I slip on my gloves and head to the airport.
One flight later, just as the sun is about to start setting, I hop into the back of a cab while I stare unseeingly out at the street, wondering how my princess is. Suddenly I see an image of my mother being taken, Melanie’s face superimposed, and a new kind of rage simmers in me. I need to get back. I need to finish my marks and get back, soon. Derek is good—he can protect Melanie. But he’s not me. Now Wyatt is asking why the fuck I’m so wired—what her name is? Soon he’ll find out. They’ll all find out.
I pull out two of my phones, add her number to my newest prepaid device, and before I disable the old one, I text her, Got new number. Call you at 9.
Disabling the old phone, I text Derek a numerical code from the new one so that he knows it’s me and I have a new number. He answers with another number. Another code that says everything is good and Melanie is at work.
When the cab drops me off at my location, I ease out, pull the black hoodie over my head, keep my aviators hooked into my collar, and head into the office building. Harley and Wyatt are black-hat hackers. They’ve got me booked on my mark’s appointment list under one of his acquaintance’s names. The marks? They hate when you’re in their homes or their offices. They feel vulnerable and threatened that a man like you would steal into their space.
And that’s what you need to do: you need to make them feel unsafe. Like there’s nowhere to hide from you. No way to escape you because of the fucking money they owe.
I murmur my fake name to the receptionist, get a pass, and slip on my aviators as I head upstairs. I’m aware of the security cameras everywhere. I’m gloved, wearing new sneakers, clean clothes, my body scrubbed dry, my hair protected under my hood; no trace, I’m like a ghost. The key is to keep my head down so no camera can see my face.
Easing out of the elevator, I repeat the name to the tenth-floor secretary. By the time I enter my mark’s sumptuous office, he’s grinning behind the computer, thinking I’m a young college friend of his son who’s going to discuss internship.
He lifts his head and stands. “Daniel,” he explodes in glee, extending his arms.
My hand curls around my SIG. “Sorry, Daniel got caught up. Don’t even try it.” I’ve got my gun aimed straight at his skull. “Trust me, old man. You don’t want to die over this.”
His face paling somewhat, he slowly moves the hand he’d started to dip under the desk back to his side. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Sit down, relax,” I tell the man.
He sits down behind his desk, his back stiff as a board, and I sprawl comfortably before him on one of the two chairs facing him, my gun propped on my knee and aimed right at his heart.
“Who are you?” he asks in a combination of horror and dread.
“Nobody you should be concerned with. But this?” I pull out a copy of a paper with his signature on it and slide it across the desk surface. “This is why I’m here. It’s a paper my employers own. A paper where you promise them, and me, a lot of money. Two hundred grand to be exact. Today I’m collecting. You’ve had two months of warnings, so I hope you’re finally ready to pay.”
The guy goes mute.
He also doesn’t make any quick move to pay.
Sighing, I produce one of my video cameras. “Or I could also make this little movie public.” I pull the small chip out of a handy pen camera and play a video of him being royally blown by someone I know with certainty is not his young wife.
“You’re on your third marriage, correct? I believe this third wife wised up and had a prenup drawn too, didn’t she?”
The images keep playing to the man’s complete and utter horror.
He puts his hands on his head, groaning.
I quietly remove the card and toss it over the top of his desk. “Here. You can keep that. I’ve got my own copy.”
He pulls out his checkbook, writes the sum, and hands it over with a trembling hand. “You let someone else see that, and I’m ruined. Do you hear me? Ruined,” he whispers, sweat popping up on his brow.
I grab the check. “My interest isn’t in ruining you. We appreciate your business. But if anyone follows me out? Any word about you and me here? The video still goes live, check or no check.”
A morose silence follows me outside and to the elevator. They don’t get it. These rich men don’t get it. They think they’re untouchable, that they’ll be exempted because of their names. Of who they know.
They don’t get that the Underground wins. The Underground always wins.
? ? ?
I CHECK INTO a cheap motel under another fake name. Tomorrow I take another flight, hit up another target, and then I’m almost done.
Shit, I’m exhausted. My muscles weary, my neck stiff. I drop my duffel next to the bed, shove my gun under my pillow, push my knives under the mattress, then I roll over to my back and exhale as I stare at the ceiling.
I think of the way she cooked for me.
The way she gave herself to me.
The way my body surged inside hers and she instinctively pushed back for more of me.
And then—the fucking way I felt when I had to leave, like I just got punched and my girl took the brunt of it.
My life has been the Underground. The Underground as a life and also as a means to find my mother. I’ve blended into it like black blends in the shadows. Nobody needs to tell me—me, king of the fucking Underground—that the Underground wasn’t made for lively little princesses. I. Fucking. KNOW.