Chapter 1
COLBY MAJOR
New Jersey—Present Day
The gunshots have been going on for a good three minutes, and I can’t say I’m too bothered by them—haven’t been in a good decade—but I am grateful when they stop. It feels like I can see better when my ears aren’t being abused, and at two in the morning with my old binoculars, I need my damn eyes.
Less than thirty seconds later, I see a man clumsily running away from the warehouse.
I take the burner phone out of my hoodie and, with the screen dimmed, type out the information just like my…
benefactor told me to. He isn’t the guy running down the street, but a “coworker” or something.
I was just told to watch for his arrival and then text when he got out, and I get paid really well, so that’s what I’m doing.
From my spot on the roof of the four-story building, it’s unlikely that anyone’s paying attention to me, but you can never be too careful, so I stay crouched low as I follow him around the corner and down the long avenue.
He’s being smart, sticking close to the walls and windows of various businesses.
When he has to pass through a well-lit area in front of my favorite twenty-four-hour diner, Cara’s, he ducks his head low and slows his gait, though he’s still limping a bit.
When he’s about to be out of sight, I see the big black SUV stop just a few feet away. After a pause, the man rushes to it, opens the passenger door, and the car is speeding away before he can even close it.
And my job for the night is done.
I pack my binoculars into my backpack, shove the burner phone in there too, then slowly make my way down the fire escape. I’m no ninja, never been too athletic, but I don’t trip, so that’s something. When I make it down to the alley in one piece, I smile, satisfied. This is all I need to do my job.
Civilian informant—that’s the official title I chose, and I think it’s pretty clever, if I do say so myself. I’m still a journalist, in my heart at least, so no one should be surprised I’m still somewhat good with words.
Cops use CIs—criminal informants.
The mob uses me. Isn’t that fun?
At least I’m pretty sure it’s the mob. Every instinct I have tells me it’s the Irish Mob, but I still don’t have any solid proof.
This isn’t the career I busted my ass for for over two decades, and it’s not the life I dreamed I’d be living at thirty-eight years old, but it’s the only one I’ve got, and since everything went to hell a little over a year ago, I’m making the best out of a shitty situation.
Dad was the first domino to fall, and after that .
. . well, I’ve had about a dozen life-changing bombshells in thirteen months, so I think I’m entitled to some resentment.
I knock as quietly as I can on my neighbour’s door and it opens less than a minute later. Mr. Murphy yawns as he passes me the monitor.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“No problem, she didn’t make a peep. Good night.”
“Night.” I smile back at him then turn to my door.
I’m silent as a cat as I re-enter the apartment, locking all three deadbolts super slowly so nothing can be heard. Then I take off my shoes—slowly—and make my way to the one and only bedroom.
I used to own a three-bedroom apartment in Manhattan, and now—the sight of the crib stops my train of thought.
No, there’s absolutely nothing to regret about the last year of my life.
I’d like to change some things now, like my reputation and my financial stability, but that’s really only for her, for Maggie. She’s the one thing I’m working for, the one thing I care about.
I’d kill for her.
People take that common phrase—if that’s what you can call it—way too lightly.
When I was in college, full of hope and enthusiasm, I didn’t think I could kill anyone for anything, not even bad people.
Life has a way of testing you, though.
After spending years reporting from war zones, natural disaster zones, or places where human atrocities had happened, I decided two years ago to give it a rest and come back home.
Back to where I could wake up and not wonder if I’d still be alive by the end of the day.
Back to where I could find something to make me forget how truly fucked up this spinning rock we call home is.
And for a while, I got to live a normal life. I accepted the offer of a more stable job, I reaped the rewards of my hard work, and I started to build my forever life.
Then . . . implosion.
So now I know I’d kill for a few things.
There’s one specific person I’d even enjoy killing, but if anyone put an everyday mobster in front of me and told me I could get my reputation back if I put a bullet in his brain, I’d shoot without thinking about it twice.
Or if this imaginary person said I could investigate whatever shady character I wanted and not get fired and humiliated in front of my peers, or that I’d get the last five years of Dad’s life back . . .
That and probably a whole list of other incentives would be enough for me to kill a bad guy.
But to protect her . . . I think, as I enjoy looking at her for another five minutes before I slide into bed and force my eyes closed. For Maggie I’d do anything and everything.
My arms burn as I walk briskly down the sidewalk, only one more block to go.
The rain hasn’t let up in three days, but I needed to get more formula for Maggie. I was about to run out, and no matter how awful my life was, I would never let her experience even a second of hunger.
Thankfully, I’d gotten to know my neighbors, the Murphys, a couple who might be of the shady kind—business-wise—but they’re good parents, I’ve seen it with my own two eyes.
They agreed to watch over Maggie for an hour while I ran to the store, and after I managed to fit a week’s worth of groceries into two bags, I’m almost at the sixty-minute mark and I don’t want them to think I’m the type of man to be late.
I’m not.
I’m responsible, smart, capable, and if nothing else, I’m a devoted father.
It’s sick how important other people’s opinions have become to me.
As I go to cross the street, only ten feet away from the entrance to my building, a man comes running out of nowhere and knocks me over.
“Move,” he shouts as I fall on the pavement and drench myself in street water.
I watch in horror as all my groceries fly out, and I’m about to tell that asshole everything that’s wrong with him and his mother for good measure, when gunshots ring out.
“Out of the way.” Another voice, deeper, comes from the other side of the street.
Instinct kicks in, and I dive to grab the can of formula. I also manage to get one gallon of milk and a box of cereal before I crawl to the other side of the street, and when I manage to stand, I sprint to my door.
When I get it open, though, I look at the spot where my groceries are swimming in the street—because I’m a nosy idiot who can’t help himself.
The man has tan skin, deceivingly beautiful green eyes, dark hair that looks black from the rain, and a chilling smile on his face as he takes aim and shoots.
I don’t turn to see if he hit his target, I know better, but I realize my predicament and hurry to walk through and close the door behind me. Maybe he won’t know where I went, but as the last inch of the door closes, I see him turn and his eyes collide with mine.
The world around me moves and shifts in a blur of grays. It’s three days later and I’ve been holed up at home, ready and able to defend Maggie and myself at any cost if that maniac comes looking for me.
The Murphys have been a godsend, and they’ve brought me a few groceries and my mail, but when I hear Mrs. Murphy calling from the other side of the door, and I see my wallet in her hand, fear freezes my insides.
I know exactly where I lost my wallet.
I barely manage to hear her as she tells me that it was in my mailbox, but I nod and thank her as I accept it.
When she’s gone, I look down at the wallet with an infuriating cocktail of emotions brimming inside me. I can’t make out a single one of them, but at last I gather up the courage to open it and look inside.
All my cards and ID are there, and when I check . . . there’s about twenty extra bills that I know weren’t there before. I’m not a fan of cash.
And tucked in next to them, a piece of paper.
I hate that I have to breathe deeply before reaching for it. I used to keep a cool head in fucking war zones!
I was nicknamed Frosty Colby by my coworkers, and later, the public. I should be able to read a fucking note.
A note that the man with the gun and the terrifying smile probably tucked into my wallet along with what looks like half a grand.
“Sorry for the groceries,” it says, and I actually can’t believe my eyes.
I turn it and the back is blank.
A criminal with a conscience? Color me fucking surprised.
Again, the world around me shifts, and this time I’m the one opening my mail, and I find a box with no return address or stamps. My hand shakes as I reach for it, and when I look inside to find the burner phone, I have no idea my life is about to change.
I wake up breathing hard, and before I can even process all the memories from six months ago that filled my dreams, Maggie’s cries penetrate my skull and get me to move on autopilot.
At nine months old, she’s only ever slept through the night two times, and I want nothing more than to have a repeat soon, but it’s clearly not happening tonight.
I can’t help reliving the dread and adrenaline rush of my dreams as I change her diaper and prepare her bottle.
Two weeks after I got that burner phone, a delivery of groceries I didn’t order came to my apartment, and a few days after that, his first text, asking for a favor—which for some unknown reason I agreed to doing and then got payment for.
And thus began my new business.
I have my suspicions about who he is, and who he might work for.
There aren’t a lot of options.
He doesn’t work alone, there’s always violence, and he’s always planning some late-night nefarious shit.