So, when they’d dragged him along for a fight with a rival gang, Babyface had joined the fray without hesitation. After that day, he’d left his job at the docks and become the right-hand bodyguard of the gang's leader.

  Over the years, Babyface had revolutionized the gang’s business model by streamlining the efficiency and anonymity of their supply chain and distribution channels. They were turning more drugs at higher profit and lower risk than ever before, and he was now the leader of the gang by unanimous vote.

  A snore brought Babyface out of his thoughts. He glared at the woman. He needed to take a piss, but she was on the side of the bed where he usually rolled out. Annoyance flared in his gut, and he thought about pushing her off. Instead, he rolled the other way. No sense in ruining a possible morning delicacy.

  He stomped to the bathroom, relieved himself, and then fetched a cigarette. The smoke filled his lungs, staving off his looming hangover. Then he grabbed his phone and sat down in his underwear on the stained couch that he could have replaced long ago. He was saving his money for a rainy day. He didn't need much, and he was rarely home, anyway.

  The one thing he did invest in was technology, including the encrypted phone in his hand.

  Not quite ready to go back to sleep, he decided to have a look through his Blinker feed. He’d signed up under an alias to keep up with what the rest of the world was doing. Usually, he logged in to find varying interests on his feed, shared by people from all walks of life, including regular folk, theoreticians, scientists, celebrities, politicians, and more. Today, however, the updated algorithm curated the content on his feed based on his habit of searching for his gang’s name in the news.

  Babyface’s blood pressure rose as he scrolled through post after post about his gang. People—those he followed, and those Blinker showed him as suggestions—were calling for his head, sharing stories of the atrocities his gang had committed. Interspersed throughout were posts, new and old, from the local district attorney, a young guy who had a hard-on for giving Babyface's gang hell. The DA’s posts promised Babyface’s arrest and imprisonment.

  A scoff burst from Babyface’s lips. Unless one of his men did something really stupid, he’d be fine. The DA had nothing. Still, that familiar rage began to heat his skin as he continued reading, continued scrolling, continued immersing himself in content that only worsened his temper.

  The Bogart gang will be in custody by the end of the year, the DA had posted yesterday afternoon along with a digital wanted poster. The poster included an unflattering, black-and-white image of Babyface leaving a bank. It looked like a capture from a security camera. If you have seen this man or have any information about his whereabouts, call 1-800-DBCrime. $1,000 reward.

  Babyface ground his teeth together. A one-thousand-dollar reward? That was it? Didn’t the DA know his gang made millions per year pushing drugs in his beloved state? That they were responsible for the deaths of dozens? The insult sent his thoughts spiraling deeper and darker, and a rabid sensation threatened to overpower his restraint.

  He scrolled on, fighting against it.

  A suggestion to join a private Blinker group for local protesters appeared on his screen next. The image associated with the link showed the DA’s face with a red X drawn over it. Curious, Babyface requested access, writing a little note about the government’s abuse of power in the open text field of the submission.

  A few minutes later, his request was approved. Surprised by the quick response at two in the morning, he clicked into the group. The post displayed at the top of the page was several years old and only had two likes and three comments. It shouldn’t have been at the top, not by any honest metric, but Babyface didn’t know that. Nor did he know that it had been surfaced there just to capture his attention.

  His eyes narrowed on the post, which showed the same image of the DA that he’d seen attached to the link for the group. The post was a call to protest the arrest of recreational marijuana users. It suggested gathering outside the DA’s home—and it included the DA’s address.

  You’re crazy, one commenter had said.

  Why not protest outside his office? Isn’t it illegal to share his personal address or something? another had added.

  Well, that was a flub, a third had written a day after the protest had been scheduled to take place.

  Babyface reread the post, staring at the address. His ears began ringing, and he became a bit lightheaded. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. No way had someone found the DA’s address and posted it online for anyone to find. No way had the post avoided being taken down. But when he looked up the property on the county assessor’s site, sure enough, it appeared to belong to the DA.

  Babyface logged out of his account and sat there, trying to calm the racing thoughts in his head. When that didn't work, he got up and rooted around the kitchen until he found the right drawer. His brain was still a little fuzzy with alcohol, but he took a bump of the fentanyl-laced cocaine he saved for special occasions, anyway.

  He needed help to find clarity.

  Clarity came, but not the kind he’d intended when he’d searched out his stash. He decided he would visit the DA. Maybe they'd have a little chat. Maybe Babyface would show him the consequences of continuing to pursue his gang.

  He got dressed, snatched his keys off the table, hopped on his motorcycle, and drove to the DA’s house. He left his motorcycle in a city park a few blocks away to avoid anyone in the DA’s neighborhood hearing its rumble, then stalked through the night toward the address he’d memorized. When he reached the modest home, he kicked the door in, located the man’s room, grabbed him out of bed, and hoisted him into the air.

  "What the—?" the DA shrieked, fear emanating from him.

  Babyface basked in it. With a wicked smile, he said, "Surprised to see me?"

  The man flung his arms out, shoving against Babyface’s chest to try to break his hold.

  “You’re not getting off that easy.” He laughed. “Hey, isn’t that what you say in your posts about me? That I’m not gonna get off easy? Well, we’ll see about that.”

  The DA started screaming. He kicked his legs out at Babyface.

  Babyface’s smile turned into a sneer. He gripped the DA’s throat tighter, cutting off his air. “Stop coming after me, or this will only be a taste of what’s coming for you,” he said.

  Then he slammed the DA against the wall, knocking his head into the brick with a satisfying crack. The DA lost consciousness, so Babyface dropped the man to the floor and proceeded to stomp on his arms.

  Then he did the same to his legs.

  Rage spent, he headed for the exit. The DA coughed behind him, a moan spilling from his lips. Babyface turned back to look at him, a conspiratorial smile on his face.

  “Word of advice? Watch your presence on Blinker. It was much too easy to find you tonight.” He tipped an imaginary hat toward the DA and vanished out the door.

  When the DA was discovered by his housekeeper the next day, his bones were broken in no less than thirty places. Somehow, he was still alive, still writhing in pain . . . and still ruminating over Blinker’s role in his misery.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  DANIEL BRIGGS — CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

  Another man would've thought it was a stroke of luck that Daniel chose to leave his post in the apartment when he did, but Daniel did not believe in luck. He believed in his connection with the world around him, however diminished at the moment. As for the beast, it knew a hunch was more than just a guess; it was a premonition.

  So, when the impulse to prowl the city below came calling, Daniel and the beast listened. They descended the stairs and stepped out onto the street, which was all but empty at this hour, and headed east, setting a brisk pace, pulled by some unseen string. For almost an hour, they walked. A block from the Loop, the pull changed its aim, so Daniel and the beast cut north. After a minute, the pull started tugging this way and that, directing them to an alley behind a condo building. All at once, the pull vanished.

  A service door opened ahead. On instinct, Daniel and the beast ducked behind a dumpster, peeking out to watch. A man emerged from the condo building, dressed all in black. Chuckling to himself, he pulled out his phone, tapped the screen a few times, and then pressed it to his ear.

  “All done. I’m heading back,” he said, strolling in their direction. He went quiet for a moment, then laughed. “Honestly? Easiest money I’ve ever made. Just had to scare the bejesus out of this rich bitch. Get this—I looked her up, and she’s some bigwig at Blinker. Their head of content, whatever that means.”

  Blinker’s head of content? Heather Pinsky?

  They’d located a lead. The beast champed at the bit, held back only by the strength of Daniel’s will.

  “I know. Crazy, right?” the man said after listening to a response. “You have to wonder what this lady’s got her hands dirty with to earn this kind of treatment. Anyway, gotta run. See you tomorrow, man.” He hung up.

  Daniel relinquished his control over the beast. It burst from the dumpster’s shadow with a flying kick that caught the man in the back, sending him sprawling forward, and then it climbed on top of him, pressing its hands to his neck. The beast relished the panicked flail of the man’s arms. He was strong, but not strong enough.

  When the man went limp, Daniel pushed the beast to the back of his mind. He reached down and slipped the man’s wallet from his pants pocket, then took a quick peek at it. Thirty seconds later, the man came to with a gasp, looking at Daniel with eyes wide in terror.

  "Please don’t hurt me," he said, rolling to his side and curling into a ball.

  "Shut up," Daniel hissed. "Did you hurt the girl?"

  "What girl?”

  “Heather Pinsky.”

  The man curled tighter, silent but for his whimpering. Daniel grabbed his arms and forced him onto his back, then held him there with a firm boot to his kneecap.

  “Stop, stop!” the man cried. “I scared her, nothing more. That's all. I swear."

  Daniel narrowed his eyes at the man, who seemed like an ordinary guy, not some hardened criminal. He held the man’s wallet up, flashing his driver's license.

  "Pretty stupid to be carrying this around, Reginald. Is that even your real name?"

  "It is, I swear."

  "You seem to swear a lot, Reginald.” Daniel pocketed the wallet. “Why did you scare the girl?"

  "Someone paid me.”

  "Who?"

  "I don't know. Someone online. I’m not even sure if it's a guy or girl. Look, man, I've got a kid, okay? What would you do if you didn't have enough money to feed your kid?"

  "Get a job?"

  Reginald sniffed, regaining some of his composure, so Daniel increased the pressure on his knee.

  "No, no, no," Reginald said. "Please don't. I need my leg. How am I going to carry my kid around?"

  "How old's your kid?"

  Reginald hesitated, and Daniel saw right through the lie. There was no kid. The beast, worked up into a fury, urged Daniel to smash his boot down all the way. Daniel complied, and the man’s scream echoed through the alley.

  "You broke my knee, man. You broke my knee!"

  "I'll break the other one, too, if you don't tell me what's going on," Daniel said, though he stepped away.

  "I already told you!"

  "But you lied to me, Reginald. You don't have a kid."

  Sweat and tears combined on Reginald’s face. He shook his head as he reverted to the fetal position, clutching his knee in both hands.

  "Tell me, Reginald, how you got into the building. And do not lie this time."

  "I used to work there, okay? I used to do maintenance. They’re lax with their security, so they still use the same employee entry code.”

  "And who hired you?"

  "Like I told you, I don’t know,” Reginald said, his words rushing out of him now. “I got an email from some burner account. Said they had a job that would pay five grand. Hell, man, I've never made five grand. I responded, and they said all I had to do was scare some lady."

  Daniel assessed Reginald and decided he believed him. But they weren’t done yet.

  Bending down, Daniel grabbed Reginald’s broken knee and gave it a quick squeeze. Reginald gasped, then vomited on the pavement.

  "All right, Reginald. I'm gonna go make sure the lady's okay. If she's not—"

  "I swear she's okay. Really, I swear it! All I did was hold a phone to her ear so she could talk to someone. That’s it. They just warned her not to make another mistake. I don’t even know what the mistake was! The whole thing took a minute at most, then I was out of there."

  “What phone number did you call?”

  “You can check my call history and write it down. Phone’s in my right coat pocket. I’m an open book, man. Please, don’t hurt me again.”

  Daniel stifled a sharkish grin. The mystery employer had really made a poor choice when they’d picked Reginald to do their dirty deeds. First, the guy had called his friend to brag about his easy payday while still exiting the scene of the crime, sharing important details for anyone nearby to hear, and then he’d declared himself an open book the second he’d found himself in hot water.

  He nabbed Reginald’s phone, unlocked it with the man’s tear-stricken face, and pulled up the call log. Two calls had been placed this evening, the first to a contactless number about ten minutes ago, and the other to someone named Alan Finch about seven minutes ago. Daniel memorized both numbers.

  "Thanks for sharing this with me, Reginald. Now, tell me how to get up to her condo, and we’ll be all done here.”

  Reginald gave him the code to the building and described how to find Heather’s condo. Daniel nodded, then tossed the phone on Reginald’s abdomen and took two steps back.

  "You might want to get that knee checked out, Reginald,” he said. “It doesn't look good. You won't be bouncing your imaginary kid on it anytime soon."

  "Jesus, man, you're a real freak, you know that?"

  "Yeah, maybe I am," he agreed, “but look in a mirror, Reginald. You’re the one who broke into a woman’s condo to frighten her on the whim of an internet stranger.”

  Daniel headed for the service door. After a few steps, he paused, turning back. “Oh, Reginald? I wouldn’t recommend mentioning my involvement in your injury. If you do, it’ll be a toss-up of who gets to you first: me, or your anonymous employer. I’m sure they won’t be happy to learn you were involved in an incident minutes after completing your task. They’ll think you might have rolled. Anyway, have a good night, Reginald.”

  At the service entrance, Daniel plugged in Reginald’s employee code. The light on the keypad turned green, and the lock on the door released. He entered the building and made his way up to Heather’s unit, praying she could—and would—answer the questions burning holes in his brain.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  NEIL PATEL — CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

  He rubbed his eyes, readjusted his glasses, and looked down at his laptop.

  "You should get some sleep," Top whispered.

  "I'm not tired," Neil said, his voice equally quiet. He glanced at Cal to ensure he was still asleep in his hospital bed.

  "You don't look particularly alert. Come on, man. Go back. Get some sleep. You'll be fresh in the morning."

  "Isn't it already morning?"

  “No, it’s the middle of the night,” Top said, yawning.

  Neil wondered how the big man was still functioning. He and Gaucho were both here during the day, and then they switched off night shifts. Their presence wasn’t truly necessary—there were plenty of SSI security personnel guarding the hospital—but the two loyal men would not leave their injured friend’s fate to anyone else. Their preoccupation with Cal’s wellbeing didn’t leave Neil off the hook, though. Top and Gaucho insisted no less than four men accompany Neil on his trips between the hospital, Blinker, and Miles’ home.

  "We're not taking any chances," Gaucho had said when Neil had argued. "You're a ripe target, hombre."

  Neil thought that was unlikely. Despite the attack a few days ago, and despite the foot he’d lost to an enemy, he still had an idealistic view of the world.

  Shifting in the uncomfortable hospital chair, he said, "How long do you think he's going to be here?"

  "The doctor said he’ll be released to our custody sometime in the next couple of days, so long as everything goes all right." Top’s expression hardened. "I'm more worried about Daniel."

  "Yeah, tell me about it," Neil said. "Have you seen the look in his eyes?”

  Top nodded. "It's not good."

  "What does Gaucho think?"

  "The same.”

  Neil nodded. "Should I—?"

  Top shook his head. "No. We have to trust him. At least, until he goes way out of line. He's one of our brothers."

  Neil wasn't so sure he agreed. Daniel seemed like he needed help, not trust and space. But every time Neil had been tempted to pull footage from Las Vegas to see what kind of trail Daniel had left there, he’d stopped himself. Doing so would cross a line, and he wasn’t ready to take that step. Not yet.

  He was about to cave to Top’s suggestion to get some shuteye when his phone buzzed.

  "Speak of the devil,” Neil said, looking down at the screen.

  "Daniel?" Top asked.

  Neil nodded, answering the call. "Hey, we were just—"

  "Neil, I need your help."

  Neil stiffened. "What’s going on?"

  "I need you to come to Heather Pinsky’s building. I'll text you the address."

  "Wait, what?"

  "I don't have time to explain," Daniel said. "You need to get here now."

  The call ended, and Neil looked up at Top. "He’s at Heather Pinsky’s house. She’s the head of content at Blinker. He said I need to get there right away.” He shook his head, trying to clear the fog from his thoughts. “What the hell is going on?"

 

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