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ONE

GAbrIEL

Monday

A dark and rainy Monday afternoon was as good a day as any to skip town and start a new life. It certainly was better than the immediate alternative currently chasing Gabriel Karne down.

A stitch in his side had Gabriel panting through clenched teeth. He jammed the heel of his palm against his ribs, hoping the pain would go away.

He was too damn old for this shit.

The words practically glowed in the privacy of Gabriel’s mind, a lot like one of those massive information signs on the way to the local airport. Forty may be the new twenty—ha fucking ha—but not when it was raining and dark and the forty-four-year-old in question was on the run from a scary-ass dog and the creep he hadn’t realized was following him.

And he was tired. And he had not read the small print.

Dismissing his side ache—the pain had receded slightly and was less of a concern than the growls of the dog—Gabriel pumped his arms harder and faster. He propelled himself over a stack of fallen cinder blocks instead of taking the two seconds he’d need to detour around them. The goal, if he didn’t die in the next few minutes, was a dark and fetid alleyway that ran behind the block of boarded-up houses.

Gabriel hadn’t achieved his mid-forties by playing with fire. Except that he had done just that. And he’d known better. But it had been so easy. Too easy, now that he thought about it. He could almost hear the scorn dripping from his mother’s voice.

Chance, never, ever, run a con on someone smarter than you.

Especially, when the marks turned out to be part of the Colavito family. Garbage in, garbage out. Instead of rich bimbo ex-frat brothers who would learn a lesson about easy money, the Colavitos planned on teaching Gabriel one about shoddy research. Gabriel’s family—if there were any still around—would not return the favor.

Great, Gabe, just great.

Everybody in his line of work who knew anything about anything knew that Colavito Construction did not build many houses, office buildings, or warehouses. The Family—as in the Seattle-based mob—tended to invest in properties like gyms, yoga studios, and massage parlors that were, in reality, high-end sex clubs and everything else that went along with them when the Colavito family held an interest. It was the worst-kept secret in the region.

The city had been after them for all the usual things for years, but nothing had stuck. Larry Colavito was wily like a coyote. And, apparently, Larry protected his nephews.

His nephews being Paul and Bart Anderson. Anderson was not a name Gabriel associated with organized crime. He’d thought they were just a couple of blond-haired, blue-eyed newbies looking to make fast money. It was a rookie fucking mistake .

And one Gabriel hoped he didn’t pay for by earning himself a pair of cement shoes or whatever it was they did with transgressors these days. Could he request relocation to Costa Rica instead?

He was tired of the game, and that had made him sloppy. Most of his life had been spent relieving people from money or property they obviously didn’t need. But this… this was several levels beyond just a few thousand dollars. This was a matter of Colavito pride now.

The area he was cutting through took up a good chunk of a city block. These houses had originally been built for returning World War Two veterans, but they’d been empty and boarded up for decades, embroiled in a legal suit against the city brought by families of the remaining heirs.

Over the years, different “developers” had tried to intervene, promising the families and other locals that they would replace the crumbling buildings with new construction. Again and again, they’d failed to make good on their promises. It was the longest of cons, one that ebbed and flowed as various grifters came up with different twists on the same story.

Then, a year or so ago, the last surviving family member had died, leaving the property in limbo—again. The city had moved quickly to clear the parcels for development permitting and that was where Gabriel and Peter had entered the picture. Location, location, location, and all that. The wet-behind-the-ears Anderson brothers had almost literally jumped at the opportunity to be part of the nonexistent investment company Peter and Gabriel had created purely for the sole purpose of relieving Bart and Paul of their money.

Behind him, footsteps pounded against the frosty ground, drawing closer, closing in on him. Fuck . Gabe threw up a prayer to the patron saint of con men everywhere that he would get lucky one last time .

The moon emerged from where it had been hiding behind the misty clouds trailing over the city. Its meager light glanced against the fencing. Thank fuck, it was much closer than he’d thought. Putting on a burst of speed, Gabriel hurtled toward the chain-link barrier. His lungs and thighs complained bitterly at the unusual exertion; if he survived, regular exercise would be at the top of Gabriel’s to-do list.

The dog was too close for comfort. Gabriel pushed himself to run faster.

He wasn’t trying to be quiet anymore. His breath was coming in painful gasps, and the frigid winter air made him feel like he was inhaling knives and forks. His heaving chest and raw throat demanded that he pause and drag in fresh oxygen, but that wasn’t an option. The damn dog barked again, and he imagined he felt its hot breath against the back of his legs.

Gabe leaped at the fence and grabbed the cold links. He ended up somewhere between six feet up and the hard, gravel-covered ground. His boots slipped on the toeholds as he worked to pull himself up so he could heave himself over the barrier.

No fucking way was he stopping.

Scrabbling to grab at the top of the fence, the jangle of metal-on-metal loud to his ears, Gabriel finally gained a foothold and propelled his body skyward. Twisting his hips, he managed a slightly better angle and heaved his leg over the top of the chain-link.

“Mother fucking hell,” he hissed as sharp metal ends tore a jagged hole in his jeans and scraped across the top of his thigh. “Why tonight, Gabriel? Why did you have to choose tonight?”

This was a rhetorical question. It fucking served him right for not just leaving town immediately like he’d intended to when he’d realized just who he and Peter were playing hide the pickle with.

Pete was a user. They both were, that was what had brought them together. A few easy cons here and there, keeping their heads above water. But two grifters did not make a right, something Gabriel should have remembered from his exploits with his mom. He’d only stuck around because he was lazy, and Peter had said this would be the last con to top off his bank account.

Also, Pete was charming, and being Peter and Gabriel was mildly funny.

Gabriel heaved his body upward again, just enough to fling his aching, sweating, and now bleeding body fully over the fencing and tumble the six feet to the ground on the other side, where he landed in the mud with an audible squelch. The barrier clattered and shook under the force of the dog jumping and snarling as it tried to get to him. But the fence held.

Limp-running across the uneven ground into the darker gloom of the muddy, unpaved alley, he glanced in one direction and then the other. To his right lurked a dark green construction dumpster covered with battling street art. Hiding behind the dumpster was tempting—Gabriel wanted to curl up in a fetal position and catch his breath—but it was probably the first place the enforcer would check. And he’d have that dog with him.

A sharp whir followed by the thwack of what could only be a bullet hitting the brick building opposite him had Gabriel jerking into motion again.

“Goddammit.”

He hated being right sometimes. The Colavitos were serious. Deadly serious.

Over the protest of his entire body, Gabriel hooked a left and ran, heading to the next street. He stuck to the murkiest of shadows, zigzagging down alleys and between dark houses. Unmentionable things squished under the soles of his boots and at one point he tripped over a pothole but managed not to fall. Instead, one knee hyperextended as he slipped on a patch of frozen and decomposing leaves .

Fuck it. Shake it off. Keep moving.

Wiping his filthy hand across the back of his ruined jeans, Gabe focused on putting one foot in front of the other. What had one of them accidentally done to tip the Anderson brothers off? They’d seemed like the perfect marks. Young, impressionable, self-absorbed assholes who wanted to make easy money.

He wasn’t ready to think that Peter had done it on purpose. However, Peter was big-city slick and a fast talker, and sometimes his mouth got the better of him. But then, so did Gabriel’s.

“Halle-fucking-lujah,” he whispered when he spotted the silver Honda parked right where he’d left it hours ago, seemingly unmolested. Maybe there was a patron saint of con men, after all. Still, he hung back in the shadows of a vacant brick manufacturing building, making sure no one was circling the block looking for him.

“You alright, man?” A voice raspy from years of smoking said from the shadows.

Gabriel froze and then slowly turned his head, ready to run again. It would have been too little too late, but the urge was there. The shadow moved and morphed into a man possibly around his age. The puffy blanket or sleeping bag wrapped around his shoulders gave him an odd, bulky appearance. Behind him was a red plastic grocery basket stuffed with his belongings.

“I’m good, thanks,” Gabriel whispered back.

“Trouble?” the man asked equally quietly.

Gabriel nodded. “Yep, trouble. Definitely trouble.”

“It always finds you,” his new acquaintance said solemnly. “No point in running from it. My name’s Michael.”

“Chance,” Gabe replied, using his mother’s nickname for him. “Thanks for the advice, Michael. I’m not sticking around, that’s for sure. Trouble will have to catch me first.”

“My lips are sealed.” Michael dragged his finger and thumb across his lips, zipping them shut.

“I appreciate that,” Gabriel said, his attention on the car and the activity on the street.

Minutes slowly ticked by. Gabriel was antsy and anxious, ready to get out of town. He decided to test his luck.

“Thanks,” he murmured to his new friend.

“No prob,” the man replied. “Anytime you need a spot.”

“Hopefully not anytime soon,” Gabe said over his shoulder, but Michael had already disappeared into the shadows he claimed as his own.

Quickly, Gabe crossed the street to slip behind the wheel of the innocuous silver Honda Accord his mother had left him, reflexively checking the back seat for unwanted passengers. Except for his go-bags, it was empty. He breathed out another sigh of relief, thankful he’d had those duffles packed and ready. Heidi would’ve been proud.

Not that Heidi would’ve appreciated his other last action: He’d left a note, no forwarding address, to let Peter know that Gabriel would appreciate being forgotten.

Chance, that’s a surefire way to end up fucked up.

He banged his palm against the steering wheel. “Fuck it, fuck this, fuck that, fuck everything.”

Taking a breath to tamp down the anger roiling through him, Gabe turned the key in the Honda’s ignition. The engine coughed and the car shuddered but did not start.

“Motherfucker,” he growled. “Not an automatic.”

With the next twist of the key, he pressed the clutch to the floor and the engine sputtered to life.

Gabriel pulled away from the curb and started down the poorly lit street.

“Here’s to nothing all over again.”