Alex turned back on his cellphone as soon as he got behind the wheel of his SUV.  He had only just backed out of Kari’s driveway, driven a couple blocks and turned the corner, before his phone was ringing once again.  This time it was his long-time assistant, Priska Rahm.

“Oh, good,” she said with a touch of franticness in her voice, “I’m so glad you decided to answer your phone, sir!”

“What is it, Priss?”

“First off, the governor of this fine state of Florida has been trying to call you to congratulate you.  His office says your phone keeps going to Voice Mail.”

Alex knew the governor wanted what most politicians wanted: to associate their name with a successful outcome.  But although Alex campaigned mightily to secure those yes votes, he was no politician.  And, now that the votes had been cast, had no incentive whatsoever to become one now.  “Not interested,” he responded.  “Next?”

“But, sir,” Priska pleaded,  “we really ought to stay on good terms with the governing body of this state.”

Priska really could be a pain in the ass when she wanted to be, Alex thought, and his patience with her liberties were beginning to wear thin.  It was her loyalty, and the fact that he knew he could trust her, that kept her around.  “What is next, Priss?” he asked.

He knew she didn’t like the blow-off, but he also knew she had no choice in the matter.  “Linda phoned,” she said.

Alex’s jaw tightened.  Linda was his ex-wife.  A woman who had turned his own children against him.  A woman a small part of him still wanted to blame for his son’s suicide, although he knew he played a far greater role in that tragedy than she ever could.

But before he could utter a single word, two SUVs sped out of the intersection he had just entered, and rammed against the side of his G-wagon: one from the driver’s side, and the other from the passenger side: hemming Alex in.

“She presumably wishes to congratulate you, too,” Priska was saying as Alex, knowing full well this sudden hem-in could not possibly be accidental, tossed his cellphone onto the passenger seat.  When he looked at the driver on his left side, and saw him lift a gun, Alex knew he had to take corrective action and he knew he had to take it now!

He slammed on brakes so hard that the G-forces of his G-wagon caused him to nearly lose control of the wheel.  It swerved from side to side by the mere suddenness of the direction shift, before it came to a complete stop.  But it provided enough space for him to back away from the hem-in, and to force the two SUVs to have to turn around and face Alex.

But Alex was not about to wait on them to make the next move.  He made the next move.  He grabbed the pump-action shotgun he kept in the extended under-case beneath his seat, and got out of his car.

The two men in the two SUVs, who were speeding toward Alex, were astonished to see him jump out, pump that shotgun, and then fire it at the faster driver, who swerved to avoid the bullet.  He didn’t avoid it, he was hit in the chest, and his vehicle ended up broadside off the road.

Alex then pumped again and aimed his shotgun at the second driver, who had enough sense to hit the brakes and throw his hands in the air.

Especially when he saw Alex’s security team, whose job was to stay a good distance behind Alex to ensure that no one was following him, had driven onto the side street and was speeding to where Alex stood.  They jumped out of their car, too, with their weapons drawn.  They were prepared for a sniper following Alex for an attempted hit.  They had not been prepared for this frontal attack.

But Alex had the scene well in hand.  He tossed his shotgun to one of his men, who was already aiming at the second driver, too, and made his way to the driver’s car.

Alex flung open the car door, grabbed the driver by his collar, and pulled him out of the vehicle.  Then Alex threw him against the SUV so violently that it dented the door.

“We were paid to do it,” the driver said quickly, with his hands still in the air; with his small, beady eyes filled with that look of abject terror Alex knew so well.

“Paid by whom?” Alex asked.

“I was just trying to get paid.”

Alex grabbed the driver and slammed his back even harder against that SUV.  “Paid by whom?” he asked again.

“Money,” he said quickly.

Alex couldn’t believe it.  “Is that supposed to be a fucking joke?”

“Vito,” the man corrected himself.  “Vito Visconni.”  And it was only then did Alex realize the man was not joking at all: Vito’s nickname was Money.  “Vito paid us.”

Alex released the man.  The last time he saw Vito Visconni he wasn’t even capable of wiping his own ass.  Now he was hiring killers?

“Who else did he hire?” Alex asked.

“Nobody.  Just the two of us.”

Alex stared at the man.  In his life, he had to make snap judgments.  He judged this one to be telling the truth.

But when he started walking away, he left the now hopeful driver with the naïve impression that an honorable businessman like Drakos would reward him for his honesty.  And perhaps businessman Drakos would have.  But Alex had a former life before he went legit.  And that business was far nastier.

“Take him out, Boss?” one of Alex’s men, the crew leader, asked as he approached them.

“He was paid to kill me,” Alex said, frowning at his crew chief.  “What the fuck you think?”

But then Alex stood next to his men and just stood there momentarily.  He smiled.  They smiled.  But then they saw the anger in his eyes.  “Next time,” Alex said, “if you come late to the rodeo, don’t come at all.”

He gave the crew chief an even harder look of disdain, then walked away.

Alex got into his vehicle as his now overly zealous crew leader walked over to the surviving driver, and shot him at the close range.  Alex drove around the scene, and then sped off.  He knew his men would clean up the mess.

But he was taking no chances now.  Vito Visconni might be involved.  He phoned his Security Chief, and ordered him to not only put a second out-of-sight crew on Kari and Jordan, but to replace his own current crew as well.