Prologue
October 1987, Saturday
Waking up after being knocked unconscious is like being reborn, and equally painful. It is not, Simon decides, an experience that improves on repetition.
Oh, his head. His vision is spinning, so he closes his eyes. That’s unfortunately worse. The hurt is intense. He breathes through it, controls the urge to throw up, opens his eyes again.
Everything is blurred, fractured shapes of black, brown, and gray, which gradually resolve. This is a room; he’s somewhere inside. There’s the edge of a ceiling where it meets a wall. Buttresses are black; the wall is tarry brown, with gray metal shelving. Left of the empty shelving, a stack of white plastic thirty-gallon drums. For a moment, in his debilitated state, the stack seems like a modernist sculpture made from larger-than-life Tic Tacs.
The air is icy, and he’s lying on a hard, cold floor—feels like concrete. This room is industrial—maybe a warehouse? There’s some natural light from a small high window on the wall past the drum stack, which helps him get his bearings. He can hear a pattering sound: rain on a tin roof. It’s raining outside. The room is gloomy but not completely dark; it’s still daytime.
The last thing Simon recalls is walking into his apartment, closing the door and turning around ... then Claude Ameche’s ugly sneer. Okay, he’s got it now. Or rather, he knows how they got him.
A long tacky-wet line on his cheek itches. One of his nostrils is blocked with what smells like blood. He swallows—definitely blood. He brings his hand up to touch his nose; it doesn’t feel broken.
This is what you get for being caught out and knocked unconscious. Nomi warned him, even said the wordsBe careful, and he didn’t give her advice enough consideration. She’s going to be pissed. She’ll give him that look—thin lips closed in a line, mink-brown eyes boring into his, a direct admonition. He almost wishes she were here right now, so he could say “What?” as if he didn’t know, and she could blink at him in that way she does, like she’s waiting for his brain to catch up to his mouth ...
Dammit, his brain is rattling in his skull. And Nomi’s not here, but that’s a good thing—she’ll know he’s been taken; she’ll figure it out. Unless Eric Lamonte’s men have followed their mob boss’s orders and simply shot her and left her in a dumpster somewhere, which is a possibility Simon doesn’t want to think about.
It’s freezing in here. He swipes a hand down his front: Henley, pilled knit vest, coat. He’s still in his work clothes. His brown trousers are scuffed and dirty at the knees. There’s dark blood on his coat lapel—goddammit, that stain’s going to be impossible to get out.
A soft voice says, “Are you okay, mister?” and Simon startles, looks to the right.
Background: more brown wall, a hanging bulb, a door, the top of another white drum. Foreground: a girl’s face, very dark-brown skin, black hair in short braids framing her eyes, plump cheeks, wide mouth. She’s wearing blue jeans and a yellow T-shirt with a Care Bear on it and a multicolored nylon windbreaker. She’s hugging herself for warmth and looking at him with concern.
Although he has never met her before, Simon knows this girl.
“You’re—” His throat is rough. He clears it. “You’re Brittany Jackson.”
“Uh-huh.” The girl nods.
“Your mom is Solange Jackson. She’s been looking for you.”
“You know my mom?” the girl asks, hopeful.
“Yes.” He sits up carefully, winces. “Don’t suppose you have any aspirin?”
Brittany bites her lip. “Sorry.”
Simon rubs the back of his neck with a cold hand. His head is splitting. A rumble of thunder from outside makes his teeth vibrate, which doesn’t help. He looks at Brittany, crouched on her haunches nearby. The intention was to find this girl and rescue her, not get himself laid up in what he assumes is a locked roomwithher.
“This ... isn’t quite going the way I anticipated,” he admits.
Brittany just stares at him. “Uh-huh.”
“My name is Simon Noone.” Which is not true, but he’s not getting into that now. “Brittany, your mom hired a woman I work with, Nomi Pace, to help find you, and ... Actually, forget that for a minute. Do you know where we are?”
“We’re in a room in a big building.” Brittany sketches toward the air behind her with one hand. “The men out there, they put me in here, and the door is locked.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
“We can’t get out. I didn’t see anything when they put me in here, but when they open the door to bring food in, the other side looks like a big, like, factory or something? A big room, bigger than a house.”
“Okay.” He needs to get up. He’s bracing for it. “Give me one second.”
He rolls to the left.Oh fuck.
“When they brought you in, I was scared,” Brittany says. “I thought you were dead.”
