Prologue

Last January...

I stalked down the ice-cold sidewalk of West 59th Street, skirting along the edge of the park, and joined the throng of other pedestrians waiting to cross 5th Avenue. The January sun had set hours ago — not that I was ever awake to see it these days — but Manhattan was never really dark and, as the song said, never really slept. It was the perfect place for a guy who preferred anonymity and shadows.

The people around me were all well-dressed and shiny, exactly what I expected to encounter when I ventured to the Upper East Side. I hunched into my leather jacket to hide my smirk as a waspy little idiot with impeccably smooth blond hair gave me a scathing up-and-down glance before throwing an arm around his equally-impeccable, equally-blonde girlfriend.

Aw. How cute. Mr. Trust Fund getting all protective around the big, bad Mexican, like my slightly darker skin made me dangerous.

These fuckers never understood that what made me dangerous was the gray matter between my ears, and that I was only really dangerous when provoked. Which I wasn’t. Yet.

“This is so stupid,” Trust Fund whined, when the parade of cabs and limos failed to part like the Red Sea for him. “Come on, Shelby, or we’ll miss our reservation.”

He grabbed his girl by the wrist and took a step off the curb, only to stumble back a second later as I grabbed his elbow.

The oncoming cab missed Trust Fund and Shelby by inches.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” I demanded. I pointed at the Do Not Walk sign. “Can’t you read? Jaywalking in this city’s not a joke, man.”

Trust Fund gaped up at me, like he couldn’t believe those words had come out of my mouth. But then again, Trust Fund likely hadn’t grown up with an abuelita who thought nothing of hammering pedestrian safety into his head with the flat of her sandal like I had.

Too bad for Trust Fund. He was gonna get his ass run over one day.

Shelby shook off the little man’s grip. “Honestly, Carson!” she fumed, looking embarrassed.

Carson — because of course that was the prick’s name  — flushed and pulled his elbow away from my hand, like he thought I might have some contagious disease. “Do you mind?”

I shook my head in exasperation and let the man go, willing myself to calm. Necessitas controlar tu temperamento! I could almost hear my abuelita’s voice in my head. La ira y venganza te hace estúpido.

And she was right. Anger and vengeance did make me stupid, and I couldn’t afford to be stupid, not tonight of all nights. If Carson wanted to make shitty life choices, that was Carson’s business… and possibly Shelby’s. Not mine.

Though really, I thought, as I shot the woman’s backside an appreciative glance, a girl with an ass that nice could do better, even if she was a little too pointy and blonde for my personal taste.

That should have been the end of it. I was going to let the matter go, I was. Carson and his cutie could have run off to play in the traffic as much as they wanted while I walked away. But then Carson, the fucking idiot, put his hand to his back pocket and glared at me, like he was making sure I hadn’t picked his wallet while saving his life. And that was the moment when I remembered that while anger had occasionally made me stupid, it had also made me very successful.

I slid a hand into my pocket and grabbed my cell, tapping a few keys before sliding it away.  Carson didn’t know it, but right that second, my phone was reading all the data from his credit cards and scanning the man’s financials. Before sunrise, I promised myself Carter would be making a sizeable donation to some underprivileged children.

A discreet chime from the virtually undetectable earpiece in my ear  — a piece I’d designed and created from scratch in my spare time, thankyouverymuch - let me know when the cloning was complete.

Mission accomplished.

I checked my watch just as the light turned and I started across the street. Plenty of time.

I slowed my pace, took a deep gulp of cold air and held it, forcing my pulse to calm. It was easy enough to cool down, now that I was out of Carson’s immediate area and knew I’d be pillaging Carson’s bank accounts to get restitution for his crimes.

I stopped short. His crimes, which included… jaywalking and general assholery? Whatever. My personal philosophy was that justice was like pornography: I knew it when I saw it. That was the beauty of living outside the black-and-white boundaries of a society that would have put my ass in jail a long time ago if I hadn’t been the absolute best at what I did.

I snorted out loud, pushing my dark hair out of my eyes as the ridiculousness of the situation finally caught up to me. Poor little Trust Fund picked the wrong intersection to stop at tonight, I thought, laughing again as I imagined the look on Carson’s face when he found his money gone.

I grabbed my phone again to call my best friend LC, who would truly appreciate the finer points of this evening’s adventures. I scanned my contacts for his number… then immediately froze.

I couldn’t call Landon, of course. My best friend was dead and had been for months. A robbery gone bad, or so the smarmy detective had claimed right before he rubber-stamped LC’s file and stuck it firmly in his cold-case pile.

It was funny how the grief thing worked. I wasn’t crazy or in denial. Twenty-three-and-a-half hours a day, I was perfectly aware that Landon was gone. The landscape of my mind already included big, wide bridges over the chasm where my best friend had once resided. I could eat and drink and sleep, and even do the things LC and I used to do together, like gaming and coding, without getting mired in a sludge of memories and sadness. But every so often my mind would forget the bridges existed. When my nearly-nocturnal ass finally climbed out of bed in the afternoon, all groggy and disoriented, when I heard something funny, or finally cracked a piece of code that had been fucking with my mind, I’d reach for his phone or bring up a chat window to check in with him and remember with a sickening rush that felt like freefall: my best friend was dead.

LC, the guy who’d known me before I was Walker Smith. The man who’d taught me the beauty of elegant code, and how we could use it to get ourselves and our families out of the rough neighborhood we grew up in. The guy who’d shown me that my mind was a more powerful weapon than my fists could ever be. The only person who’d ever fully understood me. Landon Carter had been erased from the world and no one but me and maybe his elderly aunt back in Boston gave a shit.

And there hadn’t been a damn thing I could do about that, no way for me to obtain even an iota of justice for it. Until today.

The mysterious invitation I’d received in the mail —  an actual, physical invitation that had found me through the post office, despite the fact that I lived my life almost entirely online and rented my apartment under a second alias —had promised me that someone hadn’t forgotten Landon existed, and had offered me the opportunity I’d craved: a chance at justice.

Landon Carter was targeted, it had said. His murder was no accident.

I stalked down East 71st Street as my phone began to ring with an incoming voice call. I tapped the button to decline without checking the display, already knowing who it was… Well, more or less.

Only four people had my number these days, and they all shared my DNA. They also all lived together in a modest Colonial I’d purchased for them outside of Boston and called me once a week like clockwork. But I couldn’t speak to his grandmother or my little sisters tonight. I couldn’t hear them call me Enrique, or let them remind me of a time when I’d been decent and kind and weak.

I reached my destination and glanced up at the Art Deco design and imposing limestone edifice of the address that had been given on the invitation. Whatever was waiting for me up on the fourteenth floor was something for Walker Smith to handle. And though I played the game on our phone calls and video chats, as far as I was concerned, the Enrique Hernandez my family knew had been buried along with Landon.

I gave my name to the doorman and took the elevator upstairs, noting the position of the cameras at the entrance, in the elevator car, and in the bright white marble lobby of the top-floor penthouse. No motion sensors, everything in plain view. Sloppy, really.

Not that it was any of my business if rich folks wanted to spend more money on their shitty art than they did on the security to protect themselves.

Without opening his mouth, the butler directed me into a library that looked like something out of a movie, even down to the fire roaring in the fireplace.

For the second time that night, I felt a pang at not being able to share this crazy shit with LC. A mysterious summons, a shadowy library. Colonel Mustard, in the library, with the...  I looked around and saw nothing but books and a little bar area. With the whiskey bottle, I concluded.

I was just turning around to ask the butler where the hell my host was, when a tall dude stepped off the elevator and into the lobby.

I blinked, and I couldn’t help smiling just a little. This was the guy Carson the Prick wished he could be — tall and blond, projecting an effortless aura of wealth and privilege without even opening his mouth. I felt a brief, unwelcome flare of sympathy for poor Carson - not quite enough to change my mind about cleaning out the asshole’s bank accounts, but enough to hope the lesson would be educational rather than simply  a punishment—because the little dude would never be able to achieve this. Maybe I’d leave Carson enough cash to drown his sorrows.

“What’s this about?” the blond guy demanded, raising one eyebrow at me. “I don’t appreciate the cloak-and-dagger summons.” He pulled an invitation from his pocket that looked exactly like the one I’d received.

I snorted. “Settle down, chief. I was invited here tonight too, and I have no fucking clue why we’re here either.” My accent was thick, the way it always was when I got stressed, but I did nothing to conceal it. Sometimes, the accent made people underestimate me, and I preferred that.

The blond blinked, then nodded. And just when I was sure he was going to sit down and ignore me, the way Carson would have, the dude held out a hand and introduced himself. “Xavier Malone.”

Civilized. I could like this guy.

I nodded and returned his handshake. “Walker Smith.”

My phone pinged again, and I read the display. There was a new voicemail from my sisters, as expected, and also new activity in a hacker forum I’d queried a couple of days ago about LC’s last projects.

“S’cuse me,” I told the blond before turning my attention back to my phone.

I opened the forum and took a seat on the sofa, letting my leg bounce to relieve some of my tension. The message was from a guy I’d known and chatted with several times. A well-respected guy — or gal, because who the fuck really knew? — who’d been around for years.

[LieDetector2123:] Ganza hit me up a few months back. Dunno if this is what you’re talking about? We shot the shit about some ID cloning stuff he was working on. Kid had a knack.

Ganza had been LC’s username. And it wasn’t unusual for LC to shoot the shit with any number of people about any number of hacking things on a daily basis, but some instinctive sensor in my brain pinged that this was exactly what I needed to know about. Seeing that LieDetector was still online, I typed back a quick message.  

[VenDed:] That could be it. Ganza could do ID shit in his sleep tho. What’d he talk to you for?

[LieDetector2123:] True. He mentioned the gig in passing. We mostly talked about his new tracking bug. He tell you about that?

I frowned. LC and I had kicked around the idea several times. It was the kind of idle bullshit we’d mention while eating pizza and playing some throwback MarioKart. Could you monitor someone’s online activity, and record it, with no possibility of detection? My own opinion was that it simply couldn’t be done. No matter how fast you developed tech, someone else was developing something to counter it. The game was in knowing which opponents would have access to it. LC had believed differently. But I hadn’t known he was contemplating it seriously.

[VenDed:] Only in theory.

[LieDetector2123:] More than a theory, man! He was testing some shit. Lol. He inspired me. Want me to see if i can find my notes from our chat?

LC had been testing something? Was that what got him killed? Jesus. I replied with shaking fingers.

[VenDed:] Yeah. That’s perfect. And keep me posted if you make any progress with the tracking design yourself.

[LieDetector2123:] Will do.

Maybe LieDetector would share his progress and maybe he wouldn’t — I wouldn’t share indiscriminately, myself — but that was secondary to getting more info on LC.

I barely noticed as three other guys walked into the room, mumbling appropriate replies as they introduced themselves and took their seats. I was too busy thinking about Landon.

About conspiracies.

About impossible projects.

About the fact that I abhored jaywalking, but would have no compunction about committing first-degree murder, if I found out who’d killed my best friend.

Then the doors to the library closed, a video began to play, and my attention snapped back like elastic. All the other men were staring at the TV. Each one looked as uncomfortable in the room as I did, except the blond. Xavier. His aura of calm control was still firmly in place.

There was a little old lady on the video  — a shopping mall Mrs. Claus reject, minus the fur-trimmed velvet dress, and for a second I wanted to roll my eyes. This was what I’d come for? But then the words she was saying drowned out every other thought in my head.

“I’m about to die, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it, gentlemen. The people who’ll kill me don’t care that I’m old or rich. They don’t care that I haven’t long to live in any case, or that the only reason I’ve hung on this long is to get justice for my sweet husband. They’ll make my death seem like the simplest accident or the most natural death imaginable, just like they did for my Trevor.”

Trevor? Who the fuck was Trevor? The apartment was listed as belonging to the Carmichael Family Trust, owned by a Eugenia Carmichael. I had been smart enough to look that up. But I realized that I’d been so consumed with investigating LC’s work that I hadn’t looked deeply enough at who the Carmichaels were.

My grandmother would shake her head if she could see me. So focused on revenge I’d let myself walk in here unprepared. But I wouldn’t let that happen again.

“...Just like they did for your mother, Anson Daly. Your brother, Ethan Warner. Your fiancée, Caelan Jamison. Your best friend, Walker Smith. And your sister, Xavier Malone.”

Oh, damn. I looked at the assholes around me in a new light. We’d all lost people we loved? All connected, in a way that went beyond robberies and accidents? My pulse picked up and I was infused with a manic energy. A purpose. If there was a conspiracy, something bigger than any of us, and that entity had killed LC, I had an enemy to fight against.

“They’re soulless bastards,” Eugenia continued. “And their greedy tentacles reach into every branch of law enforcement, every institution meant to protect the population from evil men. But when the good folks can’t be trusted, what’s a woman like me to do? I’ll tell you, gents. You gather together a team of criminals. A cat burglar, a computer expert, a bodyguard who’s not afraid to fight, a con-artist… and the greatest criminal of all, a Wall Street investor to lead them.”

A computer expert. I’d expected hacker, and found her turn of phrase oddly charming. Respectful. I wondered if I’d have liked Eugenia in real life, and I suspected I would. In an odd way, she reminded me of my grandmother  — strong and calm, even as she discussed the most serious of topics, in this case her own imminent death. I respected the fuck out of strong women.

“My husband was no innocent in this, but by the time he understood how deeply the corruption ran, it was too late.” She touched her chest, looking frail for the first time. “To you, I bequeath my estate. Every penny of my wealth. This penthouse apartment that’s seen the rise and fall of a thousand powerful people over the years. The past fifty years of my life, I haven’t lacked for money or power. And I find that now, when I need it most, what I lack is time.”

I leaned forward in my seat as her voice thrummed with import.

“I don’t know the identities of the people responsible. They’re too good at hiding, at deflecting. All I can see are the patterns emerging, but I can’t think,” she said, touching her hand to her temple in frustration. “I can’t be certain. And I don’t want to taint your impressions by telling you my own. So, instead, I’ll tell you what I do know. And I’ll trust that you men understand that even good people do bad things, and you won’t judge me or my Trevor too harshly.

“My husband Trevor and I were married sixty-three years last October.” Eugenia’s smile was girlish beneath her wrinkles as she became lost in memory. “He was nearly penniless when we first met, and my father was the one who bought us this apartment as a wedding gift. Papa approved of Trevor, despite his lack of fortune. He recognized Trevor’s intellect and intense political ambition. I only saw that I’d married a man with a good heart, a man who would do anything for me.”

She nodded once, grimly, then looked directly at the camera and, I swear, she seemed to be looking right at me as she continued, “It turned out, we were both right.”