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CHAPTER 1
Knox
There is nothing about the way I look that says I design watches. I'm not just any designer, I'm Knox "The Sandman" Sanders. It was cool when I was 19 and apprenticing for one of the most notable jewelers at that time. Now?
"Mr. Sanders." A scrawny-looking guy wearing Gold Royale Luxury Transport's signature black slacks and black button-up shirt with gold pinstripes flags me down. The doors open automatically as I exit JFK Airport in New York City. Every New Yorker has a love-hate relationship with this place. As soon as I step out of the terminal, the foul-mouth tirades of cab drivers arguing with NYPD officers determined to keep cars moving through the Arrivals lane echo through the air.
Thunder crashes and lightning flashes after I settle into the back seat of a private car service. I use the same service every time I fly into the city because they're quick, discreet, and understand the importance of getting me from Point A to Point B in a reasonable amount of time. That's the problem when you find a routine that works. Once it works for you, it tends to work for anyone tracking your movements.
There's something different about this driver's route to my home in Brooklyn that's making me fidget. My eyes scan the back seat for his medallion or TLC license. The postcard-sized picture matches the guy driving, so nothing's wrong there. Still, I'm uncertain of where he's heading.
"Hey, Paulie, is it? You should have stayed on the Belt, man. Taking side streets is gonna take forever with the lights," I tell him, checking the watch on my wrist. It's plain, but still a piece of art. Simplistic luxury is my style and I take pride in making watches the same way.
"It's cool, Mr. Sanders. Storm's coming in and they got the Belt all tied up with a flood warning. I figure this way we can get around it and hop back on once we get away from Queens." The driver's laughter mixing with his words doesn't calm my suspicions.
In fact, it irritates me.
"It's fine. Just pull over. I'll call my buddy to come get me. This isn't what I signed up for when I ordered the service."
"No, we're so close, Mr. Sanders. I swear this will get you right where you need to be."
I groan, letting the driver take me through the underbelly of Queens to get to Brooklyn. When he fails to get closer to any expressway, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as we pull to a stop at a red light.
It all happens in the blink of an eye. The driver's side window shatters under the butt of some guy's gun. The familiar sound of bullets cocked in the chamber of an automatic weapon gets my adrenaline pumping.
"Out of the car," the jacker yells.
Fuck.
Paulie's not moving fast enough as the carjacker reaches in and yanks him out of the seat, right through the window. There's another masked asshole with his gun pointing at the back door for me to get out. I'm in no mood to catch a bullet and obey the order.
The suitcase is in my hand when one guy motions for me to toss it back into the car. My grip tightens before the man with the gun points it at me.
"Don't be a hero, my guy. Just toss the merch back in that bitch and back up," he says, gesturing with the gun.
I toss it in the back seat and the gunman tells me to move toward the trunk, where it opens. I'm not getting in the trunk, and thankfully, neither tries to force me inside. Instead, one punches Paulie in the face several times before shoving his 120-pound frame inside the compartment. The other gunman rifles through my pockets, snatching my phone and tossing it into the back seat. Thankfully, he misses my wallet I keep strapped around my torso.
"Alright, GQ. Kiss the pavement." The jacker motions with his gun again for me to lie on the ground.
Every motion angers me further as I hear the gunmen laughing. Tires screech against the asphalt when they drive away. A dozen scenarios play out in my mind while I'm forced to lie on the concrete in a random neighborhood somewhere in Brooklyn. Shit, it might be Queens. That asshole Paulie has to have something to do with this.
After counting to twenty, I look up to see if the car is gone. Once it's out of sight and I'm back on my feet, I lift my shirt to take off the wallet I keep strapped around my waist. It's a godsend when I travel abroad. My passport, important credit cards, and my keys. I still need a phone to get back home since I have no idea where the fuck I am. The nearest intersection looks busy enough and puts me close to a store that's still open.
A wall of thick plastic covers any access to the cashier, which tells me everything I need to know about the neighborhood. He looks apprehensive scrolling through his phone as I approach him.
"I need a phone, man. Can you make two calls for me? My cab just got jacked," I tell him in as calm a tone as I can muster. It's not this guy's fault.
"You want me to make the call?" he asks with a questioning glare.
"Yeah. I know a lot of people don't like handing their phones to random strangers. Can you just dial the number for me? I need to call the cops. My other call? It will only take a minute. But, once my buddy gets here, I'll be out of your hair."
The clerk reluctantly agrees to help me. There's a sense of pride being one of the few people left to remember phone numbers, and even more knowing there's people who'll answer calls from an unknown number. The clerk gets a hold of the police who sends an officer out that isn't much help. They take my information and give me a card to get the report in a few days. After I finish with the police, the clerk dials the number that takes a few rings before my associate answers.
"What do ya need?" a gruff voice answers loudly from the phone's speaker. Clive always answers, no matter what because any call can mean money made or money lost.
"Clive, it's Sand. I need a ride."
Clive groans on the other end as it's clear he needs to move from wherever he is, but he's the only person I moderately trust to help me right now. He doesn't ask questions as the clerk rattles off the address. Twenty minutes later, Clive pulls up to the storefront for me to slip into the car.
