I’ve never seen Skylar look that lost, and I ain’t gonna lie.

It scares me a tad.

And I’m in a hell of a situation to be asking myself if I’m doing the right thing when right now, I’m ass-planted on a barstool in this dive bar called Brew Valley, waiting for Harmon Ketchum to show his ugly face.

The game's on, the setup, and there’s no backing down now. I’ve got cuffs in my pocket, a gun under my jacket, a roofie for his drink, and a syringe with a sedative in case I can’t get him to take his medicine the easy way.

And if it gets harder than a quick slip of a needle into his neck, well...

I’m ready.

Just don’t know if I’m ready to be this person, right now – especially when I can still taste Skylar on my lips, still see those wide blue eyes looking up at me, vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen before.

I want to be with her, dammit. Not stumbling along, mashing myself into the mold of someone I’m not.

'Course, I’m no stranger to dives like this. To jobs like this, things where people look the other way while you do the quick and dirty to get results, even if it ain’t quite lawful.

This used to be my life, day in, day out. I took the money, did my work, and didn’t ask questions. Not even when people I knew only by a name and a target description stared up at me with terror in their eyes, asking me why I was doing this.

Most of 'em were dirty to be winding up on shitlists in the first place.

Still, their looks left nagging, heavy questions. Like how I could live with myself, treating them like just another mark as long as I got paid.

Truth was, I couldn’t. That’s why I sobered myself up and got the fuck out.

But here I am again, slipping right back into old habits because I couldn’t sit by idle while Sky tumbled into despair.

I stare into my beer. I don’t want to drink it. Haven’t touched a beer or any other booze since I turned in my resignation to Deep Horizon Private Security.

I’m afraid if I get tipsy, that black edge will come back. That darkness hovering around me, waiting to swallow me into a void I’ll never escape from. The memory loss, too.

I know it’s just alcohol-induced memory impermanence, nothing more sinister. Too bad it just makes me think of my old man and that hole in his brain and how maybe even now there’s little gremlins biting chunks out of my grey matter, too, and I wouldn’t even goddamn well know it.

I can’t. I can’t do it.

I need the adrenaline high I’m on right now too much. Adrenaline keeps me sharp. Alcohol makes me dull. Hopefully nobody will notice my beer ain’t disappearing like everyone else’s.

To distract myself from it, I flip my book open on the bar and jot down a few notes. Just impressions of the smell of the place – stale peanuts, old beer, and spilled gas with a good mix of dirty sock sweat – and the shapes of old beer splatters. They're dried in little preserved bits of foam on the bar top.

I note the scratches on the laminate, the wood underneath.

Nothing blue or delicate or beautiful here, but it still calms me, brings me back into those hours in Iraq, that quiet time right before a mission. I’d take a minute to myself and burn everything I saw into my brain. Just in case it was the last memory I ever had.

I didn't write my life down yet. Not religiously. Not from fear of what happened to my old man. But the instinct to remember, to hang onto every subtle bit of each moment was there.

I’d thought the stakes were high then.

Turns out they’re nothing compared to the urgency in my blood when I’m doing this for a woman.

A woman, plus a little girl’s life.

The sound of a heavy tread and the stink of whiskey mixed with sweat alerts me I’ve got company.

I stop writing, but don’t look up, my gaze fixed on the tip of the pen. The scrape of a barstool sounds next to me. Then rank body heat invades as a sense of bulk and dark presence settles next to me. I glance from the corner of my eye.

Harmon Ketchum stares at me sourly, in the flesh, his mouse-brown hair oily and straggling into his small, piggish eyes.

I can see how if you cleaned his nasty ass up he might’ve been handsome enough, once, to hook somebody like Monika. Underneath the slime, dirt, and desperation, and the ugly, gruesome sneer, there’s a hint of a sharp, square jaw. What you’d call movie-star cheekbones, I guess.

But he’s let himself fall far, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a drug habit involved, considering the yellow of his eyes and the brown stains creeping on his teeth.

Hooking him and reeling him in was easier than it should’ve been. See, the way I used to work, I got people in every city. Back then I never knew when I was gonna need to be someone else for an operation, and then disappear like someone who never existed.

During my work with Deep Horizon, I got shipped around a lot on the job, tracing targets, so I developed a network of people who worked on less than legal things – including fellas who’d get you a fake ID and a weapon with no serial number, then destroy the paper trail and the evidence when you were done.

Exactly the kind of person Harmon’s been looking for.

Bastard looks like he wants to fall off the face of the Earth.

Ain’t hard to guess why.

So when I made a few calls around, it wasn’t tricky to find out that a guy matching Harmon’s description had come sniffing and been turned away. Too desperate, which made other guys good at making people disappear very wary.

You don’t survive in the underworld by getting involved with people who can point right back to you the second they get sloppy. No money on Earth is worth that.

But it made it easy to insert myself as a referral. Had my guy give Harmon a call back and say he can’t get involved, but he’ll refer Harmon to someone who’ll do what he needs, no questions asked. That’s how, middle of the night last week, I finally ended up sprawled on a park bench pretending to watch the old decorative faux-gaslights come on while he sat on a bench behind me, pretending not to know me while we talked at empty air and happened to overhear each other.

He was a rude-ass then, and he’s a rude-ass now. He beckons greedily to the bartender, bites off a demand for whatever draft he’s got on tap, and then goes back to staring right at me with all the subtlety of a charging bull.

I don’t know how this man hasn’t ended up in jail yet.

I still haven’t acknowledged him.

As far as anyone knows, we’re strangers, and I’m minding my own sweet business while this asshole stares at me. He’s got a duffel, and he keeps it protectively in his lap, as if that’s not obvious as hell. He finally looks away when the bartender comes back with a foaming mug and slings it in front of him. The bartender hovers, clearly waiting for Harmon to pay, but he just takes a big, sloppy sip, burps, and then stares at me pointedly.

I take my time closing my book and slipping it away into my back pocket, then lifting my head and catching the bartender’s eye with an easy smile. “His tab’s on me,” I say, and Harmon grins.

“Damn right it is.”

Sweet Jesus, his breath is foul.

I ignore it as I turn to face him. He can be as suspicious-looking as he wants, but me, I gotta keep things cool. Keep control of the situation.

I still can’t be sure he hasn’t sussed me out and figured out this is a setup. Can't let my guard down. This devil might have some of his guys from his rumored drug mills waiting outside to jump me.

I beam a tense glance over him, looking for tell-tale signs of a weapon. A rumple in his clothing, or a certain way of leaning that says he’s aware of the weight of a gun and self-conscious about it.

Nothing.

He really showed up unarmed.

I lean one elbow on the bar, watching as he slurps down the rest of his beer and signals for another. “You’re looking mighty satisfied with yourself,” I say.

“Should be,” he slurs back. “I got my hands on every penny. You gonna pony up?”

“Once I confirm the cash, sure.”

“You got the goods, I got the money. It’s all yours, bub, if you’re as good as you say you are.”

I shrug one shoulder. I don’t need to brag, whether this is a setup or not.

Boasting never sounds believable.

Best bet in situations like this is to just stay quiet and let people fill in their own blanks. Makes it easier to lead them.

I take a pretend sip of my own beer, letting it kiss my lips, but nothing more.

“You must be in a pretty rough situation to end up on my doorstep,” I probe him, keeping my voice low. “People don’t call me to fix their lives till they’ve burned every other bridge.”

“Fuck, you think I’d be crawling after you if I had a choice?” he sneers. “Everybody I thought I could trust took off like cockroaches when you flick the light on. Talking about coming back when I get clear of all my ‘unique troubles.’ That's what they call it.” He lets out a snorting, barking laugh. “‘Unique troubles.’ For once, I ain’t even fucking done nothing.”

“But you’re running anyway?”

“Nobody will fucking believe me, man. I got no choice but to start over. What else?” He shoots me a slit-eyed, angry look, then leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial growl. “People think I’m involved in a missing person's case. Everybody’s on the hunt for me, and I got no alibi. Innocent as shit, and the whole world's chomping ready to hang me by my balls. Even got this goddamn biker gang after me. Motorcycle thugs up my ass after my ex’s bitch sister came sniffing after me and chased me out of all my usual places.”

I nod. I know exactly what he means. The Grizzlies MC, one of the big West Coast clubs based in California, has been looking. Somebody tipped them off. Somebody with connections to their old Prez, Blackjack, whose name is damn near legend in the local press, and a dozen wild books about outlaws, too.

I should know because it's my favorite kind of book to read. True crime. The reality blended with the tall tales about men who walk the shadows in life, and deal with what they're handed, good or bad.

Harmon's jittery, and when his second beer comes, he tosses it down in a single nervous gulp, throat bulging like a bullfrog. The speech sounds too rehearsed.

Like he’s been practicing it in a mirror, ready to deny anything.

He’s not a good liar. See, good liars can make themselves believe the lie is the truth, and they can pass a polygraph with the faith of their conviction. That’s how they make you believe it, too.

I wouldn’t believe Harmon if he told me the sky was blue.

I gotta keep being careful. Can’t let it slip I know a damn thing about him. Or that I want to collapse his chicken-neck windpipe for calling Sky a bitch.

I take my time lingering over another fake sip of my beer before I ask matter-of-factly, “What size job we talking?”

“What do you mean, what size? What the hell does size got to do with it? You charge by height?”

I sigh deeply. “Size. As in...the number of people we're relocating. Logistics are different for one man, for a couple, for a family. You taking anyone with you? Friends, girlfriend, brother, parent, kid?”

He stiffens, watching me suspiciously, then looks away, glaring across the bar with his eyes narrowed. “Nah,” he mutters gruffly. “Not anymore. Me, myself, and I.”

A chill pours down my spine. My stomach turns.

Not anymore.

Fuck, is that what he means?

If that little girl is already dead, I'll slaughter him. They ain’t never gonna find the pieces of Harmon Ketchum's body. I’m not sure I’ll even leave enough for Sky to get her claws into.

I feel a growl trying to lunge up the back of my throat and force it down again.

Stay calm. Neutral. Act natural.

Like I don’t know shit. But I gotta get this show on the road. The longer we dally, the shorter my window to get him alone and drag him off without being seen.

He’s calling for the bartender again, and whiskey this time. The tumbler’s barely in front of him for half a second before it’s down his gullet. He’s not even giving me half a second to slip a roofie in. I’m either gonna have to do this the risky way, or do it the hard way.

I ain’t gonna lie.

Some part of me is hoping for the hard way.

I need to sink a fist clean into this mother fucker’s face.

“C’mon,” I say, sliding off my seat before he can order another drink. “We've got a long drive ahead, and cops like to set DUI traps along I-80 at this time of year.”

He blinks at me, before comprehension settles in that blank, glinting gaze. I-80’s the road to Redding, where Harmon thinks he’s getting a fresh start at life with a new ID, social, bank account, everything.

Game plan – or so he thinks – is that I’m gonna resettle him there for about six months. Long enough to test out and settle into his new identity, before shipping him over the border to Canada and Vancouver.

He has no idea he’s never gonna make it out of San Francisco.

I jerk my head toward the door. He slides his thick frame off the barstool, tucks the duffel bag under his arm, and follows me. The fresh night air is a relief after the close, stifling air of the bar and the stench of Harmon crowded close to me, but it’s short-lived relief as I let him into the cab of my truck and then climb into the driver’s seat, shut myself up in the cramped space with him.

As I’m rolling the windows down, though, he gives me a sharp look.

“Guns,” he says. “Now. I just wanna be sure you’re good for it.” He thunks the duffel bag down between us and unzips it. Bound stacks of bills peek out, all jumbled up. “That’s half what I owe you. Other half once we’re settled.”

I sigh and don’t even pause in shifting the truck into reverse and backing out of the parking spot. My exasperation isn’t wholly feigned. This man’s about as subtle as a brickbat to the face.

“You think I stayed in business this long by riding around with illegal weapons just sitting in my car?” I ask. “One traffic stop and suddenly I’m looking at ten to life. You gotta play this careful. You need to learn that before I turn you loose, or a new ID won't even save you.”

He looks disgruntled, but considers before asking, “So where are the guns?”

“At the pickup spot. Remember? We’ll stop there before heading up the road to Redding. I got a safe house with a stash. Gotta play it real cool around there with the Grizzlies and all.”

“Huh. All right.”

He doesn’t sound like he quite buys it, but he’s not pushing me, either. I can feel him watching me, but I keep my eyes on the road. Deep down, I’m worried, but I can’t act like it.

This is the moment when I’m most vulnerable.

If he pulls something while I’m driving he could wreck us both. I can’t trust him to just go along, docile and defeated, especially if he’s suspicious of my motives.

But I didn’t need to worry. It's less than a minute before he’s asleep.

Asleep.

How the fuck can this asshole sleep with all the shit on his conscience?

Whatever. Why complain?

It makes my job easier, even if his snoring smells as foul as the rest of him. I keep on the highway for a little longer, just in case he jolts awake and notices we’re not where I said we were going.

There’s a spot a good half hour down the road that I scoped out last night, where there’s a nice little stand of brush that’s impenetrable from the road, and a good little outcropping of rock to hide my truck behind. Looks like an old farm feeder road that doesn’t lead anywhere anymore, left to go fallow, leading past, almost into a field gone to scrub.

I count the miles and the exit markers, then spot the little break in the guard rail and the overgrown bit of asphalt peeking out from under years of dirt.

Carefully, I merge lanes and then ease off the gas, keeping it slow so the jouncing doesn’t wake Harmon. He lolls in the passenger seat, but doesn’t stir. That whiskey must have hit him hard.

Still, I don’t take my eyes off him for even a nanosecond, as I ease down the service road and then off the beaten path to pull in around that rocky spot.

No cars on the road, either. Good.

Nobody to tell the cops later that they saw a big, beat-up, red Dodge pulling off onto a dead farm road at just the time of night Harmon Ketchum was said to have disappeared.

It scares me a little, thinking about killing him right here, right now.

Ending this. But only after I've ripped the truth about Joannie out of him.

That ain’t who I am anymore.

Is it?

I’m seriously wondering, as I park the truck and then slip the syringe from my pocket, watching Harmon closely. He’s not moving.

Perfect.

I uncap the syringe and close in.

Maybe not for the kill. Not yet. But I’m not making any promises I can't keep.

Not till I find out if little Joannie's okay, and if this piece of shit scum deserves to live.