Page 7

October 7

New Jersey

T all security floodlights lined the parking area, casting beams and shadows on the pitted asphalt. Miles sat on the pavement leaning against a low wall of the loading dock and gathered his strength. A trickle of blood ran from his eyebrow to his chin and dripped onto his white dress shirt. A bolt of pain shot through his ribs every time he moved.

Through the darkness and his blurred vision, Miles could see the black limousine idling. Tinted windows obscured the driver, but Miles imagined him scrolling through social media or checking texts, waiting like he would for any other passenger. When you worked for Chug Ugentti, picking up a beaten man and driving him home was par for the course.

Making no effort to hide his distress, Miles staggered to his feet and crossed to the car. The driver remained behind the wheel as Miles eased himself onto the leather seat and looked out at the dingy warehouse. The tires had just begun rolling across the pavement when Miles said, “Stop.”

The slight jerk to a halt had Miles’s gut aching. He ignored the pain, opened the rear door, and limped back to the loading dock where his leather portfolio had been tossed carelessly onto the ramp. He scooped up his belongings and returned to the limo. At the back car door, he paused and looked over his shoulder. Standing at the open second-floor window, smiling at Miles, was Ugentti.

Chug shouted, “That was a taste of the stick, Mr. Cain. I’m sending a couple of carrots your way. You can decide how you want to proceed.”

The rage must have shown on Miles’s face because Ugentti retreated and pulled the curtains.

Back in the car, Miles wiped the blood from his face and poured three fingers of scotch into a crystal highball glass. His phone buzzed in the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

Miles stared at the text from his twin. Two letters. There was no reason for it, no explanation, just a simple question:

Miller: OK?

He couldn’t explain the stinging in his eyes or the thickness in his throat.

When they were young, Miller—or “Tox” as his Navy buddies called him—always knew when Miles needed him. Miles’s mouth got him into trouble—a lot. But Miles had a shadow who was a head taller than every bully in school. Unfortunately, Miles hadn’t lost his impetuousness when he lost his protector. He had been in more than one situation in his line of work where he had wished, prayed , that his twin was by his side. Now, here was Miller, back in Miles’s life, offering to help.

Too late. And he didn’t just mean tonight.

Miles had spent a decade digging this hole. He was down so deep, his brother’s hand would never reach. He’d have to claw his way out on his own. So rather than reply to Miller, Miles brought up his contacts and texted a different recipient.

Enough was enough.