Page 54 of Daybreak

Gunner was on edge all evening. He scrambled eggs and made toast, then ate them in the living room in front of the TV. When the local six o’clock news came on, one of the lead-in stories had to do with the mysterious, and as yet unnamed, winner of the Mega Millions lottery.

One of the co-hosts was teasing the other one, reminding him that whenever the payout happened, his identity would become known. Once that amount of money landed in a bank somewhere, someone was bound to tell all.

Gunner frowned. That was also on his horizon and would likely complicate his life even more. All the more reason to get the first monkey off his back before the handout horde descended.

He was still sitting in the dark, with only the light of the TV flickering in the room, when his phone rang. He looked down, then immediately answered.

“Hey, brother. Hammered any thumbs lately?”

Dylan laughed. “Nail guns, buddy. The hammers on our tool belts are just there to look sexy.”

Gunner grinned. “Right… How is Angie? How is CJ? Still digging up worms in his mama’s flower beds?”

Dylan laughed. “He’s a busy little three-year-old, and he never stops moving. We recently had to fence in the whole backyard with an eight-foot privacy fence because he learned to climb over the other one. Angie nearly had a heart attack. We’re considering razor wire around the top. We also built the new fence with the smooth side of the fence facing inward, so he doesn’t have anything to grab or get a toe hold in. All of the braces and supports for the fence now face the street. It ain’t pretty, but so far, it’s climb proof.”

Gunner laughed out loud, picturing it happening. Colter John—CJ, for short—was Dylan’s mini-me in looks, but he had his mama’s fire-and-brimstone temperament.

“I know you are not calling me to complain about CJ. And I’m assuming Asher told you I came back to Dallas, and I’m also assuming you know why. Rest assured that I have boarded myself up behind all kinds of security systems and Ring doorbells, and I am waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“I know you are good at your job,” Dylan said. “But you don’t have eyes in the back of your head.”

“I know,” Gunner said. “That’s why I’m making them come to me. Because here, I have eyes everywhere. Understand?”

Dylan exhaled softly. “Understood. I just want you to be careful. You matter so much to all of us. We don’t want to lose you.”

“Thanks for calling. Love to Angie, and tell CJ that Uncle Gunner loves him, okay?”

“Will do.”

The call ended, but Gunner’s mood had lifted. He went to bed later, still thinking about the little monkey his nephew was turning into.

He was sound asleep in the back bedroom when the same vehicle circled his block four times, driving slowly past his house each time before finally driving out of sight.

Gunner saw the replay the next morning, and when he tried to get a close-up of the tag number and realized it had been completely covered, the hair stood up on the back of his neck.

And so it begins.

* * *

Dixon was in his office going over the bookkeeper’s monthly updates on Dixon Down and Dirty services. All of the locations were making a profit, but his best locations were in the higher-income residential areas. So, the wealthy women of Dallas kept their manicures pretty, and Dixon’s cleaning services kept their great mansions clean. It was a win-win situation.

It was the side job to his business that had raised red flags with the Feds and got him in trouble. They frowned upon using his cleaning vans to move drugs, and his special cleaning crews who changed the bedclothes only after they’d had sex in the sheets with the resident dilettante. Some people had pool boys. Dixon provided gigolos who did dishes.

His narrow escape from prison had come at a high cost. It was one thing to be in the drug and sex trade, but killing had not been on his bingo card. Still, Burgess Dixon was pragmatic. One did what one must to survive.

He had just pulled up the spreadsheet on the financials at one of his locations when the burner phone in his desk began to ring. He quickly unlocked the drawer and answered.

“You better have a good explanation for not answering my calls,” he said.

The male voice in his ear was gruff but shaky. “Since you called off your hunting dogs, there’s nothing to report, and I’m out. Don’t call me again. I’m about to set this phone on fire, so don’t bother trying to call.”

“You don’t quit me!” Dixon shouted. “I own you.”

“You own mop buckets. If you out me…you out yourself. You went too far.”

Before Dixon could respond, the line went dead. He stared at the phone in his hand in disbelief, and when he tried to call the number, he got a recording saying, “This number is no longer in service.” He rolled his eyes as he dropped his phone back in the desk and locked the drawer.

“Son of a bitch.”