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PROLOGUE

“GET YOUR HANDS UP, OLD MAN!”

I glare down the barrel of my pistol at the man sitting in the chair across the hotel room. He is about the same age as my father–the long brown coat similar to what my old man used to wear–except this guy has the weathered look of someone who spends more time with whiskey than with family. The air is thick with a disorienting cloud of thick cigar smoke and musky cologne, but it’s not enough to shake my focus.

This guy owes my boss a shit ton of money, and I intend to collect it.

Every fucking penny.

“Easy, son, just take it easy.” The man coughs and raises his hands in the air, rising from his chair as his coat falls in place around him. Damn, he’s taller than I thought, I think to myself as I keep the pistol pointed right between his eyes.

“Don’t call me son, you fucking loser,” I say with contempt. “You want me to take it easy, then you shouldn’t have skipped out on paying my man for the snow he sold you.” I scoff. “And he said you were one of his better customers.”

The man drops his head a bit, his shaggy black hair falling around his face like a curtain, before looking back up at me with an expression I can’t discern. His head cocks slightly to the side as his eyes narrow, his gaze running over me, and I swear I can hear wheels turning in his head.

“You know, kid, I used to be just like you,” he says, shrugging his shoulders but keeping his hands up. “So full of anger, so thirsty to prove myself and be a part of something bigger. Tell me, do you like what you do?”

For a second, every moment of my past runs through my head like a flipbook: I’ve only been enforcing for a couple years and already I’ve lost count of the number of people I’ve had to hurt. Torture. Kill. It’s not a pretty job, but somebody has to do it, and we all have bills to pay.

Still, there’s a difference between having to do something, and wanting to do something. Once upon a time I could've had a number of jobs. Not anymore. Not since I trusted my college roommate who said it was cool to buy cocaine from this dude in our dorm…only to find out that he was a plant for a local gang who liked to take those who owed them, and turn them into little grunts for their organization. Their way of ‘letting us pay them back’ for the drugs we were so desperate for.

There are a dozen enforcers that work alongside me, but none of them handle these confrontations like I do: none of them will find themselves with a smile on their face as they break somebody’s kneecaps, or when they watch the light go out of someone’s eyes. I am the only one who never flinches when told to ‘handle somebody,’ and my boss knows that.

I never flinch. Ever.

Blinking and shutting all of my memories away, I refocus on the man at the end of my pistol.

“It’s a job,” I say to him, narrowing my eyes as the sting of the cigar smoke licks its way across my face.

The man shakes his head, looking down at the floor as if deep in thought. His hair obscures his face, and although I can’t see him, I can hear a quiet voice speak out from behind the dark locks.

“No, son…I’ve seen enough violence in my life to recognize when somebody enjoys it. And you, my boy…you would pull that trigger right now and leave me bleeding on the floor while you crack open a beer and watch.”

He isn’t wrong, a beer is sounding delicious right now. Tracking this man down took entirely too long: no name given by my boss, no home address, nothing. Just the areas he frequents and the car he drives when he meets the dealer. After staking out all day and keeping an eye out for his piece of shit sedan, I am definitely feeling dehydrated.

And a beer is sounding really, REALLY fucking delicious.

“So what? So what if I’d stand here and watch? You don’t know shit about violence other than what you watch on this shitty hotel pay-per-view, so don’t lecture ME about what enjoyment looks like!”

I take a step closer to him, bringing my other hand up to the butt of the gun and feeling my elbows pop as my muscles tighten in anticipation. I’m done playing around. It’s time to make this fucker pay up or pay the consequences.

He drops his arms slightly to his sides and raises his head so slowly it is as if he isn’t moving it at all. As his gaze pierces through his shaggy black hair, a twisted grin spreads across his face.

There isn’t a lot that scares me anymore. I’ve seen and done so much, become such a predator, that I’m not sure anything can shake my resolve.

Until now.

Now, I find myself face to face with a man whose smile all but splits his face in two. He looks up at me through a curtain of hair: his eyes are a black hole, thriving on my fear and dread, and leaving no light or hope behind. For the first time in a LONG time, I feel a bead of sweat dripping down my temple. That look on his face, that twinkle in his eyes…

That’s the look of a real killer.

“Boy, you have absolutely NO idea what you’re talking about.” His voice is a low rumble, the sound snaking from him and filling the room with a sense of danger that has the hair on my arms standing on end. “I guarantee you that your boss doesn’t pay you enough money for you to do what you do, and you don’t do it just to keep the lights on. You do this because you LIKE it. I can see that in you.”

He takes a step towards me, his brown coat billowing at his sides as he rakes his fingers through his hair, moving it back in place. The thick cloud of smoke and cologne dissipates and makes way for a fog of fear and uncertainty as we face each other. Poised, waiting to see who will strike first.

“What if I told you that you could make money hand over fist for your skills? That you would have a safe space to hone your talents and have the support of people just like you?”

I laugh, and I laugh HARD.

“What the fuck are you talking about, man? Like a fucking mercenary or some shit?”

He answers with a deep, rapid cackle, like I just told the world’s best joke.

“No, kid. I’m talking underground shit. Dark web shit. The kind where people pay good money for access to watch you do what you do best. And the best part is you don’t have to worry about cleanup. You don’t have to worry about getting caught. You don’t have to worry about anything other than performing for some rich fans and freaks.”

The gun feels heavy in my hand, my arms slowly dropping as I stare right into this man’s eyes. I’m pretty good at seeing through a poker face, and as much as I want to call this guy’s bluff, there is nothing on his face that makes me believe he is lying. No tell, no mask: he is serious. Dead serious.

“…who ARE you, man?” I ask.

The man smiles again, and very slowly reaches into his pocket. He pulls out what looks like a piece of paper, motioning his hand towards me, beckoning me towards him. I reach my hand out, palm up, and he places the paper in my hand.

It’s a playing card. A King of Hearts.