snort. “So what? You’re a business consultant?”

“I’m just a guy who hates bullies. Ashcroft made my list through no fault of my own. Now I’m trying to clear that list. It’s an easy opportunity for you—all you gotta do is give me a lead. Then you sit back and maybe nothing happens. Or maybe something does, and you collect the windfall. Small risk, big reward.”

“Unless Bill Ashcroft learns that I ratted on him. What then?”

I shrugged. “Let Tony off his leash.”

Carfano considered. He cocked his head. Then he grunted.

“Sit down. Both of you.”

We complied, circling the couch opposite Carfano and taking our seats. It was leather, coated in big cat hair and scratch marks, but not uncomfortable. Between us sat a coffee table laden with empty beer cans. With one sweep of his arm, Carfano shoved them aside. They cascaded to the jungle rug, and he scooted forward on the couch.

“I tell you what I’m gonna do, Mr. Sharpe. It’s true, there’s no love lost between Julius Carfano and Billy Ashcroft. But you know, there’s a way of doing business in this town. Call it a gentleman’s code. We can pull tricks and pull strings and it’s all fun and games. But the moment you break that code—well. Then it gets bloody, and that’s not good for business. You understand me?”

I remained quiet.

“So I’m gonna give you a piece of advice. You let Frankie there fix you a nice drink for the road, and you and little Miss Pigtails call it a day. If Ashcroft doesn’t want you in Jersey, then you just go ahead and leave Jersey. It ain’t worth it.”

Piper was tensing next to me. I spoke before she could.

“What if that’s not an option?”

Carfano considered. He cocked his head.

“You sure you wanna travel that road?”

“I’m already on it.”

“Yeah, but you sure you wanna keep walking?”

Long pause. There was something in his voice that chilled my blood. A dry warning.

But what was a warning from a man like Carfano? I hadn’t driven to his house because I could trust him. I’d called my own shots so far—I might as well keep going.

“Dead sure,” I said.

Carfano grunted. He reached to the arm of his couch and mashed a concealed button. The arm popped up, exposing a console with a built-in LED light. He produced a deck of cards and deftly ran his thumb across one end. The cards clicked like a machine gun. Carfano smiled.

“You play cards, Mr. Sharpe?”

“Sometimes.”

“You ever play War? Like, as a kid? It’s that game where we cut the deck and each toss out a card. High card wins—real easy game.”

“Okay.”

Carfano’s smile widened. He shuffled the deck on the coffee table, leaning way out over his gut and huffing a little. After six cycles, he collected the deck, cut it twice, and split it.

Half for me. Half for him. All cards face-down.

He smiled again.

“It’s simple,” he said. “You win, and I’ll help you. You lose, and I’ll kick you back to the wolves.”

I glanced sideways, noting that Frankie the bodyguard had circled the couch and now stood only a yard away from Piper. His jacket hung open. I could see a Beretta 96 pistol holstered on his hip.

I looked at Carfano. “Okay…”

Carfano lifted a finger, uttering an “ah!” as though he’d just forgotten something.

“Something else…” He reached into the console again, and this time he produced a polished snubby revolver, not unlike the Taurus Model 85 I’d captured at The Mucky Watering Hole. He snapped the cylinder open and dispensed four of the five cartridges.

The fifth remained in place. He spun the cylinder, then closed it and placed the weapon on the table. His wide, greasy smile resumed.

“There’s a catch.”

42

The revolver hit the table, and my body tensed. I started to stand, but Frankie was quicker. He drew the Beretta and thumb cocked the exposed hammer, shooting me a smirk. The weapon leveled over Piper’s head, his finger already curled around the trigger.

“Uh-uh,” Frankie said.

I turned back to Carfano. “What is this?”

“It’s war!” He grinned. “House rules. We draw and play. You win three rounds, and I’ll tell you what you want to know. For every hand you lose…you play another game.”

He gestured to the revolver.

“Are you insane?” I said.

Another high-pitched chuckle. “We’re all insane, Mr. Sharpe. Some of us just live in denial. What are you gonna do?”

I looked at Piper. For once, she seemed uninterested in comment. Wide-eyed, she stared at me, the muzzle of the Beretta hovering only inches from her head. I thought she might cry.

And that pissed me off.

“You wanna play?” I said, turning back to Carfano. “Let’s play.”

His grin widened. He put one finger on the top of his deck, I put one finger on mine. He nodded. We both flipped.

Jack for him.

King for me.

“Gah!” Carfano smacked his leg. I slid my king to one side.

“That’s one for me.”

He licked his lips. Put his finger back on the deck. I breathed, noting that my heart rate had accelerated. My gaze kept drifting to the revolver. It lay sideways on the table, its muzzle pointed toward the fireplace. I couldn’t see the open end of the cylinder—I couldn’t tell where the bullet lay.

“Flip,” Carfano said.

We dealt, and my heart rate spiked again.

Eight for him.

Six for me.

“Hah!” A wild light gleamed in Carfano’s eyes. He placed a sweaty hand on the revolver and pushed it toward me.

“Spin and shoot, Mr. Sharpe.”

I didn’t reach for the revolver. Frankie cleared his throat and I glanced sideways. He had extended the Beretta—its muzzle brushed Piper’s temple, and a large tear rolled down her cheek. She was breathing in shallow gasps.

I should have never brought her here.

I gritted my teeth. “You think this is funny?”

The question was addressed to Carfano. He stared without blinking.

“Spin and fire…or Frankie fires.”

Slowly, I reached for the gun. It was old school, solid blued steel, hefty in my hand. I pressed the cylinder release and exposed the butt of a brass round, an unfired primer gleaming beneath the overhead lights.

I spun. The cylinder glided silently—not ticking the way they do in the movies, but only snapping as I pressed it back into the frame. I wrapped my finger around the trigger and breathed again.

One in five. A twenty percent chance. Eighty percent chance of survival. Insanity.

But I lifted the gun. I placed the muzzle against my temple. I looked Carfano dead in the eye and didn’t blink as I pulled the trigger.

Click.

The hammer fell. The gun didn’t fire. I swallowed before I could stop myself. Carfano unleashed another one note, unbroken laugh.

“Heeeeeee! Again, again.”

He thumbed the deck. So did I.

Four for him. Another six for me.

Carfano cursed, and I slid the six to join my king. The revolver rested on my knee as I reached once more.

Just one more high card.

Flip—I saw my queen first, and my chest loosened.

Then I saw his ace.

Carfano shrieked and clapped his hands. He was nearly salivating as I lifted the revolved. Spun the cylinder. My mouth went dry as I fingered the trigger.

“Mason, don’t,” Piper whispered.

I ignored her, conscious of Frankie still holding the Beretta to her head. I lifted the Smith. I breathed out once and pulled the trigger.

Click.

“Ha!” Another shout from Carfano. He was already reaching for the deck, and so did I. My blood churned hot. I was more than stressed. I was angry.

And I was beginning to wonder.

Flip. Ten for him, three for me.

My gut tightened, but this time I didn’t hesitate. Up, over, and a pull of the trigger.

Another click.

Carfano’s smile faded. I gritted my teeth. I placed a finger on the deck, and so did he. One more flip.

Five for me.

Two for him.

His smile vanished. I pushed my five next to my six and my king.

Then I turned the revolver on him. I wrapped a finger around the trigger. Carfano’s face turned hard—but I saw no fear.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

Five in a row. No blast. I thumbed the cylinder and expended the cartridge—only it wasn’t a cartridge at all. It was a snap cap, a dummy round used for training. I pitched it onto the table, and Carfano smirked.

“You’re a maniac,” I said.

“Did you think I was a gentleman?”

“I thought you were a psychopath. I’m beginning to think I was right.”

Carfano settled into his couch with a grunt. He interlaced his fingers across his gut, and I turned to Frankie.

“Point that thing somewhere else.”

He did, lowering the Beretta. Piper was still crying. I confronted Carfano once more.

“Okay. I played your game and I won. Pay up.”

He squinted. For a moment, I thought he might tell Frankie to shoot us both. Seconds dragged by and nobody moved, nobody spoke. Piper had stopped breathing.

Then Carfano chuckled once more—this time with a short, dry sound.

“You got some stones, Mr. Sharpe. I’ll give you that.”

I said nothing. He cocked his head.

“What do you wanna know?”

43

Julius Carfano said something to Frankie in another language—I thought it might be Italian, but perhaps I was stereotyping. Whatever the case, the bodyguard holstered his pistol, shot me a wink, and headed for the kitchen.

Relaxed on his couch with the revolver still resting on the table, Carfano seemed totally at ease after his five-minute ride on the crazy train—almost as though the ride had done him some good. He was cracked, no doubt about it. He also looked like he might get bored.

But he’d invited discussion, and I wouldn’t hesitate to respond.

“Ashcroft can’t be prosecuted on the state level,” I said. “His local influence is too strong. We need him pinned on the federal level—we need something the FBI could investigate.”

“And you think I know something,” Carfano said, fighting back a yawn.

“You’re his rival,” I said. “You work in…a similar industry.”

A smirk from Carfano, but no comment.

“He’s trying to steamroll my hometown,” Piper interjected. “He’s buying off cops and the city council. He’s gonna bulldoze my entire neighborhood—it’s full of helpless old people!”

Carfano’s eyes clouded over as Piper spoke, and I put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing once. For a change, she got the message.

“All we need is a lead,” I said. “We’ll take it from there. You can sit back and watch.”

Carfano glancing over his shoulder as Frankie returned from the kitchen. He raised sweaty eyebrows.

Frankie muttered: “Cinque minuti.”

I squinted. Carfano turned back to me.

“Let’s say you’re right. Let’s say I want Ashcroft taken out, and I know something. Why would I tell you?”

“Because letting me do the dirty work gives you plausible deniability. It gives you a chance for you to throw a rock and hide your hands.”

Carfano scratched one cheek. He seemed to be thinking at a snail’s pace.

At last, another grunt. “All right. I guess I can appreciate that.”

“So you have something?” It was Piper again, jumping head first.

Carfano shrugged. He glanced over my shoulder toward the wall, and my gut tightened. I couldn’t say why, but I was starting to get a bad feeling.

“Of course I couldn’t be called to testify,” Carfano said. “But yeah, maybe I know something. Billy Ashcroft’s been a Jersey player for years. Big connections up in Trenton, partners in the City.”

“What city?” Piper again.

“New York City, kid. The only city that matters. All the mischief that happens around here—all over Jersey, and Pennsylvania —it’s all NYC. Always has been, always will be.”

“So what’s Ashcroft up to in New York?” It was my turn to interject. I wanted to corral this conversation toward an objective.

“Prostitutes, obviously,” Carfano said, rolling his hand and picking at his nails. Bored again.

“Prostitutes?” I said.

Another snorted laugh. “What, you think AC is a family town? Kid, all the best hookers are in the City. Not the street walkers, nah. I’m talking about the real talents—the thousand-dollar-an-hour types. They don’t stay in AC because there ain’t enough reliable work, right? But the high rollers who visit Ashcroft’s casino…they like amenities.”

Carfano smirked again. I got the picture.

“You’re telling me he imports prostitutes?” Piper said.

“Human trafficking,” I said. “A federal crime—assuming the women are forced.”

“Does anyone come to Jersey of their own free will?” Carfano laughed. “I wouldn’t be here if I could help it!”

I considered, picturing an operation that imported sex workers from New York to AC. A pimping operation, essentially. A logistical spiderweb, just like moving drugs or guns, but easier because woman can travel on airplanes.

Except…there was still a problem. Carfano had called these women “thousand-dollar-an-hour types”. I’d encountered that level of ultra-premium prostitution before, while working as a cop in Phoenix.

It’s rarer than the street operations so common across America, and also more difficult to bust, because the women involved are less likely to be coerced and more likely to be voluntary criminal professionals. Highly paid ones, at that. Instead of pimps, they had booking agents. Nobody was forcing them to go anywhere.

So what Carfano described wasn’t necessarily human trafficking. It was objectionable, certainly. Illegal, but maybe not federally so.

“You’re sure this happens?” I said.

Carfano grinned. Marinara still stained his teeth.

“Let’s just say I enjoy amenities myself, now and again.”

It was all I could do not to puke. I refocused on the subject at hand.

“The feds won’t prosecute voluntary prostitution. They’ll pass that off to the state, and then we’re back where we started. This must be human trafficking.”

“So investigate!” Carfano said, turning sultry. “Geez, you said I wouldn’t have to fool with this. I told you what I know. You figure it out.”

I narrowed my eyes. The bad feeling was reaching a climax. Carfano glanced over my shoulder once more, and this time I followed his gaze. Up the steps out of the sunken living room, back to the hallway, the wall…and a decorative clock.

Cinque minuti.

I remembered what Frankie said, those two words. I still didn’t recognize the first, but the second suddenly made sense.

Minuti. Minute. Frankie had communicated a time.

I was already rising off the couch when the first siren whined from down the street. As soon as I rose Frankie was drawing his Beretta and grinning. One police siren became two, then three. They grew louder, and I turned cold eyes on Carfano.

“You lied,” I said.

Carfano shrugged. “What can I say, kid? I get bored quick, and some of these local cops owe me favors. Actually, speaking of favors, turns out I owe Billy Ashcroft one. You see, that strip club build was a bad deal. I got in deep with a lame partner and it was gonna cost me a fortune. Ashcroft offered to torpedo the deal and give me an exit if I would sell him the land real cheap. I figured, heck, why not make a new friend?”

My blood boiled. The cars outside ground to a halt, and feet pounded. Carfano was still grinning as Frankie holstered his gun.

He didn’t need it. He was already headed to the door to let the cops in.

“I don’t know about human trafficking,” Carfano continued. “But I do have one little piece of advice for you. It comes from Frankie, actually. He learned firsthand.”

Carfano leaned forward, his greasy lips spreading into a grin. “Don’t drop the soap.”

The cops spilled inside. Guns drawn, they had Piper and me pressed against the wall with our hands wrenched behind us in mere seconds. Piper was shouting, fighting. Proclaiming her rights.

I was relaxed, submitting to the manhandling, the handcuffs, and the groundless claims of breaking and entering.

I looked over my shoulder, but Carfano had already forgotten me. With a fresh slice of pizza and some TV show rolling, he scratched Tony between the ears, and the New Jersey cops dragged us out.

44

Piper and I were hauled to separate patrol cars. She shouted my name and cursed the cops, but I remained calm. I let them throw me into the back of a Charger, landing with a thud, the door slamming.

Breathing evenly, I looked past the abandoned Cadillac to the front door, where Frankie stood smoking a cigarette, not-so-subtly passing one cop a roll of cash.

So it’s like that.

Minutes later, the deputies returned to the Charger. One recited my rights while another examined my driver’s license. They asked questions, and I flatly ignored them as the car carrying Piper spun out of the drive.

She would be headed to lockup, somewhere. The charges were bogus nonsense, but it was our word against Carfano’s and Frankie’s. We could hire lawyers and plead our cases and eventually the charges would be dropped as Carfano sidestepped the necessity of testifying.

We would be free—but that wasn’t the point. The point was to get us out of the way. To serve us up on a silver platter to Bill Ashcroft, a problem resolved.

I clinched my teeth, not even bothering to reach for the handcuff key concealed in my nylon belt. I could be out of the cuffs and out of the car, leaving two unconscious deputies in my wake within seconds. But there was no value in that—it would only legitimize my initial arrest. My best choice was to bide my time. Consider my option.

And strike back harder than Bill Ashcroft ever expected.

The cops rode in a convoy out of Linwood before turning west. I figured we must be headed to the county jail…assuming, of course, that these guys weren’t totally corrupt and planning to bushwhack us both.

In that case, I’d use the handcuff key.

I relaxed and remained quiet while one cop slurped coffee and another chewed peanuts. Neither talked. We reached a town called Mays Landing and slowed. Piper’s car was still behind us, but split off at the entrance of a fenced jail.

She was headed to the women’s wing, no doubt. We wouldn’t be able to talk, but that was okay. With so many cameras and correctional officers on site, nobody would harm Piper in jail…although she might make them want to harm themselves. Safely processed and inside, I would be left in the quiet to think at my own speed, which might be a blessing in disguise.

Also, I would get a phone call.

At check-in I was strip-searched, dressed in stretchy prison pants with a matching shirt, and placed in an open cell containing multiple concrete benches, a toilet and sink, and three unconscious drunks.

The place smelled of beer and urine. I ignored a cop when he asked if I wanted anything. He left with a muttered curse, and I stretched out on a concrete bench facing the ceiling, fingers interlaced beneath my head.

Thinking slowly and in silence. Letting the time drip by and not the least bit concerned about my arbitrary predicament. Lockup was both temporary and flexible. I didn’t have a jail key stuck in my pocket, but one phone call and I knew I could be out.

I just wanted to be sure that when I made that phone call, I was ready with more than a problem. The person I would contact wouldn’t be pleased to hear from me. They wouldn’t be very interested in helping, either.

I needed to sell them. This might be my last chance to secure larger, more permanent help. The kind that put Bill Ashcroft in a concrete box of his own.

So I closed my eyes. I breathed deep. I started at the Delaware Memorial Bridge and I played through the events in my mind in the slowest of motion. I stopped at every conversation, I pinned throwaway comments and telltale observations to a mental investigation board and sorted them by category. By association. By time and place.

I worked up through Piper’s exploding house. My first and second encounters with Jesse Vaughn. The trip to the trailer out in Alloway—and the further trip into Alloway Lake. I thought about the army of thugs and corruptible bureaucrats Bill Ashcroft had hired, many of them compensated with poker chips from the Atlantic Royale casino.

It was a smart strategy—guys like Wade Whitlow would likely gamble with those chips and wind up losing half of them back to Ashcroft, not to mention the fact that payment in chips was pretty much untraceable. The casino could deduct the sum as a legitimate gambling loss.

Yes, Ashcroft was slick. But…not everybody was paid with casino chips. The cops in Windale weren’t. The mayor, the city council. They were paid another way.

What had Piper said? Something about…dividend checks?

My eyes snapped open, and I saw it. Something I should have seen days prior. Something obvious yet elusive, a tiny detail that only a careless fool or a very arrogant tycoon might overlook. A kill pill. A lethal dose of just maybe.

Rolling my legs off the bench, I planted both feet on the floor and licked my lips. Contemplating.

And seeing it. Not a certainty, but a strong possibility. A point of attack far subtler and yet far more vulnerable than a complex prostitution service that likely existed but would be well concealed and better protected.

This was something so much simpler. Something that required only one item of evidence to prove.

Stepping to the bars of the cell, I twisted my head and whistled toward the corner—loud and long. A moment passed and nobody responded, so I whistled a second time. A third.

Finally, the jailer came, looking sleepy and irritated. It was the same guy I’d already blown off.

“What?”

“You got a phone?” I said. “I wanna call my grandma.”

45

It took her four hours, but Linda Kirsch arrived at the Atlantic County jail even after cursing and hanging up on me.

Seated with my back to the wall, legs and arms crossed, I’d dozed in and out of light slumber for most of that time, still analyzing my theory and turning it over in my mind. Liking it better all the time, and liking my odds of successfully weaponizing it just as much.

When the keys rattled and the door swung open, I found Kirsch standing alongside the jailer, dressed in wrinkled slacks and a loose white blouse, her stocky body almost quivering with irritation. She wore both her FBI shield and her gun.

She chomped gum and looked ready to rip my head off.

“Him?” the jailer asked.

“Yeah, yeah,” Kirsch said, all Boston irritation as she jerked her head at me. “On your feet, jackass.”

I hauled myself up and sauntered out of the cell, remaining quiet as I was herded through a reversal of my check in experience. My dirty clothes were returned, along with my wallet, Victorinox, busted phone, MacroStream, and the Cadillac keys—all collected by the cops from Carfano’s house.

“Sign here.”

I scanned the document, identifying it as a recognizance form. By signing, I was committed to appear in court if and when charges were pressed.

I scrawled my signature, knowing it would never happen, then followed Kirsch as she barreled toward a waiting Chevrolet Malibu. It was a standard issue government car that I’d ridden in before. The memory soured my mood, but I put it from my mind as I folded myself inside.

Even before I had my seatbelt fastened, Kirsch had the car in drive. We spun out of the jail’s parking lot and she turned west. One glance at the GPS displayed on her dash-mounted phone, and I recognized the destination as Windale.

“I can’t freakin’ believe you.”

It took her nearly five minutes to say it, just twitching and sizzling with fury the entire time. When she finally spoke, her tone did not disappoint. The disgusted, perpetually cynical persona that defined Special Agent Linda Kirsch operated in overdrive.

“Two days!” Kirsch said. “I’ve been helping for two days. That’s all it takes for you to get arrested?”

“Junk charges,” I said, relaxed as I watched the darkened New Jersey countryside flash past. It was one a.m., and I wasn’t bothered by our direction of travel. I wanted to go to Windale. I wasn’t bothered about leaving Piper behind, either. Jail sucked, but at least she could get some sleep.

In the meantime, I wanted to prosecute my developing theory. But first, Kirsch had more ranting to do.

“You went to his house. You actually sat down with a known criminal kingpin…and you brought the girl?”

“I didn’t have a choice. Ashcroft’s people were monitoring the hotel. I couldn’t leave her exposed.”

“Right. So taking her into a literal lion’s den was better.”

“Tiger,” I said. “It’s a tiger, not a lion. And on that subject, is it legal to own tigers in New Jersey? Those county cops didn’t so much as blink when they saw it.”

Kirsch rolled her eyes. “Good grief, Mason. Did you really ask me that? He’s a freaking mafioso. You think he cares about the law?”

Fair enough.

It didn’t matter, anyway. My concern wasn’t Julius Carfano, although I certainly owed him a solid kick in the nuts. For the moment, I was out of jail and his stunt had come to nothing. I was thinking about Ashcroft again.

“I thought Carfano might tattle-tale,” I said. “I needed something you could pin on Ashcroft that his New Jersey pals couldn’t bail him out of.”

“Me?” Kirsch said. “Something I could pin him for?”

“You’re a federal agent, Linda. It’s your obligation to investigate crime.”

A snort. A shake of her head. “Man, you’re really something.”

“People keep saying that. I take it as a compliment.”

“It’s not.”

Kirsch engaged cruise control as we settled onto a darkened Highway 40. Less than forty minutes remained until we reached Windale. I had only that much time to sell Kirsch on my plan.

And I needed her to make the first move.

“I’m taking you back to your truck,” Kirsch said. “You get behind the wheel and you get out of Jersey. I’ll see what I can do about the girl, but then I’m out of this. You can consider my offer of a favor officially cashed. Never call me again.”

I made no other answer. I sat with my arms folded, watching the miles tick by as Kirsch twitched, adjusting her grip and shifting her position in the seat. I let the curiosity eat at her for another five minutes.

At last, she broke.

“Not that I care,” she said. “But…did Carfano give you anything?”

“A revolver and a game of Russian roulette,” I said.

“What?”

I waved a hand. “Dummy bullet. The dude is certifiably nuts.”

Kirsch rolled her eyes. “So…nothing about Ashcroft?”

Bingo.

I remained as cool as a cucumber, looking out the window. “He said some things about a prostitution ring, but even if it’s true, it’s worthless intel. Something so obvious would be well protected from the authorities.”

“So you got nothing?”

“Oh, I’ve got something.”

Again, I went silent.

“You gonna tell me?”

“Don’t worry about it, Linda. Just take me to my truck and you can split back to DC. I appreciate you bailing me out.”

Another curse. Kirsch punched me in the arm.

“Hey! Don’t you try that horse crap with me. I told you to get out of dodge. What are you holding?”

I didn’t answer. Kirsch yanked the car to the side of the road, stomping on the brake. We ground to a bone-jarring halt, and she threw her seatbelt off. Twisting, she faced me.

“Listen here, you dope. I’ve had more than enough of your drama. If you think I’m about to head back to DC while you launch another rampage, you got another think coming. Now you tell me what you’re up to or so help me I’ll drive your smelly ass right back to lockup and get my hundred bucks back. I’m not playing.”

I maintained my poker face with some effort. She probably knew that I was playing her, which inflamed her all the more. Regardless, it was working.

“You can’t pin Ashcroft on state charges,” I said. “They won’t stick.”

“So you’ve said, multiple times. What did you find?”

“I found out that Bill Ashcroft has bought off the cops and the city officials in Windale. He’s paying for their support—not just with development grants, but with direct, personal payments. Checks in the mail.”

“That’s not a crime.”

“Not directly, no. But the thing is, I’ve been told those checks are labeled as dividend payments from the Windale Royale casino…which is impossible, because the Windale Royale doesn’t yet exist. The money can’t be a dividend. It’s coming from someplace else.”

“So?” Kirsch was getting impatient.

“So when you call something a dividend, but it’s not a dividend, that’s a falsified financial record.”

She squinted. I smiled.

“And when you mail such a falsified document via the US Postal Service…”

Kirsch’s eyes lit up like floodlights. “You commit mail fraud.”

“Ding-ding,” I said. “A federal crime.”

46

Kirsch had the car back on the road two minutes later. We hadn’t spoken since I’d made my grand reveal. I could tell that she was spinning the data around in her head the same way I had, contemplating its implications and vulnerabilities. Considering next steps and potential roadblocks.

She would know more about the logistics of launching a federal investigation than I would, but for my part, I knew my basic theory was correct. I knew it had potential.

We just had to pounce before Ashcroft could cover his bases.

“All we need is a check copy with Ashcroft’s signature and a memo line declaring the funds as casino dividends,” I said. “Ideally, we’d have the envelope, too. Maybe a check stub. All the above should be easy enough to find if we know where to look, and I have some ideas.”

Kirsch was chewing her lip. She absently shook her head. “Mail fraud won’t be enough to lock him up. Not a guy like Ashcroft.”

“Probably not. But it’s enough to get the subpoenas and search warrants flowing. Once you get inside his books, you’ll find the rest. You’ll probably find a lot more than you bet on. This is the kind of opportunity that could really supercharge a career.”

Kirsch shot me a sideways look. I knew she was blatantly aware of my manipulation. I responded with a sorry-not-sorry shrug and we rode in temporary silence.

“What makes you so sure he mailed checks?” she said. “Why wouldn’t he send the money electronically?”

“Maybe he has, in which case you have wire fraud. It’s six one way, half a dozen the other. But Piper Haines used the word checks when she described the dividend payments, and she claimed to have seen them. You can’t see an electronic transfer, and if you see proof of an electronic transfer, you don’t call that a check. Piper is eccentric…but she’s not crazy, and she’s not a liar.”

It was the first time I had declared that opinion out loud. Maybe the first time I fully embraced it myself. But I knew it was true, and in some way, I had known it was true from the first moment I found Piper banging on my motel room door.

If I’d been less selfish, less sulky…I probably would have fully believed her much sooner. Embraced her cause without so much debate. But better late than never.

Another two miles passed in silence. Kirsch was chewing, really deliberating. Recalling our previous interactions in Washington DC, and remembering how pragmatic she could be, I figured that she was struggling over how can I? versus should I?

When she finally voiced her next question, I had the answer locked and loaded.

“Let’s say you found these checks,” she said. “Let’s say it’s all true. What then? Illegally obtained evidence is inadmissible in court.”

“Do you know a judge in Jersey?” I asked.

“I can find one.”

“So let’s assume that you received a tip—say, from a civilian informant—about mail fraud in Windale. Could you get a warrant?”

Kirsch shot me a sideways look. “Probably…”

“Okay then. Drive me to my truck. I’ve got something to pick up. Then we’re going downtown.”

“And?”

“And you’re going to look the other way, Kirsch. For five to ten minutes.”

47

My truck rested right where I’d left it in the tire shop’s parking lot. There were no indicators of any work done, or even any inspection done. The doors were locked, and I figured the mechanic had left my keys in his office, but I kept a spare key in a magnetic box hidden inside the chassis.

Once inside the cab I scooped a hand beneath the seat and found what I was looking for—a small pack that contained several useful items, including a pair of mechanic’s gloves, and a case of lock picks. I took both items and returned to the Malibu.

“Downtown,” I said. “City hall.”

We cruised in silence, passing all the cute little mailboxes and the smooth white sidewalks that turned my stomach to look at. Kirsch stopped at an alley that led to the backside of city hall.

She shot me a sideways look. “Are you⁠—”

“Don’t ask. Just be here in ten minutes.”

I crossed through a manicured ditch and behind a flower shop. Beyond the police/volunteer fire station, which was occupied by at least one cop. Lights shone from the inside.

I checked my watch. It was two-fifteen in the morning. Only three or four hours remained before Windale awoke. For this to work I would need to get in and get out without being caught, feed Kirsch the bait she needed to justify the warrant…

And then return during business hours. Because I definitely wanted to be around when she served that warrant.

City hall sat sandwiched between a laundromat and a deli. Constructed of red brick, it had been refreshed in the front, but its backside showed age. There was a dumpster overflowing with trash from the deli, combined with bags of shredded documents from city hall. I wondered if any of those documents were check stubs or envelopes from a certain non-existent casino…but I didn’t think so.

Why shred something you didn’t realize was proof of a federal crime?

City hall’s back door was solid metal on a metal frame. The knob and deadbolt were both brass, both shining in the moonlight.

I tugged the mechanic’s gloves on, shooting a glance behind the buildings to ensure that nobody was watching. The ambient light was almost entirely lunar—only one streetlight glowed from fifty yards away, where Kirsch had dropped me off.

Holding my MacroStream between my teeth, I kneeled at the door and went to work. A turning tool and a crooked pick for the deadbolt, the same turning tool and a wave rake for the knob latch. New or otherwise, both locks capitulated within seconds.

I was getting good at this.

Replacing the picks and switching off the light, I twisted the knob with one gloved hand and was rewarded by the silent slide of an oiled mechanism. The door opened without a sound, revealing a hallway paved in cheap commercial carpet, walls hung with sheetrock and lined with office doors.

No alarm. No security cameras. This place was too backwater for both. Who breaks into city hall, anyway?

I switched the MacroStream to its lowest output setting and started at the first door. Storage room—no interest. Next was a kitchen and a breakroom, equally useless. I passed the public works director’s office—the guy no doubt responsible for the construction of all those fancy new parks and pristine sidewalks—and proceeded by the city administrator’s office before reaching the final three doors just prior to the lobby.

One was a conference room, equipped with a large table, fancy leather chairs, and a wide-screen monitor on one wall. More spoils of the Windale Royale piñata. Next came the mayor’s office, and I almost turned in.

Then I saw the final office, labeled as the town secretary’s, and I stopped.

Who makes the bank runs?

Not the mayor.

I put my hand on the knob—the secretary’s office was locked. Out came the picks again. I kneeled with the light in my mouth. I thumbed the turning tool and worked the wave rake. The pins clicked, and the lock jiggled.

Then I froze, my head snapping toward the back of the building. Somebody was coming—footsteps crunched on gravel. A shrill giggle reached me through the metal door. My chest tightened as I recalled that I’d left it unlocked—I wanted an easy route of escape should I need one. I never expected somebody to enter that way.

I deliberated for only a moment before turning back to the secretary’s door. Another quick pull of the rake, and the last pin gave way. I was on my feet, clicking off the light and twisting the knob. I slid inside just as the door at the end of the hall opened. The giggling grew louder, and I eased the secretary’s door closed. I stood in the quiet of the darkened office and breathed slowly, listening.

Two people—a man and a woman. The woman was the one giggling, and even from a distance, I thought she sounded drunk. The man hiccupped, muttering something about the door being left unlocked.

I tensed, thinking that I recognized the voice, but it took me a moment to place it. City hall’s back door closed. The woman’s giggle rose into a delighted shriek, then something heavy thumped against the wall—her body, maybe.

“You…you sure about this?” she panted. “What if somebody finds us?”

“It’s city hall,” he snorted. “Who’s coming to work at two a.m.? Come on.”

The footsteps resumed just as I finally identified his voice. It was difficult to recognize because the guy it belonged to had only spoken a few words in my presence.

His name was Cooper—he was Officer Lowry’s partner. I remembered Lowry’s throwaway comments about Cooper just getting married, and his young bride being pregnant. I traced the giggling train down the hallway. It stalled again. Another reprieve marked by sloppy wet kissing—like horses making out.

Then Cooper said, “In here. The table.”

More shuffling footsteps. They stumbled out of the hallway. I shook my head and flicked the flashlight on. Maybe the woman was his wife—I seriously doubted it. Whatever the case, I had work to do. I turned to the office to find much of what I expected—a desk and a computer, some file cabinets and a framed diploma from the University of Delaware. Some personal effects, some trinkets from road trips.

And paperwork—lots of it, scattered everywhere. I began searching as the thump of a body landed on the conference table. Laughter and horse-lip kissing continued. They paused for a moment for the woman to attempt romantic conversation while Cooper made his best effort to brush past it.

“Do you love me?” she said.

“You know it,” he replied.

I wanted to puke. I searched the desk instead and found plenty of check stubs—mostly for payments issued by the City of Windale, not received by it. Many bore the mayor’s signature. A few smaller ones bore the secretary’s. I went through her drawers and found more personal effects—makeup, a couple of books…a box of condoms.

Next I went for the filing cabinets. I scanned the labels attached to the face of each drawer, moving past bills pending and accounts receivable and stopping cold at the third drawer—a drawer proudly labeled Casino Dividends.

What do you know?

The laughs had faded from the conference room. Deeper, sloppier sounds took their place. Shoes hit the floor, and I pulled the drawer open. I held the light in my teeth again, pulling a folder and flipping it open. Shaking my head in disbelief. Drawing my busted phone and fighting with the cracked screen to snap a picture. Moving to the next. A third.

I was just reaching for the fourth document when the noises from the conference room abruptly ceased. Some shifting and muttering commenced.

Then: “You didn’t bring anything?”

Pause.

“Well, go to my office! There’s a box in the drawer.”

My body turned rigid. I looked toward the door as feet thumped. Pushing the drawer closed, I hurried to the gap behind the door. I flicked the lock only a second before a key slid into it. It turned, and the knob jiggled. Cooper muttered in drunken frustration.

Then he had the door opened. He flicked the light on and stumbled inside.

Wasted. Dressed in nothing but an unbuttoned shirt and his tighty-whities. He reached the desk and dug through it. I held my breath as he found the condoms with a satisfied grunt—then paused, maybe wondering what kind of woman kept condoms in her office desk.

It didn’t matter. He shrugged to himself. Turned. Half-tripped on the open drawer full of dividend files. Staggered and cursed and hopped sideways—straight toward me.

He was going to hit me. His drunken body careened off course like a cargo ship drifting into a pier. He was already flailing to catch himself, brushing my arm with one hand, his face snatching toward me.

And then I sent a wide right hook smashing into his nose with the force of an artillery shell. Gloved fist against unprotected nose, bone crunching and blood spraying. He pitched backwards, slamming the backside of his head against the edge of the desk. Then he was on the floor, fallen like a log, limp as a dishrag.

I shook my hand—it was on fire, but I didn’t mind. I stepped over his unconscious body and flicked the light off. I shut the door, then glanced into the conference room to find the wide-eyed secretary seated on the table, her hair a cloud of blonde.

I paused, considering. Then I grunted.

“He’s married,” I said.

I exited through the back door, stripping the gloves off as I turned for the street, rolling my wrist to check my watch.

Nine minutes, forty-six seconds. Kirsch rolled up exactly on schedule and I slipped into the passenger seat. She mashed the gas before looking my way, then squinted in momentary confusion.

“Is that blood on your shirt?”

I ignored the question, accessing the photographs on my phone. Flipping past payment stubs, check copies, and envelopes featuring an Atlantic City return address and the wavy lines of a USPS post mark.

And memo lines: Profit Dividend of The Windale Royale Casino.

I passed Kirsch the phone.

“Will that do it for ya?”

48

Ihad Kirsch drive us south of town—past the highway to the hotel and gas station district. There was a twenty-four-hour fast-food restaurant there, and while she dialed US attorneys and judges, I ordered two cheeseburgers and all the fries.

Fighting always makes me hungry. Winning makes me ravenous. There were days back in the 75th when I could return to base after a five- or six-day stint down range and pack down as many as eight thousand calories in a single sitting.

Of course, I usually hadn’t eaten much other than stale MREs during that period, but the habit stuck. Now I had to watch myself—too much victory had a way of inflating my waistline.

The burgers were good. I pitched the crew a nice tip, and they grilled them fresh, twice refilling my Coke while Kirsch paced the parking lot outside, working her cell phone. I knew she would be in contact with the local United States Magistrate Judge, possibly working through a local United States attorney to acquire a search warrant. I could tell by her body language that she was pushing for an emergency warrant, which would likely entail awakening a judge in the middle of the night—always a dangerous move. The photographs Kirsch’s “civilian informant” had provided were reasonable evidence of mail fraud—no Windale Royale Casino existed.

Convincing a sleepy judge—or a sleepy federal prosecutor, for that matter—that such evidence necessitated an immediate search warrant was another matter. If anyone could do it, Kirsch could, and I certainly hoped she would. I thought it was unlikely that either Cooper or his secretary liaison would dial the cops. Tattling on me would be tattling on themselves.

But if I was wrong, if they spilled the beans…that file cabinet could be cleaned out in minutes.

I was just contemplating a double fudge milkshake when Kirsch finally joined me inside the restaurant. It was three-thirty in the morning, and she looked exhausted. Crashing into the booth across from me, she grabbed my Coke without asking and slurped down a long pull. The caffeine or maybe the carbonation seemed to do the trick—she shook her head like a dog fresh out of a lake.

“So?” I said.

“So I’m pissed,” Kirsch said.

“Usually. Why this time?”

Kirsch ignored the jab, slurping more of my Coke. “The local Magistrate Judge is in Camden—that’s Jersey, just across the river from Philadelphia.”

“Okay.”

“I located a US attorney easily enough, but we had a devil of a time getting this judge out of bed. Apparently—and the attorney didn’t really say this, but he hinted—the judge was sleeping off a big one. You won’t believe what he was up to this past weekend.”

I considered. Snorted.

“Gambling?”

“In Atlantic City. Needless to say, he’s familiar with Ashcroft, and he was none too enthusiastic about issuing the warrant.”

“So what did you do?”

“What do you think I did? I told the attorney we needed another judge—anybody who knows Ashcroft can’t be expected to rule fairly. That put the attorney in a nasty spot, because he’s standing on the judge’s front porch. He can’t back out now without majorly insulting his honor, so he went the other way.”

“He cashed in a favor.”

“More or less.”

“So you got the warrant?”

“En route. The attorney is driving here himself—he’s about half an hour away.”

I pushed out of the booth and ordered two double-fudge milkshakes and another Coke for Kirsch, all the while contemplating the path ahead. The angles, and potential snares and road blocks.

And thinking about that judge. His trip to AC. The people he might know there.

Kirsch was right—he should be recused. The guy might be as straight as an arrow, but the fact that he recognized Ashcroft’s name and resisted…

I returned to the table. Kirsch ignored the fresh Coke and went straight to the milkshake, stabbing with the straw and muttering to herself between gulps. I gave her time, checking my watch and surveying a nearly empty parking lot. A nearly empty street beyond. A hotel not far away where Piper and I had stayed. I thought about Piper alone in the county lockup and kicked myself for leaving her there.

She should be safe in a jail—at least as safe as she might be following me around. But the judge’s response had rattled me, a little. It had me second-guessing.

Just how deep did Bill Ashcroft’s influence run?

“The minute that guy gets here, we ride back to Windale and bust City Hall,” I said. “No delays. This needs to be under wraps as soon as humanly possible.”

“You nervous?” Kirsch said, sucking a cherry off its stem. The sugar rush seemed to have ironically calmed her down.

“I don’t like the connection between the judge and AC,” I said. “This state is feeling smaller all the time. All Ashcroft needs is one phone call, and every document in that file cabinet can be destroyed. No evidence, no crime.”

“He’s a federal judge,” Kirsch said.

“And he’s still in Jersey.”

Kirsch played with the cherry stem, rolling it between her teeth. Considering. Then she grunted.

“I’ll call the New Jersey Highway Patrol. They can back me up while serving the warrant. You’ll stay in the car—I don’t want whoever you knocked out at city hall to recognize you as my civilian informant.”

“Knocked out?” I played innocent.

Kirsch eyeballed my blood-spattered shirt. I sipped my double-fudge milkshake and ignored her. The flavor was sublime.

Twenty-six minutes later, the United States attorney wheeled into the parking lot in a jet-black sedan. He parked next to the Malibu, and I remained in the booth while Kirsch ran out to meet him. A brief, semi-heated exchange followed. The attorney wore sweatpants and a Disney World T-shirt. His hair was a mess, but he was fully awake. He passed Kirsch a file folder, and she flipped through it. She held one document up to the streetlight and squinted.

She was satisfied. She got into her Malibu. The attorney called after her—Kirsch simply waved a hand. Her door closed, but she didn’t drive away. The US attorney did. I dumped our meal trash and slid into the Malibu’s passenger seat. Kirsch was still scanning the document.

“All good?” I asked.

“Looks like it.” She slapped the folder closed and tossed it onto the dash. We rolled out of the parking lot and turned north, hotel and gas station lights fading as the I-295 overpass approached. We ran at ten over the speed limit, Kirsch dialing the New Jersey State Police for her requested backup, then tapping the steering wheel and humming a meaningless tune as she drove. Shifting in her seat.

I wasn’t sure what was bugging her, but I felt it, too. I monitored the mirrors and the road ahead, pitch-black fields passing on either side. We cleared the overpass and cleared the gravel entrance to The Mucky Watering Hold. Kirsch’s humming faded as darkness closed around us. It was still three miles to Windale, nothing but empty fields speckled with forest on either side.

No streetlights.

No other cars.

But then there was one. Rolling out of a gravel drive behind us, turning abruptly our way and howling with the roar of a big-block engine, I looked into the mirror and was temporarily blinded by high beam lights. I squinted as the truck drew nearer, closing at well above our own speed. Kirsch accelerated, but it wasn’t enough.

The vehicle was gaining on us. It was barely two hundred yards back, and as a dip in the road sent its headlights diving toward the pavement, I recognized the bulky silhouette of the vehicle.

It was a Dodge Power Wagon.

49

“That’s them.”

I reached for the Malibu’s glove box as I spoke. It was locked, but the Malibu ran with a push-start, and the keys lay rattling in the cupholder. I unlocked the box even as Kirsch looked over her shoulder. I found exactly what I hoped for stored inside.

It was a Glock 43X, a slimline nine-millimeter with a ten round magazine and a compact profile. Kirsch’s backup weapon.

“What are you doing?” Kirsch shouted, smashing the accelerator as the Power Wagon drew nearer. I could hear the humming roar of its mud tires on the pavement. I remembered that sound from when I had borrowed it.

I should have slashed every one of those tires.

“That’s Jesse Vaughn,” I said. “He works for Ashcroft. We’re not friends.”

“Put my gun back!” Kirsch said. “I’m a federal agent. I’ll put him in handcuffs.”

“Not if he runs you over first,” I retorted. “Stop arguing and listen to me. That judge of yours is crooked. Ashcroft knows his vulnerability, and he’s not pulling punches. Vaughn isn’t here to stall us. He’s here to kill us.”

“So we run into town,” Kirsch said. “The state cops will be there soon. We’ll counter-ambush.”

“No go, Linda. Those cops might be just as dirty. Even if they’re not, you’re risking a lot of lives by dragging this fight into the middle of town.”

Just as I said it, a street sign flashed by.

WELCOME TO WINDALE — A CHARMING LITTLE PLACE.

We were hurtling along at nearly seventy miles per hour. The grungy motel where I first stayed when I arrived in Windale lay only half a mile ahead. Then the core of town.

“What do I⁠—”

“Turn!” I cut her off. “Turn here. Hard right!”

The intersection lay at the outskirts of town. Two houses and a pair of oak trees. Fresh sidewalks and those shiny black mailboxes. It was barely a hundred yards ahead, but Linda Kirsch was nothing if not quick on the draw. The minute I said turn, she sprang into action like a hunting dog let off the leash. Left hand riding the wheel, right foot riding the brake pedal.

And right hand snatching the hand brake.

Tires screamed, and Linda turned. The back end of the Malibu flew wide like the tail of a sports car in a street racing movie. My body hurtled left, slamming into her shoulder as white smoke flooded my side-view mirror and the Power Wagon laid on its brakes.

More tires screamed. We conducted a ninety-degree slide, then Kirsch was stomping on the gas. Rubber burned. We flashed past the oak trees as lights flashed on inside both houses. In another second we were hurtling up the intersecting road, heading out into the fields of south Jersey as the Power Wagon struggled to catch up.

“Linda Kirsch!” I shouted. “Where’d you learn to drive like that?”

Kirsch couldn’t deny herself an uncustomary grin even as she glanced into the rearview mirror. “Tactical and Emergency Vehicle Operations Center—top of my class.”

“I’ll say. Way to go!”

I looked over my shoulder. The Dodge was still coming, turned at the intersection but now a couple hundred yards behind. We’d gained some ground, but the two-lane county road we raced along was arrow straight and nearly flat. The Power Wagon’s turbocharged V8 was howling again—I could already sense him closing the distance.

“You had a plan?” Kirsch demanded.

I rotated in my seat, pulling the slide on the 43X. A round slide into the chamber with an oiled snap.

“Half a mile,” I said, tilting my head. “Just past that next intersection. I see a hill. You slow down on the far side of it and I’ll jump out. You head downtown and serve the warrant.”

“And you?”

I looked into the side-view mirror, noting that the Dodge was gaining ground again. I pictured Jesse Vaughn behind the wheel, maybe Wade Whitlow riding alongside.

“I’ll be resolving unfinished business,” I said.

Kirsch’s mouth opened. I shook my head.

“No time to argue. I’ll lose your gun when I’m done. Get ready to brake.”

The intersection was racing toward us. Parked at its corner was a shabby two-story barn—the hundred-year-old kind that you see all over the Northeast. Just beyond it the hill crested. I would tuck and roll and hit the ditch. By the time the Power Wagon topped the hill, I would be ready.

“Ready on my command,” I said. “Here we go!”

We reached the intersection. It was a four-way stop and Kirsch blew straight through it. The hulk of the barn loomed up on our left. The Power Wagon was still a hundred yards back…no, maybe a little farther. It was…slowing?

My heart slammed in my chest and I spun forward just as the reality sunk in. I saw the barn—I saw the gravel drive just beyond it. Kirsch was fixated on her side-view mirror, watching the Dodge and taking her eyes off the road for a critical moment. In my mind, I was shouting Brake!, but my mouth only managed the first two letters.

“Br—”

Then the Chevrolet Blazer rocketed out from behind the barn. It shot up the gravel drive, straight toward the street. Headlights off, the chrome brush guard reflected the moonlight as it reached the edge of the road. The front bumper bucked upward. Kirsch saw it and didn’t bother to brake. It was too late.

She pulled a hard right, attempting to swerve.

Then the mass of the Blazer collided straight into the driver’s side of the Malibu. Glass shattered, metal crunched, the world turned into a flashing sequence of black.

We hurtled into the ditch.

50

Ihate car wrecks. There’s something so totally terrifying about the powerlessness a person endures as they hurtle off the road, trapped inside a metal box that might well become their coffin. Everything is spinning, the laws of the road having totally surrendered to the overbearing demands of physics. The airbags detonate and the seatbelts lock and you hope that you’ll somehow survive. But really, all you can do is brace for impact and—if you have the time—breathe an emergency prayer. The dice are still tumbling, but the outcome is already decided.

You survive, or you don’t. It’s out of your hands. The futility of human control, already an illusion, evaporates in an instant.

We hit the ditch at fully forty miles per hour, a combination of our own speed paired with the driving force of a multi-ton steel beast. As dirt exploded over the Malibu’s hood and the thunder of the Blazer’s engine roared to my left, my head snapped forward. My chest caught against the belt. I clung to Kirsch’s Glock as though it was a lifeline—my last lifeline on earth. My legs locked, and the wind vacated my lungs as my face smashed into an exploding airbag.

Then we stopped. I was choking and breathing dust. From somewhere to my left, a motor growled and tires spun. Lights blazed in my eyes and I turned my head.

I was heaving. I was desperate for oxygen. My vision blurred and danced. For a moment, I felt as though I was levitating—leaving the seat, suspended in midair. Caught in outer space with nothing to cling to.

Was I dead? Was my soul departing my body?

Was I headed to Hell?

I blinked as the thought split through my head like a gunshot, and then everything stabilized. I saw the dash and the inflated airbags. I turned my head and found Kirsch lying limp over her steering wheel, blood streaming from her face. I found the source of the lights blazing through her window and identified them as high beams, probably from the Blazer.

And then I heard the voices—headed our way.

Not a chance.

My left hand dipped for the seatbelt catch even as I pivoted for the door. The force of the collision was focused on Kirsch’s side, and that half of the car was smashed beyond recognition. But my side of the car had largely avoided damage. The window was covered in dust but still intact. I snatched my belt loose and yanked the door handle. It popped and my head swam, but I could see. I was rolling out of the car and I hit the dirt. I half-coughed, half-puked.

Then the first figure stepped around the back of the car, and I opened fire. The Glock popped like a chain of firecrackers, spitting nine-millimeter slugs at short range. Somebody grunted and stumbled. I looked up as he fell—it was Wade Whitlow, and he was armed. He squeezed off a shot of his own from an oversized revolver as he toppled. The gun fired like a cannon, ripping up the dirt to my left. My bullets stitched a pattern up his chest and into his face. I fired seven times and then he was down—out for the count.

That was when the real firefight began. A storm of gunfire erupted from the far side of the car—all semi-automatic, but not all handgun rounds. The voice of a rifle joined the mix, bullets slamming into the Malibu’s tail and shattering its lights. The back glass exploded. Air rushed from a busted tire.

And all I could think about was Kirsch, trapped unconscious in the front seat, maybe dead or maybe not—but definitely dead if she took a bullet to the temple.

I scrambled toward the back of the car, identifying three separate enemy positions as I went. One gunman fired from across the street near the barn—that was the rifle. Two handguns opened fire from the road not far away, where the Power Wagon sat parked. I leaned behind the Malibu’s flattened right rear tire and traced muzzle flash to the Power Wagon’s A-pillars. Two shooters sheltered behind the truck’s heavy open doors. I centered on the nearest and popped off two shots with the Glock—one ricocheted off the truck’s windshield, the other slammed into the door but didn’t penetrate.

I was under-armed. One more shot from the Glock, and it locked back on empty.

I threw the pistol down and scrambled backward. I found Wade Whitlow lying full of lead and perfectly still. The gun that hung from his hand was massive—a Smith & Wesson with a five-inch ported barrel and the caliber 460 S&W Magnum etched into stainless steel. I tore it out of his dead hands and snatched the cylinder open.

Four out of five rounds remained, each as big as my middle finger. I snapped the cylinder closed, automatically indexing it, then I was scrambling to the back of the car again. Swinging out with the Smith, snatching back the hammer and sighting on the Power Wagon’s door—right where one shooter took cover.

The explosion of the revolver was nothing short of cataclysmic. The gun bucked in my hand like anti-tank weapon, knocking me backward as fire seared the Malibu’s bumper. I didn’t hear the slam of the bullet colliding with the Power Wagon’s door, but I heard the scream. Just as I was clawing my way upright, a body toppled to the ground, blood spraying from a gaping chest wound.

He was done—I didn’t need to be a trauma doctor to know that. I cocked the revolver again and spun toward the other shooter, the one on the driver’s side. The Smith leveled, and I saw his face behind the windshield—it was Jesse Vaughn, and he saw me also. I pulled the trigger as he threw himself to the ground.

Another earth-shaking blast. More fire and fury, but this time I had braced myself and didn’t tumble under the recoil. The Power Wagon’s windshield exploded in a shower of glass. I tasted gunpowder and smelled the blood on the air, but it wasn’t Jesse’s. He had reached the ground and was scrambling away. I fired again, double-action this time. The bullet tore beneath the truck and powdered asphalt erupted from the road. The rifle fire from the barn had ceased—somebody was shouting. I could no longer see Jesse and I was yet again out of lead.

I turned back for Wade’s body. I felt around his belt, locating the revolver’s holster, but no speed loaders. Did anyone even make speed loaders for a .460 Magnum?

My heart hammered as the voices grew louder. I thought they were moving—Jesse and his remaining soldier were regrouping. Maybe trying to circle me. I needed more ammo.

Then I reached Wade’s right pocket and hit pay dirt. I dug out a handful of loose rounds and popped the Smith’s cylinder open. Five empty cases removed, five fresh cartridges installed, each nearly two inches long. Hunting rounds—maybe not for two-legged game, but they would suffice.

I snapped the gun closed. I edged back to the car and listened.

I couldn’t hear Kirsch. I thought about all that rifle fire that had penetrated the Malibu and could only pray that she had survived it. I needed to get to her—I needed to provide trauma care in case she was bleeding out.

But first I had tangos to eliminate. As the screams of the chest-shot guy died and I could no longer hear Jesse’s voice, I knew…

They were coming for me. They were hunting. But this ambush was about to become a counter-ambush.

51

Ileft the Malibu and entered the tall grass beyond the ditch, leaning low and carrying the Smith. I only had the five rounds in the gun—Wade had carried only one full reload. Two center-mass hits should be all that I needed, and only solid concrete would stop a .460 Magnum.

But first I had to find my targets.

Circling into a field planted thick with corn, I faded into the stalks and moved parallel to the road. The headlights of both the Power Wagon and the Blazer still shone, providing a point of reference as I staggered over uneven ground.

I was still dizzy—my head swam and pounded, but I remained upright. I listened as a gentle breeze tore at the cornstalks, whispering past my face and fading into the night. I still smelled gunpowder and dirt and gasoline exhaust.

Then I heard a voice. Barely above a whisper, some place to my left. I crouched, one finger wrapped around the heavy double-action trigger. I traced the subtle crunch of a foot to a spot in the field maybe fifty yards up the road.

One incoming tango, but not two. They had likely split, correctly guessing that I would fade into the field. If I was Jesse Vaughn, I would have launched a loose-pincer attack, approaching at forty-five-degree angles that allowed for a potential ambush without introducing crossfire.

It wasn’t a bad strategy. The corn offered concealment, but not cover. If I fired once, I would give away my position—then the second guy would gun me down.

Counteract, Mason. Outmaneuver.

I turned—not deeper into the field, but out of it. Back toward the road, easing onto my stomach and landing without a sound. I wriggled between the corn, peeling apart stalks in the direction of the wind as I moved by inches at a time. To my left, the noise of footfalls grew more distinct. To my right, still nothing.

Maybe Jesse Vaughn wasn’t moving at all. He could be holed up behind the Blazer, letting his man flush me out.

Another five yards passed beneath my chest. I saw the Power Wagon resting on the road, a bloody body lying in a field of shattered windshield glass. I saw the barn where the Blazer had hidden. Moonlight illuminated a rusted windmill just beyond it. Through ringing ears, the crash site felt suddenly still, and eerily calm.

Not like peace. More like impending wrath.

Another slow five yards. I knew exactly where one shooter was—he had nearly circled behind me, but he was still headed out into the field, maybe twenty yards away. He had no idea where I was.

I reached the edge of the corn and lay perfectly still, just listening. Waiting for my enemy to make a mistake.

Then they did. A very small thing, a momentary lapse in focus. It came as a soft click, metal colliding with metal. My gaze snapped right, beyond the smashed Malibu to the Blazer. Somehow had driven it backwards. It now sat halfway on the road and halfway on the barnyard’s gravel drive. The driver’s door stood open, and protruding through the gap between the door and the A-pillar was a round metal rod about four inches long.

The end of a rifle barrel. I’d been right in my second guess. Jesse Vaughn had deployed his man to do the dirty work, while he waited under cover to gun me down.

Fight like a coward, die like a coward.

I moved left. Keeping one row of corn between myself and the road, I glided an easy ten yards, positioning the Power Wagon between myself and Jesse. I rose to a crouch and pivoted toward the field. I watched the stalks bending in the wind, mapping the pattern of natural movement until I detected a contrary rustle. Corn bending the wrong way—a shape turning in the shadows. The top of a ball cap protruded from between silky stalks.

I aimed. I drew the hammer back until it clicked—a sound no louder than Jesse’s rifle barrel tapping against the Blazer’s A-pillar, but loud enough for my target to freeze.

I fired two-handed. Flames exploded from the revolver’s ported barrel, and the bullet ripped between the stalks. I knew it was a hit by the spray of blood and the tumble of a heavy body. Stalks bent and crunched, the thunder echoing in my ears.

Then Jesse Vaughn engaged. Semiautomatic rifle fire tore into the face of his own truck, shattering headlights and blowing out a tire. I was on my feet and pivoting toward the back of the Dodge—head down, revolver cocking with a snap. I skirted the tailgate, bent and fired.

The Blazer’s passenger-side window exploded. Glass rained and the rifle fire ceased. A cry split the night as I cocked again.

Jesse wasn’t down—I’d winged him. The rifle withdrew from the A-pillar as he scrambled for cover.

I departed the back of the Power Wagon, stepping onto the road. A shadow moved beyond the glass of the Blazer’s bed cover, and I fired again. Both windows detonated. Jesse screamed again. Something hit the ground—a metallic clatter. He scraped along the bed, scrambling for cover behind the Blazer’s rear wheel.

But I was on him. Two rounds remained in the Smith—more than enough. Fast-walking alongside the wrecked Malibu, I closed on the Blazer’s nose. I could hear him grunting, writhing on the ground, scrambling with the rifle. I pivoted to place the Blazer’s front wheel between myself and his position just as bullets ripped harmlessly from beneath the truck.

Another of the Power Wagon’s tires detonated. The gunshots kept coming, wild and desperate. I closed to within five yards of the Blazer, still using the wheel as cover. Then the gunfire died with a snap—his magazine had run dry.

I didn’t wait. I orbited the Blazer’s nose. My finger tightened around the double-action trigger.

But there was no need. Jesse Vaughn lay on his back next to the blazer, surrounded by a pool of blood. He was gunshot in his left shoulder—the joint blown to shards and his arm hanging uselessly at his side. My second bullet had grazed his ribcage, and he was bleeding there, also.

Even as I approached, Jesse turned pale. He’d given up on the rifle and was flailing uselessly for the backup pistol exposed in an ankle holster on his left leg—but it was far out of reach. Judging by the sheer volume of blood staining the ground, I knew he was nearly dead. Not even a trauma surgeon with a full operating room built inside that barn could save him.

I kept the Smith on him. My left boot landed on his flailing right hand, pinning it in place. He choked, head falling back. His skin was chalk white.

I crouched, placing the barrel of the revolver against his sternum. I spoke in a cold whisper.

“Look at me.”

To his credit, Jesse did.

“You still wanna buy my truck?” I growled.

Jesse spat blood. “Go to Hell.”

It was a throwaway comment, but it landed anyway—I remembered that moment the Blazer made impact, and my jaw tightened.

“You work for Bill Ashcroft?”

No response.

“I’m running out of time, Jesse. So are you. Talk now and do some good on your way out.”

“We…we all work for Ashcroft.” Jesse half-laughed as he said it.

“He sent you because the judge reported our warrant?”

Jesse managed a tight nod.

“Okay,” I said. I kicked the rifle away and tore his backup gun from his ankle—another Glock 43X. I contemplated one more shot…but it wasn’t necessary. Jesse was finished.

I turned, already thinking about Kirsch. Jesse’s gargling laugh stopped me.

“I know something…you don’t know,” he said.

I looked back. “What?”

His grin widened. His teeth were coated in blood. He looked demented.

“Little p-pigtails…fresh out of jail.” His voice turned sing-song. “Where will she go? Will…she join you in Hell?”

It was all he could say. Jesse’s body quivered even as my heart hammered faster. I started toward him, fingers tightening around the revolver. I was headed for his face.

I was too late. Jesse Vaughn died, body falling limp. As his head rolled to the pavement, something like a cold claw closed around my heart.

Piper.

52

Irushed to the Malibu just as distant police sirens rang from the direction of Windale. By the time I reached the imploded driver’s side door, blue lights gleamed against the darkened sky. It wasn’t one car but several—maybe Windale PD, maybe the state troopers Kirsch had called to back her up on the city hall search.

Somebody had heard the shots. Help would arrive soon, or perhaps another gunfight. Whatever the case, I could only focus on one thing at a time, and the immediate concern was still Kirsch.

There was no chance of getting the driver’s side door open. I thrust the Smith into the small of my back and went for the passenger’s door instead, the one I had escaped through. I crawled over the seat and reached her body, still lying limp with blood covering her face, hair tangled. The belt was locked against her chest, the expanded airbag pinning her in place. I swept a hand up her arm, feeling for her neck, and I touched blood.

She’d been hit at least once, in the upper arm. The blood flow wasn’t bad, but her sleeve was saturated. I found her neck and placed a finger against it just as the first car squealed to a stop.

A quick glance confirmed its identity—New Jersey State Police. Two cops burst out, guns draw. I shouted through the Malibu’s shattered window.

“Over here! Driver trapped behind the seat. Unconscious with at least one gunshot wound.”

The cops approached with caution, just the way they’d been trained. Another car roared up, then a face appeared through the glass. The muzzle of a handgun settled over my head.

“Who are you? Show me your hands!”

I ignored the demand, my right hand wrapped around Kirsch’s arm to stem the blood flow.

“She’s bleeding. She’s been unconscious since we were hit. Call an ambulance.”

A further hesitation, then the trooper jerked his head. Another cop spoke into a radio. Flashing lights were everywhere. Somebody closed behind me and breathed a curse. Other cops were examining bodies strewn around the impromptu battlefield.

All I could think about was two women—Kirsch, and Piper Haines.

God save them.

A fire crew arrived—the Windale Volunteer FD, no less. Jaws of life were deployed. Everyone was shouting. I withdrew from the wrecked Malibu, watching only long enough to confirm that Kirsch was safely under the custody of the troopers.

Then I found the first guy with captain’s bars on his uniform shirt and pulled him aside. He wouldn’t approach more than three feet, one hand resting on his gun.

“Who are you?” He repeated the earlier question of his colleague. I ignored it.

“Two things,” I said. “That’s Linda Kirsch. She called you for backup on the city hall bust. You need to consider everyone around you a potential threat—Bill Ashcroft owns this town, and he’s ready to spill blood. Second, you need to lock down city hall. Nobody gets in or out. All the evidence is inside. Got me?”

The captain looked daze, his gaze snatching from one body to the next.

“Captain!” I shouted. “Do you hear me?”

A slow nod. I turned for the Blazer, breaking into a jog. The officer called out after me.

“Wait! You’re coming with us. You’re under arrest.”

Again, I ignored him. I reached the Blazer, crunching over broken glass and splashing through blood. Jesse Vaughn’s body lay right where I’d left it. The Blazer was riddled with bullet holes.

But it was the only vehicle remaining to me that might still drive.

Kneeling at Jesse’s body, I patted two pockets before I found his phone. I climbed into the Blazer and found the keys hanging in the ignition. The engine started with a cough. Other cops shouted. Weapons pivoted toward me.

But nobody fired. I threw the Blazer into gear and the back tires spun. In a split second I was hurtling onto the road, crashing over Jesse’s legs and headed east. Blue lights faded as wind tore through the gunshot windows. I was breathing hard, mind spinning. Variables crashing and colliding and spinning into adrenaline-charged oblivion.

Then Jesse’s phone rang, just the way I expected it to. The contact it displayed was labeled simply as Bossman. I swiped to answer, but I didn’t speak.

Bill Ashcroft spoke first.

“Jesse! What’s the update?”

“Jesse’s dead,” I said. “They’re all dead, Bill. And I’m headed your way, so you better tell me right now where Piper Haines is.”

Silence. I blew through a stop sign and bounced over a pothole. Miscellaneous crap rattled in the back of the Blazer, and glass cubes shifted over the dash.

But Bill Ashcroft still didn’t speak—he didn’t hang up, either.

“We know everything,” I said. “We’ve got proof, and we’re going to the feds. Your choices now are a concrete room or a pine box. Think quickly.”

Ashcroft hung up. I switched the phone’s ringer on and pulled the Blazer off the road. Then I was digging through the center console. I found a flashlight, a lot of empty chewing tobacco cans, napkins and coins and random business cards. Nothing useful.

I turned to the glove box and hit pay dirt. A carton of .460 Magnum hunting ammunition still contained twenty out of the original fifty rounds. I reloaded the Smith, and pocketed the excess.

Then I was circling to the back of the Blazer, tearing the tailgate open to identify what had been sliding around in the bed. It was exactly what I hoped—a Remington 870 pump-action shotgun with a twenty-inch barrel and ghost ring sights. The magazine held seven rounds of twelve-gauge buckshot. Six additional rounds rode in a side saddle mounted to the receiver. A box of twenty-five more shells lay on the floor next to a pair of dirty shovels.

Tools for burying Kirsch and I, no doubt. So much for that.

I took the shotgun and the box of shells and returned to the front seat. Just as I was slamming the door, Ashcroft called back.

“Talk fast,” I said. “I’m almost out of patience.”

“You listen here.” All the manufactured genteelness of Ashcroft’s shark tank office voice was long gone. He sounded like a cornered dog, snarling and desperate. “Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong. And if you misstep now, I’ll crush you like a bug.”

“Wrong answer, Billy.”

I hung up, throwing the Blazer back into gear. I’d just reached twenty miles per hour when he called again.

“Change your mind?” I said.

“You sultry son of a⁠—”

“Okay, I’ll call the feds.”

I hung up again. I hit sixty as the phone buzzed. I swiped to answer.

“Last chance,” I said. “You tell me where Piper is, or I’ll burn your world to the ground.”

“Where do you think she is?” Ashcroft snarled.

I had a pretty good idea, but I didn’t answer. I waited.

“What do you have?” Ashcroft demanded.

I decided to go for the truth—it was the most likely to land hard.

“Proof of mail fraud,” I said. “It won’t lock you up, but it’ll open a portal for the FBI. What will they find when they dig, I wonder?”

No answer.

“You’re out of time, Ashcroft.”

“Give me three minutes. You better not call the feds.”

He hung up, and I used Jesse’s phone to load a GPS route to Atlantic City. I was fifty minutes out from the Atlantic Royale. I would arrive before dawn.

Ashcroft might have Piper someplace else—but I doubted it. AC was safe for him. It was the heart of his empire, surrounded by cops that he likely owned or at least heavily influenced. What was I going to do, anyway? Storm the castle?

Better believe it.

The phone buzzed. It had been exactly three minutes.

“Where are you?” Ashcroft snarled.

“In your blind spot,” I said. “Where’s Piper?”

“Tied to a chair with a gun to her head. I’m one trigger pull away from switching her lights out, Sharpe. Here’s what you’re gonna do if you want to keep her alive. You come to the Atlantic Royale, alone and unarmed. You meet my casino manager at the cage and he’ll escort you to my office. You bring everything you have. Understand? Every scrap, leave nothing behind. If you call the cops, I’ll know. If you call the FBI, I’ll know. If you call your congressman, I’ll know. And I’ll pitch this brat right off my casino roof. You got me?”

“What then?” I said. “What happens when I hand the evidence over?”

I knew the answer, but his lie might give me a hint of his plans.

“I’ll pay you for it,” Ashcroft said. “The girl walks…and if you ever try to backstab me again, I take you down with me.”

Yeah. Sure.

I paused long enough to make him think I might be interested. With the Blazer roaring along at seventy miles per hour, the wind beat my face and my heart hammered.

But I didn’t really need the time to think. I already knew exactly what I was going to do.

“A hundred grand in cash,” I said. “Small bills, no ink packs or tracers. You have it stacked on a table alongside a bag to put it in. I’ll count it when I get there.”

A grunt. “Done. You have one hour.”

Ashcroft hung up, and I floored the Blazer.

53

Atlantic City wasn’t asleep—it was closer to passing out cold. As I turned off the highway and descended into grimy streets surrounded by darkened buildings, flickering neon, and more than a few blacked-out drunks, the timer I’d set on my watch read nineteen minutes, seventeen seconds until Ashcroft’s deadline.

The row of glistening casino towers lined up along Pacific Avenue glowed against a blackened eastern sky, but when contrasted with the western sky, I thought the black might be turning just a shade closer to gray.

Sunrise was coming. The city would awaken in the hours to come, cops and cars and coffee shops all yawning to life. People would return to the boardwalk, gamblers would return to the casinos.

But by then, one particular high-rise casino would be permanently out of business.

I pulled the Blazer to the side of a grungy street bereft of traffic lights, leaving it running as I approached a homeless guy wrapped in a tattered blanket. He recoiled as I neared, but I lifted a calming hand.

“No worries, brother. I come in peace.”

He might not have believed me, but there was no place for him to go. I squatted, glancing down the street and seeing nothing but darkness. No other people, homeless or otherwise.

“What you want?” He spoke in a hoarse growl. I turned back.

“I want to buy your blanket.”

A confused squint distorted his face. “My what?”

“The blanket.” I pointed. The cloth was threadbare, more than a few holes sloppily patched. It might have been green or brown or polka dot pink at some point in time. Now it was just faded gray.

“What you want this blanket for?” He clutched it close to him. I reached into my pocket and withdrew my wallet. All the cash I’d collected from selling Wade Whitlow’s poker chips was still there, and I dealt out a Benjamin.

“Does it matter?” I asked.

His gaze caught on the money. He swallowed. “Just the blanket?”

“Yep.”

He tossed it my way in a wad. I passed off the bill, and he sniffed it. Licked it. Shook it next to his ear.

Then he nodded, apparently satisfied with its legitimacy. The money disappeared into a dirty pocket.

“I appreciate it,” I said, standing.

He grunted and began to pack his things, apparently ready to abscond with his windfall before anything unlucky happened. I’d experienced that sort of cynical anxiety among the homeless before, mostly when I was a beat cop in Phoenix. It always broke my heart.

“Hey,” I said. “How would you like to make another grand?”

He shot me a sideways look. Shook his head. “I ain’t into that, man.”

“No, no. Not like that. I just need somebody to do me a favor.”

He paused. “What kind of favor?”

I withdrew my wallet again. I counted out ten more hundred-dollar bills. I looked up.

“Do you know how to pull a fire alarm?”

54

Istood across the street from the backside of the Atlantic Royale, concealed in shadows between two dumpsters, the Remington 870 wrapped in the threadbare blanket with my right pocket full of shells. In my left pocket rattled the remaining spare rounds for the Smith & Wesson, which was tucked into the small of my back like a tree trunk wedged into a microwave.

Neither gun was subtle. I would have preferred something a little quieter, with a lot less muzzle flip. But then again, I wasn’t feeling all that subtle myself.

Tilting my head back, I looked all the way to the top of the towering hotel complex, where the name of Ashcroft’s casino glowed in bright red neon bolted to shiny black metal. Just behind that neon, I still expected there to be a penthouse. Ashcroft’s absurd, shark-infested office rested one floor beneath it.

But it was the roof itself that drew my eye, my agitated mind working the angles and recalling Ashcroft’s threat to toss Piper from the casino’s top.

When he runs, he’ll run up. Is there a helicopter?

I couldn’t see one. I checked my watch. Twenty-three seconds remained to Ashcroft’s deadline, quickly winding down. I fully expected him to call when the time ran out, and I was right.

“Where are you?”

“Just walking into the casino,” I said. “I’ve got the goods. You got Piper?”

“She’s right here.” Ashcroft snarled the words, and a thump was followed by a pained cry. I recognized the voice.

“She’ll get a lot worse if you’re not up here in two minutes.”

“Relax,” I said. “I’m coming.”

I hung up. I slipped the phone into my back pocket and slid my hand inside the blanket until it closed around the Remington’s grip. My gaze swept the casino’s loading dock, a rear entrance secured by an electronic lock, two dumpsters and a pair of massive electrical panels. Then came the hotel windows, row after row, mostly dark.

Everyone was asleep. The casino floor would be largely empty. If there was a time to strike with minimal risk to innocent civilians, this was it.

“Now,” I whispered to myself.

I waited. The phone in my pocket buzzed.

Then the first blink of bright white light flashed from the corners of the building. A sound like a choking air raid warning ripped down the street. For a perfectly still moment, nothing happened.

Then all the lights came on, flashing from window after window. The tower came to life as the fire alarm persisted, an endless screech.

And I broke from the shadows, headed across the street.

The electronic lock securing the casino’s back door had disengaged with the fire alarm. I ripped the door open and passed into a bright white hallway lined with office doors and janitorial closets, blinking white light flashing overhead as the alarm blazed on.

With the blanket held against my side, the shotgun muzzle pointed directly ahead and my trigger hand still concealed, I tore past the entrance to the hotel laundromat just as two housekeepers burst out—both chattering in Mandarin, both looking alarmed and ready to flee.

“Out!” I said, jerking my head backward.

They didn’t argue. I crossed past a row of offices, casino workers spilling out and looking both ways, one talking on a phone and another shouting into a radio. Everything was chaos—nobody was paying any attention to me. I reached a pair of double doors and smashed straight through, pivoting the concealed shotgun across a blinking casino floor thick with cigarette smoke.

And already chock-full of fleeing hotel guests. Dressed in pajamas and night robes—some barely dressed at all—they moved in a semi-alarmed, semi-irritated mass toward the doors as the fire alarm blared on. I saw my buddy from the street, vamoosing toward the exit with two bottles of vodka cradled under his arms. We made eye contact, and he grinned. Then he was out the front door with the rest, and I was pivoting again.

The elevators were disabled under fire protocol. I found my way to the stairs and started up, my heart thumping as I shoved past more sleepy and irate guests, most cursing about the alarm while only a few seemed genuinely concerned about a fire. Nobody paid any attention to me or my bundle. I reached the eighth floor, just starting to breathe a little harder under the strain of the climb. My phone was buzzing again—it had buzzed three times since the fire alarm went off.

I ignored it every time. There was nothing left to talk about. The Remington would take it from here.

Twelfth floor. The crowds were thinning out, more voices and pounding feet below me than above me. The alarm was still roaring, a blare that pounded in my head as I climbed. My legs burned, reminding me that I had gotten sloppy with my fitness routine in the months since DC. Depression and self-pity—a cocktail that conspired to rob my life of all purpose.

But I had some purpose now. It was driving me ahead, one step after another, past the fifteenth floor. The seventeenth.

On the eighteenth floor, all the hotel guests were beneath me. I was just turning at the landing to start up the final flight when a voice shouted from somewhere above—not in English, but in another romantic language. Italian?

Before I could decide, the first gunshot rang out. Not a thunderclap, but a suppressed pop, amplified by the concrete walls. I snatched back as the bullet bit the wall, sheetrock dust spraying my leg.

Then I returned fire. Muzzle up, finger snatching. It was a rushed shot, but an effective one. The Remington spat a hail of spreading buckshot and found its mark. A shriek ripped from overhead, and something heavy hit the floor. I tore the Remington from the blanket and slammed the pump. Pivoting at the landing, I was already pressing a fresh shell into the magazine tube as I advanced to the nineteenth floor.

Ashcroft’s office floor—all those fancy art pieces and dull broadswords and circling sharks.

Blood speckled the wall as I reached the metal door. It was closed, the white emergency lights flashing through the security glass. I tried the latch, but it was jammed—something pressed beneath the handle on the far side.

The Remington pivoted. A belch of angry fire blew lead through the latching mechanism, opening a jagged hole the size of an orange. Then I tore it open, cycling the shotgun once more just as return fire rained in.

More suppressed pops—fully automatic ones. Bullets shattered the door’s security glass and tore into sheetrock. I saw painted maroon walls hung with artwork, plush leather couches already torn by bullet holes. It was the lobby that preceded Ashcroft’s main office. I remembered the narrow hallway to my left, and I used the door as a shield. I thrust the Remington through the shattered security glass slot.

The roar of the shotgun was so loud it muted the fire alarm flooding the hallway. I had barely located my target before I mashed the trigger, but my aim was good. A short guy clad in a black suit pitched sideways from an art alcove, dropping an MP5 submachine gun and grasping at his thigh.

He screamed. I pumped the shotgun. Another explosion pounded against the walls, and his screams evaporated.

Then I was withdrawing, pressing fresh shells into the tube as the second shooter shouted in what I was now certain had to be Italian. A break in his fire signaled either a reload or a retreat—I guessed retreat and I spun around the door, the Remington locked into my shoulder.

I was right. He was running for the door at the end of the hall, which stood half-open. He made it two strides and then the Remington barked. Twelve-gauge recoil smacked me in the shoulder, and he hurtled forward. Blood sprayed the carpet, and the MP5 flew from his hands. He was down, and whoever stood behind the door to Ashcroft’s office rammed it shut. A lock smacked closed.

I started into the hallway, walking past paintings sprayed with blood, crossing two bodies but leaving their sub guns. The shotgun was working—I wouldn’t reinvent the wheel. One more door stood between me and Ashcroft’s lair.

If he hadn’t lied—if he really was waiting for me on the other side—that lair would become his tomb.

A twelve-inch art alcove directly preceded the door. I backed into it, my shoulder blades colliding with turquoise paint splashed over canvas after the fashion of a kindergartner’s finger-painting. I pivoted the Remington toward the door lock. I fired, blowing the entire latching mechanism out of the wood.

Right on schedule, the return fire roared in. Small caliber bullets broke through the wood and whizzed down the hall, tearing past my legs with only inches to spare. I pumped and topped off the Remington, remaining calm as the hail persisted for what felt like minutes, but was likely only ten or fifteen seconds.

At last the storm died, and I lifted the shotgun. Seconds passed, and through the holes in the door, I detected whispered Italian. Footsteps padded forward. Somebody dropped the charging handle on an MP5.

Then a shadow closed over the shotgun hole in the door. A body neared. A hand touched the wood, and the door creaked open.

I saw a face. I pulled the trigger.

55

The face vanished under the wrath of the shotgun. The weapon slammed into my shoulder and already I was pumping. Already I was hurtling out of the alcove, kicking the door open and pivoting around the frame.

I saw ornate couches and a sprawling desk—more obscure art and weapons hung on the walls, and a giant fish tank was stocked with sharks. The first shadow that moved appeared from behind the desk, a weapon flicking toward me.

I fired. Paper and wood splinters blew into the air. Somebody screamed and fell backward. I fired again, snatching to the left. A gunman scrambling for cover behind a couch took half a buckshot pattern to the back of his head and toppled in a spray of blood.

Then I was diving for cover behind the end of the fish tank. Bullets rained in and glass shattered. A deluge of salt water engulfed me, temporarily blinding me as an eighteen-inch shark exploded over my head and flopped to the floor. The hail was ceaseless—it streamed from some place to my right, and it was accompanied by more shouting.

Not just Italian—English, also.

“Move! Upstairs!”

It was Ashcroft. I recognized the voice, and I slammed the pump on the shotgun. I spat salt water as the flood subsided, the flopping shark now riddled with nine-millimeter holes. I pictured the office layout from memory. I recalled the position of every piece of furniture, the bookshelves and freestanding humidor beyond…

And the door in between. I heard feet pounding on steps, and I knew what it was. Ashcroft was on the run, maybe dragging Piper along with him. I thought I detected a feminine scream somewhere amid the still blaring fire alarm.

I rose from behind the fish tank, looking past soggy live rock to the floor beyond. A shadow moved behind a leather chair, and I shot the chair—a grapefruit hole at eight yards. An ear-piercing scream. The next movement came from my right, just beyond the rock. I pumped and fired, pumped and fired. Moving out from cover and crossing saturated hardwood flooring. Decimating another chair and shattering a lamp. I ran the Remington dry as I closed on the door.

Everyone was dead. Two more shooters lay tangled in black suits, both grasping MP5s, both torn by buckshot. I reached the door and pressed my back against the wall next to it, ramming shells into the magazine tube. Breathing hard, my head throbbing with the perpetual scream of the fire alarm.

More footsteps pounded. Shouts echoed. Then another scream.

“Mason! Mason, there’s a heli⁠—”

Piper’s shout broke short. I stuck the Remington around the doorjamb, jerking it upward and waiting…

Nothing. No gunfire. No more voices or footsteps.

Now or never.

I pivoted into the stairwell, leading with the Remington. The steps switched back some fifteen feet overhead. There was a door, maybe leading to the penthouse where Ashcroft lived, but it was closed. Up another flight of steps, a third door stood open. I smelled fresh salt air—and then I heard a helicopter engine whining to life.

I broke into a run, taking the steps two at a time with my finger riding just outside the trigger guard. I made it to the twentieth floor landing and was just circling toward the final flight of stairs when the gunfire resumed. No longer automatic, this was the frantic popping of a suppressed handgun. Bullets ripped past my body and slammed into the concrete. I snatched back and swung the shotgun toward the door. Concrete chips sliced into my face as I aimed and fired.

The concussive roar of the shotgun in the enclosed stairwell nearly erased my hearing. Everything descended into a vague ringing. Blood pattern sprayed the wall next to the final door—an exterior door with black sky beyond.

I started up the steps again, pumping and running. My breath came in short bursts as the distant howl of that chopper grew louder. One more turn at a landing, and I nearly slipped on a puddle of crimson. A body lay sprawled across floor. Distant shouting echoed through the night.

Then I swung through the door. Gunfire drew my eye from twenty yards away—one last black-suited gangster frantically dumping rounds from a suppressed pistol. I shot him in the guts and he hurtled backwards. I pumped the Remington as my gaze tore past the chopper—some kind of Bell model, gunmetal gray with howling twin engines and a thundering rotor. A pilot sat behind the left stick—the back right door was rolled open and as my gaze flashed past it, I froze for just a moment.

A massive blob of a figure sat in the back. Stubby arms and a ballooning gut that lay like a second body across his legs. It was Julius Carfano. He was pale, clawing at the door.

But I ignored him. I kept turning, because a voice broke through the fog of the beating rotors and the blaring fire alarm. It was a familiar voice—it was Bill Ashcroft’s voice, mixed with Piper’s scream.

I snatched the Remington up and to the left. My finger tightened around the trigger—then I froze.

Ashcroft stood there, right at the edge of the tower’s roof. The ambient glow of the Atlantic Royale’s lights cast crimson over his face. He held Piper by her pigtails—she was still dressed in an orange jail jumpsuit, her cast-encased arm held in a sling. With one hand Ashcroft thrust a polished 1911 pistol at me…

And with the other, he pushed Piper to the building’s edge.

56

“Drop it!”

Ashcroft shouted over the thunder of the helicopter, and I stood motionless amid the ripping wind. I had the ghost ring sights of the Remington fixed on his chest, but Piper stood too close to the roof’s edge. If I fired, I would throw Ashcroft into the abyss.

And Piper with him.

“Drop the gun!” Ashcroft shouted again, his voice wild with desperation. “I’ll throw her over.”

I took a half-step forward, and Ashcroft pushed Piper another three inches. She flailed, grasping at his arm as her jailhouse flip-flops scraped the concrete. She stood a breath away from falling, her face chalky white as she gasped and sobbed.

“M-Mason!”

“Hang on, Piper! Stay calm.”

I didn’t move. Ashcroft breathed hard. His wild eyes snatched from the chopper to me. Through the corner of my eye, I could see Carfano moving, his blubbery body heaving as he twisted in his seat—maybe going for a gun. Before he could reach one, I stepped sideways. Three quick strides and I put an industrial HVAC unit between myself and the chopper. I could no longer see Carfano, but it wasn’t like he could move very quickly, and he wouldn’t let the pilot out of his seat.

“Let her go, Ashcroft,” I said. “You pull her off that edge, or I’ll blow your lungs out.”

“You shoot and she falls!” Ashcroft howled. “Drop the gun. Do it now!”

He shook her. Piper shrieked. One flip-flop vanished into the darkness as she scrambled for better footing.

But I didn’t drop the shotgun. Why should I? If Ashcroft dropped Piper, he was a dead man, and he knew it. This wasn’t checkmate, it was stalemate.

For now.

“The feds are coming, Ashcroft,” I said. “They already have all the documentation from Windale, and now they’ll add kidnapping to your rap sheet.”

Ashcroft’s face tensed. He was breathing hard, nearly overcome with panic. I needed to calm him down.

“You’re a smart guy, Bill. A successful businessman who’s colored outside the lines a bit. I know you must have an exit plan—some bank account in South America chock-full of backup cash. You let her go and I’ll let you walk. You take the chopper and you can split. By the time the FBI arrives, you can be safely on your way to Venezuela.”

Ashcroft shook. His teeth clinched and something like a lion’s roar ripped from his throat. He was enraged, turning crimson. He looked ready to blow.

“Stupid kid!” He howled, shaking Piper. “I was going to revolutionize that economy. Those cadavers on Riverside could have lived in a resort, rent-free! I made six-figure offers!”

I let him howl, not the least bit interested in his explanations. Carfano’s presence on the roof said it all. There was so much more going on here than a simple gambling venture, but that didn’t even matter.

I only had to keep Piper alive—somehow.

“Sometimes you strike out, Bill. I’m sure the Venezuelans like to gamble, too. Call it a day and cut your losses. Let’s not make this worse than it has to be.”

It was my best pitch. A take it or leave it offer, and I prayed that he would take it. I really would let him split—he could be Linda Kirsch’s problem.

Ashcroft licked his lips. He looked at the chopper, eyes wide. Hesitating. Then he jammed the 1911 at me. He screamed like Carfano’s pet tiger.

“Drop the gun! I swear I’ll kill her.”

He pushed Piper again. She was teetering—one foot flailing, the other ready to slip. She clung to Ashcroft’s outstretched arm with her good hand, eyes wide and mouth frozen open. She wasn’t even screaming anymore. She was one slip away from falling.

I stood motionless, my mind working on the variables and coming up with nothing. I was backed into a corner with all my chips on the table. The Remington should have been a royal flush, but it might as well have been a garbage hand. There was no way out of this. Time was running out.

And then a gunshot cracked. Not from me, and not from Ashcroft. It rang from beyond the A/C unit, a snap loud enough to break above the roar of the helicopter. I flinched, battlefield instincts commanding me to pivot.

But the gun hadn’t been aimed at me. Bill Ashcroft turned rigid. Confusion clouded his face as his gun hand shook. He looked down to the crimson flower blooming across his chest, right above his heart. A gaping hole that grew into a melon-sized stain. Ashcroft looked up—he looked at me, and then he looked across the roof.

Toward Carfano.

I understood what had happened in the same split second that Ashcroft did. His gun hand fell as he stumbled back, and I finally followed his orders. I threw the Remington down. I exploded from behind the A/C unit as the helicopter engines howled to a fever pitch. Rotor wash ripped against my shirt as Ashcroft took another half-step backward, toward the edge. He dropped the 1911. He swallowed, eyes turning red.

I was ten yards out. I was hurling myself forward. Behind me, the chopper lifted off.

Seven yards, and Piper slipped. She shrieked. She toppled backward, her voice a desperate cry like that of an abandoned child.

Five yards, and she entered empty space. Death clouded over Ashcroft’s face, and he pitched backwards. Hit the ground. His limp body snatched toward the edge, dragged by Piper’s grip.

Two yards, and I launched myself forward—hurling my body straight toward the abyss.

57

Piper went over. Ashcroft went over. I hit the roof’s edge chest-first, and the air rushed from my lungs. Ashcroft’s polished dress shoes snatched past my face, racing for the edge. I saw them as a flash of black, and I snatched at that blur. My arms crossed over empty air. My fingers closed.

I caught Ashcroft by the ankle just as his fully bodyweight descended like an anchor. The pressure drove my sternum into the roof, constricting my lungs and choking out my breath. I gripped with everything I had in me, my vision turning dark as the chopper circled overhead, spinning and banking and fading. I heard fire alarms and the distant blare of emergency sirens. It all faded into meaningless background noise as I stared down twenty stories.

Past Ashcroft. Past the sparkling neon of the Atlantic Royale sign…to Piper.

Clinging with her one good hand to Ashcroft’s lifeless arm, she shrieked and swung. She kicked, but there was nothing to gain purchase on. Her bare feet slipped right off the tower’s slick glass. She gasped and slipped two inches. Blood ran from Ashcroft’s chest wound and down his arm. It was running over her fingers—it turned his skin slick.

“Piper!” I managed only a half shout. She heard me, panicked eyes turning upward.

“Mason!”

I pulled. I gave it everything I had, wrenching upward on Ashcroft’s ankle. My fingers tore into a pants leg and caught on his shoe. I yanked, but gained nothing. The weight was too much. My leverage was nearly zero. It was sheer muscle against two-hundred-fifty plus pounds. Ashcroft was literally dead weight.

“Pull!” Piper gasped. “Mason, help me!”

I yanked again. I gained half an inch—then lost twice that. Piper’s body slapped the glass of the twentieth-floor penthouse, then swung as Ashcroft’s body raked against the Atlantic Royale sign.

I couldn’t lift them. It was too much. Already my fingers were cramping, my muscles threatening to quit on me. In a minute, maybe half that time, I would give out. It wouldn’t be up to me. Ashcroft would go, and Piper would go with him.

Twenty long stories…straight to certain death.

I kicked with both feet, flailing for purchase. Desperate to bring my leg muscles into the fight, somehow. All I earned was another six-inch slide. I was hanging off the edge myself, my sternum resting over the roof while my head and shoulders hung over empty air.

The weight was dragging me into the void. Another few inches and I’d lose the fight. I’d let go, or we’d both die.

No chance.

“Piper!” I choked. “Piper, listen to me!”

She screamed again. She was slipping, her one-handed grip giving out. But I got her to look up. Twisting on the roof, I felt the bulk of Wade Whitlow’s oversized revolver pressed into my spine.

Loaded with five rounds of bear-slaying .460 Magnum.

“Piper! You’ve got to kick off the window when I say.”

“What?” She gasped. “Pull me up!”

“I can’t pull you, Piper! Do what I tell you. Put your feet on the window, and kick off it.”

“What?”

“Do it now, Piper! Kick off the window!”

She didn’t understand my strategy—but she heard me. Her fingers slipped closer to Ashcroft’s wrist. My own fingers slipped closer to his shoe. She looked up and I saw the pure terror in her eyes. The desperation. The certainty of death.

“I…I don’t want to die,” she sobbed.

“You won’t,” I gasped. “I promise you. You push off the glass, now. Okay? You kick it like it’s a gas-guzzling planet killer. Can you do that for me?”

Piper’s eyes fogged with tears. Her fingers tightened around Ashcroft’s wrist, only one more jolt from breaking free.

Then she nodded.

“Do it now!”

Piper’s legs bunched. She planted her feet against the glass and shoved off. She swung out from the building—not far, maybe eighteen inches.

“Again!” I screamed.

She kicked a second time. Two feet out. Her fingers slid to the base of Ashcroft’s palm. She shrieked.

“Again!”

Piper’s feet hit the window. Her legs bunched. She drew all the way up against it. She launched out once more.

And I released Ashcroft’s leg with my right hand. Piper began her launch and I found the grip of the Smith & Wesson. Ashcroft’s leg began breaking from my weakened left hand, and I drew the revolver. I rolled. Piper swung into empty midair. I thrust the pistol over the edge, aimed and squeezed. The gun bucked—fire exploded from the ported barreled. Ashcroft’s pant leg tore free of my hand. His foot flashed pasted my face. The Smith thundered again, driving a second hunting slug into the plate-glass window.

It shattered. Cubes rained into the neon-lit darkness. Ashcroft fell—Piper swung inward.

I caught myself on the roof’s edge as the Smith flew from my grip. Piper passed through the blown-out window with a scream, releasing Ashcroft’s hand.

She disappeared—and both the gun and the lifeless body of billionaire business tycoon Bill Ashcroft fell in slow motion for the deathly pavement twenty stories below.

58

Firefighters found us first. Curled on the plush carpeting of Ashcroft’s private penthouse palace, I leaned against the wall next to the shattered window, speckled with blood and covered in gunshot residue…Piper held sobbing in my arms.

She hadn’t let go of me since I burst through the front door, finding her shaking in panic on the carpet, coated in Ashcroft’s blood and clawing her way back from the window. I pulled her close and she sobbed, disrupted pigtails bunching in my face and her cast-frozen arm jammed against my chest. She smelled of sweat and so much fear. Her heart pounded like a kick drum…and mine wasn’t much slower.

The fire alarms finally quit, but we didn’t move. The firefighters came and called for paramedics. Still, Piper wouldn’t leave me. Not until a full medical crew arrived and the Atlantic City police department swarmed the top two floors of the building did I finally push her back from my chest. She turned frightened eyes on me. Then she planted her face in my chest and shook, and I looked at the nearest paramedic.

“She’s okay,” I said. “Just give her time.”

The paramedic shot a look at his boss. Two cops pushed past us to the open window and looked down to the site of Bill Ashcroft’s body—no doubt surrounded by more police. Then they looked back at me.

“Did you…” one began.

I slouched against the wall. Breathed hard. Then closed my eyes.

“FBI,” I said. “Just call the FBI.”

The cops did call the FBI. At length, several agents arrived. I inquired about Linda Kirsch, but they wouldn’t answer. They asked my name, and I kept silent, focusing my energy on Piper.

At last, I convinced her to go with the paramedics. She was given a sedative and guided out of the building. I accepted the handcuffs around my wrists and submitted myself to the predictable—a very long, solitary nap in the back of an Atlantic City police car.

I still wouldn’t talk. What could I say? Nothing anybody would believe. I waited until knuckles rang against the glass, and I opened my eyes to find a middle-aged guy with a receding hairline flashing a badge against the window—an FBI badge.

He opened the door, and I sat up, fighting back a yawn. I was something worse than exhausted. As the sunrise streaming between casinos and glared into my eyes, I surveyed fire trucks and maybe two dozen patrol cars.

Lights flashes. Cops walked this way and that. Crime scene tape surrounding a bloody spot on the concrete.

“Are you Mason Sharpe?” the special agent asked. He sounded as tired as I felt.

I said nothing, and the guy sighed. He dispensed a stick of chewing gum from his pocket and passed it between his lips, surveying the mess. Then shaking his head.

“Linda worked with some civilian on an investigation back in DC, recently. Heck of a mess that time, too.”

“You know Kirsch?” I said.

He grunted. “I ought to. I’m her boss.”

“Is she…”

“Yeah, kid.” He turned back. “She’s alive. Five broken ribs, a busted leg and a broken shoulder. Two gunshot wounds and a headache to end all headaches, I’d imagine. But she’ll pull through. That’s Linda Kirsch…tough as a dog’s chew toy.”

The simile brought just the hint of a smile to my face. The special agent spat.

“My name is Reeves. The AC cops say you won’t talk. Is that true?”

I didn’t answer.

“There’s security cameras all over that casino. They’re gonna know exactly what happened.”

I knew. What was the value of saying it?

The special agent squatted, bringing his face beneath the glare of the sun where I could see it.

“You know, lots of folks are gonna miss Bill Ashcroft. None of them will be good people.”

“Your point?” I said.

“I was just thinking…from the right perspective—you know, the right legal argument—it seems to me this was a messy case of self-defense. Saving that kid…it’s noble of you.”

His voice sounded sincere. I would still admit to nothing. I knew how these games worked.

“Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you come with me? If you choose that, the AC cops won’t argue. We’ll get you up to our field office in Philly and get you cleaned up. Get you some rest. When Kirsch comes around, we’ll see what she has to say. Maybe this all blows over…maybe it doesn’t. Whatever the case, I’ll commit to playing fair. Okay?”

I looked over his shoulder, sweeping the faces of the nearby cops. Most ignored me. I few eyeballed me a little too hard…maybe because I’d just cost them a regular “dividend check”. I couldn’t possibly imagine that all or even very many of the Atlantic City cops were dirty. Most were likely good people, overwhelmed by a city crumbling around them.

But some might not be. Some might have connections with certain Italians in New York City. A visit to the Atlantic City jail could be a painful, short-lived experience.

I looked back at the agent. I rotated in the cruiser to set both feet on the ground.

“You got any cheesesteaks at your field office?” I asked.

He smiled.

59

Special Agent Reeves was as good as his word. I spent six long days in solitary confinement at the Federal Detention Facility in Philadelphia, eating cheesesteaks delivered daily by Reeve’s people. They were even better than the one I’d eaten in Jersey, and they didn’t get old. I felt a little better each day as aching muscles loosened. Twice I was interviewed by Reeve’s team, and both times I kept my story simple.

I was at the Atlantic Royale. I knew that Ashcroft had kidnapped Piper, and I interceded. When asked about the origins of the shotgun and the revolver, I simply shrugged. I thought those questions would be answered soon enough when Kirsch was ready to talk, and I was right.

On day six, Reeves arrived at the FDC to check me out. He didn’t handcuff me. I rode in a black Tahoe out of Philly, south to Delaware, and the FBI Wilmington Resident Agency located there. We didn’t speak as Reeve’s drove. He whistled a little, chewing a lot of gum and playing John Denver’s greatest hits on his stereo.

Inside the FBI building, I followed him to a windowless conference room stocked with a table and high-backed leather chairs. One of those chairs was pushed aside, leaving a gap occupied by a wheelchair.

In that wheelchair sat Linda Kirsch. Bandaged in half a dozen places with a solid cast that ran from her left wrist all the way up to her neck, she shot me a look like frozen vodka as I entered. I paused a moment to regard her, then smiled.

The middle finger of her battered arm flicked. Reeves snorted and shut the door.

“Have a seat, Mr. Sharpe.”

I obliged, keeping three chairs between myself and Kirsch. Reeves sat across from me. He kicked back and crossed one leg over the other. He looked at Kirsch for a long moment, then back at me. He sighed.

“Well, I don’t mind telling you—this is a mess.”

I remained quiet. Reeves shook his head.

“These big money types, they always run together. The distinguished Bill Ashcroft had quite the Rolodex of criminal compatriots.”

“Is that right?” I said.

“Indeed. For instance, there’s this one guy…Julius Carfano. Big-time gangster, and a prominent member of the Carfano crime family out of New York. You ever hear of him?”

I didn’t answer. Reeves nodded. “Well, Julius—Big Julius, he’s called—was actually in business with Bill Ashcroft, it seems. The two of them were thick as thieves—which is an apropos metaphor, because they were in fact thieving a sizable chunk of tax revenue from the Federal Government. Millions, over the course of the last few years. We learned all about it after we subpoenaed Ashcroft’s banking records…which we could do after identifying mail fraud. Silly little thing. Bribe checks labeled as casino dividends. Can you believe that?”

I looked at Kirsch. She didn’t blink. I turned back to Reeves.

“Heck of a thing.”

“Indeed, indeed. Now, as you know, Bill Ashcroft is no longer with us. His buddy Big Julius is in the wind. Can’t find that guy anywhere—he’s likely overseas. Whatever the case, the Windale Royale casino project the two of them were planning is dead as a doornail. Lots of folks are pretty upset by that, too. Mostly certain cops and certain judges and certain prosecutors…like I said, a real mess.”

Again, I looked to Kirsch. She was busy picking the fingernails of her right hand with her right thumb. Maybe avoiding my gaze, maybe just bored.

I sighed. “Okay. So I’ll say it, then. Where does this leave me?”

“We’ve interviewed Special Agent Kirsch about that,” Reeves said. “She detailed your willing assistance in her investigation of Bill Ashcroft’s mail fraud. I guess you were concerned about a check or whatever and placed a phone call. Very good of you. It was even better of you to render defensive aid to Special Agent Kirsch when she was ambushed by Ashcroft’s thugs outside of Windale…after which, I guess you decided to blow off a little steam by tossing dice at the Atlantic Royale. That’s where you were when you witnessed Piper Haines being held against her will, correct? Another opportunity to put old skills to public use.”

I didn’t answer. Reeves eyeballed me a long time, and I knew that he knew the truth.

But what did it matter?

“Right place at the right time,” I said.

“Hmm,” he said. “Indeed. Good luck for Piper…and for Special Agent Kirsch.”

He pushed his chair back. Stood and twisted until his back crackled.

“So…I’m free to go?” I asked.

“Huh? Oh, yes. Of course. With the compliments of the Bureau, Mr. Sharpe. Take care of yourself.”

Reeves extended a hand. I clasped it, and he shook once. Then he popped gum into his mouth and turned for the door, leaving me alone with Kirsch, just like that.

I faced her. She cocked one eyebrow. For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Then Kirsch breathed a curse.

“If I ever see you again…”

I smiled. I took her right hand and squeezed. She grimaced as though she were being ripped in half. I ducked my head once and turned for the door.

“Hey, Mason?” Kirsch called.

I looked back. “Yeah?”

“Just…one thing.”

I pocketed my hands. Waited.

“In DC, it was the woman those Chinese killed. In Windale, it was a crazy hippy with a wild story. Not your problem, either time. So…why?”

I swallowed. I looked out the window and watched the sun setting in a clear Delaware sky. It burned in my eyes, and my lips opened, but no answer came.

I didn’t know what to say. It was a simple question, but the answer felt convoluted. Distorted. Twisted.

Truth was, I hadn’t wanted to help Piper. I’d wanted to get out of Windale as soon as possible. I was angry. I felt robbed. I was alone and fed up with being alone.

I was hurting…but so was Piper. And what made my hurt any more important than hers? Or anybody’s?

My life wasn’t special. My story wasn’t unique. The whole world was a tapestry of pain, and more than anything on planet earth, I was just hoping to find the cure.

“I guess…I just have trouble walking away,” I said.

Kirsch snorted. I looked back. She was rolling her eyes.

“Well, I tell you what,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Next time you can’t walk away…don’t call me.”

I winked. “You got it, Kirsch.”

60

Icaught a cab back to Windale and had the driver drop me near the heart of downtown. The community looked much the same as it had a week prior…minus a few cops, anyway. I found my way to Patty’s Diner and found Piper waiting in the back behind a tall glass of imported California orange juice. She saw me coming and exploded out of the booth, wrapping her good arm around me and tugging me close. Everyone stared, but I ignored them. I hugged her back.

Then we both sat, and Patty brought me a burger and fries without asking for my order. She winked, but said nothing. I figured the story of Piper’s adventures in Atlantic City—or some version of it—had leaked around town by that point.

Some might believe it. Some might not. Some might be happy to see me leave.

It wasn’t my concern, regardless.

I devoured the burger while Piper munched a vegan salad and babbled about the fallout of the FBI’s ongoing investigation into the dealings of Bill Ashcroft. It was a treasure trove of corruption, with leads that spread like a spiderweb across the entire State of New Jersey, reaching into all three branches of government and threatening to become the political scandal of the decade. Everyone who had ever shaken hands with Bill Ashcroft was pretending to have barely known him. Careers—even life outside of prison—was on the line.

But I didn’t care about any of that, and neither did Piper. For the moment, her precious Riverside Lane was safe. There was even some conversation of a class action lawsuit against the Ashcroft estate which might compensate the members of the Riverside community for harassment and discriminatory denial of development grants. Piper was looking into it—the Windale Preservation Society was yet again on the warpath.

I listened and spoke little. With a full belly and thirty-five hundred dollars of Wade Whitlow’s poker chip money surviving in my back pocket, my mind had already drifted out of town.

Back to my truck, damaged or otherwise. To the road out of town. To some place, somewhere…

“You okay, Mason?”

My gaze snapped from the window. I blinked. “Yeah…yeah I’m good.”

Piper smiled. She looked somehow more like a kid than she ever had. Glassy-eyed with excitement over the success of one social campaign and the launch of another. Not the least bit hampered by her trauma.

As tough as a dog’s chew toy, just like Kirsch. But in a very different way.

“You wanna take a walk?” I suggested.

I tried to pay the bill, but Patty waved me off. We hit the sidewalk and turned north. For a change, Piper remained quiet. She breathed deep, looking very alive. Very ready for the next thing.

And so was I.

At the edge of town, we stopped at one of Bill Ashcroft’s development parks and stood watching kids play on a jungle gym. I kept my hands in my pockets, feeling loose and yet somewhat unsettled. Somewhat…unsatisfied.

“Piper,” I said. “Do you really think there’s some big plan for the universe?”

Piper squinted, and at first I thought she was unsure. Then I realized she was just surprised by the question.

“Of course I do.”

I thought about that moment the Chevy Blazer plowed into Kirsch’s Malibu like a charging tank. About the fear that had washed through my chest.

The unresolved question.

“I’ve been…” I started. Stopped. Piper cocked her head.

At last, I looked at her. “I’ve been searching for a long time. Trying to…trying to understand why I’m here, I guess. What the point is.”

She didn’t answer, she just listened. Suddenly, I laughed. A short sound.

“It’s like I can’t die. I get in these scrapes, but it’s like…something isn’t done with me.”

A twinkle entered Piper’s eyes. “Something like the universe?”

My smile faded. I looked to the sky. “Honestly, Piper…I think it’s a lot bigger than that. And I think…I think He has a name.”

I looked back at her. She squinted. I saw some of the confusion in her face that I myself had felt for so long. I felt somehow responsible for it, but I wasn’t sure how to fix it. They were questions I hadn’t yet resolved for myself.

A puzzle that, no matter how many times I turned my back on it, I couldn’t quite abandon.

“I don’t know, Piper. I think I’m pretty tired of worrying about myself. Of trying to be okay, of trying to feel whole. I think…”

I looked to the road. I thought of my truck. I thought of some highway and some sunset and some field where I could break out my camping stove and heat beans with sausages.

Perfect.

“I think from now on, I’m just gonna try to help people. And I’ll see what happens.”

Piper smiled. “You helped me.”

“Did I?”

She laughed. She threw her arm around me and squeezed tight.

“Take care of yourself, Mason.”

I patted her pigtailed head. She released me and I shot her a wink.

As I set off down the sidewalk, headed north toward the tire shop and my still-damaged truck, I enjoyed the setting sun on my face. I enjoyed the warm summer breeze and a full belly and another day to just breathe.

And everything else?

I just let it go.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Logan Ryles was born in small town USA and knew from an early age he wanted to be a writer. After working as a pizza delivery driver, sawmill operator, and banker, he finally embraced the dream and has been writing ever since. With a passion for action-packed and mystery-laced stories, Logan’s work has ranged from global-scale political thrillers to small town vigilante hero fiction.

Beyond writing, Logan enjoys saltwater fishing, road trips, sports, and fast cars. He lives with his wife and three fun-loving dogs in Alabama.

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Wild Card