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Prologue
DANE
Chicago, Illinois, May 16, Four YearsAgo
I should’ve asked for more money on thisjob. I liked these shoes.
Neon, glow-stick guideposts and unsteadycamera flashes punctuated the grimy darkness ahead and behind. Fourgiggling, yowling college brats traipsed through thegraffiti-spattered tunnels, crunching their inebriated way toward adistant, pounding bass. Dane doubted even God knew what refuselittered the ground under their designer footsteps. He paused intheir wake long enough to watch a rat scamper over a broken plastictable. If any of the brats knew what they were walking in, they’dhave run screaming ten glow sticks back.And if they knew whofollowed them in, they’d never have come at all.The thoughtmade him almost smile.
Clang!The sound rang like a dentedbell as the lead idiot slammed his empty head into yet anotherfallen beam. Sober—and familiar with the terrain—Dane easilyslipped around the toppled corpses of forgotten machines andfurniture that kept interrupting the brats. He’d been down hereoften enough before, but not for a solid six months. Chicago’sabandoned grain silos made a useful retreat for his business.Judging by the silo’s faint stench—putrefied decades of industrialwaste and pollution but without the sweet-rancid notes of rottingflesh—some urban explorer must’ve found that body.
Wonder if the coroner still has it?The thought made him pause.Nah. They’d have to have buried it.Not like it still had fingers. Or teeth. DNA’s the only chance, butI burned the shit out of it.He ran through the list ofprecautions, all the ways he’d stripped identity from the target.Adam would’ve told me by now if I fucked up and someone camesniffing around after him.The target had been his big test onwet work.
Most nineteen-year-olds he’d gone to schoolwith—like the idiots he was following—continued to college wheretests came on paper or keyboards, on regular schedules. His weremore hands-on. With bullets and acid instead of pens and pointers.For a moment, watching two of the idiots banter about movies, hewondered what his life would’ve looked like if he’d followed theirbullshit path. The daydream was fleeting.Better to rule in Hellthan pledge a fraternity. And more profitable.
He’d made his choice official on hissixteenth birthday, after a middle school career of candysmuggling, black-market vape rings, and protection graduated tosmuggling answer sheets and the odd spot of teacher intimidation.The deal his father set that day remained in play: either Dane acedevery task set before him, or he’d be out.And I’m not letting aparty-boy junkie ruin my plans. If I could just get around theidiots…
The drunks didn’t notice his glare. Didn’teven know he was there.I could take them all down, and theywouldn’t realize ‘til the Reaper showed up.Every timethey navigated around a fallen pylon or climbed a rusted,century-old ladder, they giggled and posed for selfies like thedecaying artifacts were props and not dangerous impediments.
After a precarious flight of metal stairs,the pulsing bass grew deeper, rattling and humming through thesilo’s crumbling bricks and spiny rebar ribs. Crouching under afinal beam a carefully counted minute after the idiots, Danestepped into another world. Dozens of similarly overdressed moronsgathered in the remains of a factory floor, jumping and slitheringto a grating house beat. Two floodlights glowed at the far cornersof the building, but only glow sticks and phones bopped and flashedon the dance floor. The shoddy lighting created an infinite numberof shadowy alcoves for doing whatever one wanted. And these idiotsall wanted quite a lot of everything. Especially whatever theycould shove up their plastic noses and into their blue-bloodedveins.
There should’ve been police lights and angrymegaphone-wielding officers bellowing orders to get the hell awayfrom this death trap. But nobody was coming. There were differentrules for people like this—too rich and too bored, with enough timeand money to throw together an impromptu venue for one night’sdangerous thrills. And at least one of them had the connections tomake sure the cops didn’t notice.
The small group he followed melded into thecrowd’s gyrating nucleus, but Dane remained at the outer edges.Waiting. Watching. He had a job, and the sooner he got it done, thesooner he could get home and burn his shoes.
There.A shiny, red leather jacketfrom a 1980s cocaine dream.Jesus, he can’t even dress himself.No wonder he’s landed in this shithole.Landon Kirke—junkie,gambling addict, dealer, who lost his grandfather’s fortune—ledother wasted idiots in pumping their fists to the beat, lost in thesame coke-addled hallucination that led him to put on that uglyfucking jacket. He was even wearing sunglasses at night.Oh,well. Easy payday on my end.
Kirke probably couldn’t see the person infront of him, never mind a man thirty feet away. He wasn’t evendancing with the same piece of ass he’d brought into the silos. Thelast chick was a tall redhead, filled and tucked in all the trendyplaces. She was probably sitting somewhere weeping over her ruinedManolo’s. Kirke’s new partner was short, stacked for action, andbrunette. Dane hoped she wouldn’t get in the way. Nobody with anass like that should get hurt for a broke scumbag who couldn’t keephis nose out of his own wares.
Then again, if she was at this party, shewas already playing against loaded dice. Enough girls had gonemissing from these events lately that Dane knew he wasn’t the onlyshark hunting in the drug-laced waters.
Dane’s phone buzzed. He drew it from hispocket, holding it up like a camera to read the text while keepingthe mark in sight.
Sawyer:Done yet?
He sighed and put the phone back. Hispartner could wait. Kirke was moving, the petite girl hanging onhis arm. Dane’s hand slid deeper into the pocket. His thumb rubbedalong the worn texture of St. Michael’s face in slow, calmingcircles as he threaded through the crowd in Kirke’s wake. He had nofaith left for saints, but the habit persisted.
The couple passed under an orange nylon ropehung with a handwritten caution sign and through an unmarked,lopsided doorway hacked into a corrugated wall and hung withplastic sheeting. Dane paused to pull his gloves from his belt andslowly tugged them on, adjusting each finger as he closed thedistance. A few steps from the exit, the creaking floor shiftedunder his feet. He glanced down, grimacing. The beams were rottenas Kirke’s luck.
Fucker must be desperate forpussy.
He risked a quick scan of the main party,where nearly a hundred other revelers bobbed and bounced like somuch fleshy flotsam.How long until they all fallthrough?Not that anything of value would be lost.
Carefully, he followed his mark and theshapely soon-to-be collateral-damage statistic, ducking through thesheeting with only the smallest rustling sound—easily lost in themusic. His eyes adjusted to the moonlight, but the wind whippedthrough shattered windows, slapping the stench of dilapidated sewerpipes right up his nostrils. Dane grunted and breathed through hismouth.
Holes in the wall and the ceilingilluminated footprints along the muck-covered floor. Dane’s stepswere light, all but silent. Voices drifted on the toxic breeze,though the words were hushed and difficult to hear with the musicstill screeching through the walls. Still, he was surprised.
Talking, huh? Guess the lady isn’t asdesperate as he hoped.Dane grinned, waiting for the man tospeak again.
“Aw, c’mon baby, you know it’s—” Kirke’sspeech broke off in a strangled yelp as Dane seized his throat frombehind.
His other hand caught the man’s wrist. Thegirl screamed as Dane threw Kirke to the ground with his ownmomentum. He landed on Kirke’s chest hard enough to knock the windout of his worthless lungs. Bloodshot eyes stared at him from abovea gaping wet mouth. A fish out of water would’ve been moreattractive.
“You knew it was coming, Kirke,” Dane’svoice grated just above a whisper. Kirke’s free hand grabbed Dane’sforearm, squeezing, nails digging hard enough to feel through hisleather jacket. He didn’t release Kirke’s throat, and as Kirkestruggled, Dane drew his pistol, casually setting it against thejunkie’s forehead. “You going to make me kill you in front of thelady?” he asked with a lazy smile. The feminine scream had diedoff, he realized.Damn it, she better not run…Dane lookedup. His smile vanished.
What. The. Fuck?
He nearly pulled the trigger. Snarling, hedrew the pistol back and whipped it across Kirke’s face. Blood andspittle spurted with the blow, marring Dane’s light-gray shirt. Hedidn’t care. His attention remained on the girl frozen in front ofhim. The body he’d appreciated in that microscopic skirt was notsupposed to be here. The fact he’d failed to recognize her was…It’s a fucking crisis, that’s what.
