Chapter One

At 4:32 p.m. Rufus O’Callaghan was shadowing a redheaded dipshit with a Dr. Robotnik mustache, who the NYPD referred to as Chad (last name unknown), while he strolled through Union Square’s Greenmarket. The guy was acting like he didn’t have a care in the world. And maybe he didn’t. Rufus just found it odd that a mover in the underground drug trade, whose latest fentanyl-laced coke sales in the city had caused the deaths of at least five people—and so had piqued the interest of the cops—was stopping to literally smell the flowers.

Rufus stood behind the parked van of one of the numerous upstate farmers, its advertising decal simple and to the point: GOAT.

Goat what , though? Goat milk? Goat cheese? Fuck, maybe they sold actual live goats, and some dumbass city folk were trying to decide if a barnyard animal would qualify under the terms and conditions of their lease as a twenty-pound pet.

Rufus tugged his sunglasses off and slid the plastic frames into his pocket. The sun set so fucking early in December. Not even five o’clock and it was dark. Rufus’s therapist thought he needed a SAD lamp.

And he probably did. But Rufus wasn’t about to dump two hundred bucks on a fancy light bulb. Even with a confirmed diagnosis of clinical depression, panic disorder, and PTSD (because Rufus had had a traumatic childhood, in case he wasn’t aware), he still wasn’t going to spend over a month’s worth of food money on a lamp. Especially when Detective Erik Weaver frowned upon Rufus pocketing bodega snacks.

Rufus hunched his shoulders as a gale straight out of the Arctic blew through the Square. Dead leaves, litter, and loose business cards from tabletops were swept up in a little urban twister, only to be deposited a dozen feet away in the frozen, dirty snowbanks lining the sidewalks and streets. Rufus had picked up a new, used , jean jacket from a closet-sized shop on St. Marks after the previous one had been sacrificed to sop up Sam’s blood from a knife wound. This one fit perfectly in the shoulders and arms, even came with a Dead Kennedys pin on the collar, but despite also wearing a black hoodie underneath, two pairs of socks, and his faithful beanie, Rufus was still cold as hell.

All height and no mass.

Chad waved off a florist’s attempt to sell him a potted chrysanthemum and finally started walking uptown again.

“Thank fuck,” Rufus mumbled as he left the GOAT-mobile. He followed at a distance of about half a block—and was mindful that rush hour was descending upon Midtown—because in a neighborhood where people had money, Chad’s black Canada Goose jacket was starting to blend in with all the others.

A construction worker threw open a site access door in front of Rufus, nearly braining him. Ignoring the redhead, he barked orders toward the street in Spanish, and two more guys in reflective vests and hardhats maneuvered a huge plate of glass across the sidewalk, cutting the foot traffic like a hot knife through butter. Rufus dodged around the farthest guy, swearing all the while.

Chad had vanished so suddenly, he could have been a victim in an episode of Unsolved Mysteries .

Rufus jogged the rest of the block, jumped a river of brown slush on the corner that the street gutters were unable to keep up with after the amount of snow that’d recently fallen, and caught Chad entering a bodega on the corner of Twenty-First and Third. Rufus followed.

The thing about Chad was that the cops had been champing at the bit for him for a while, but there was never enough evidence to prove he’d been the one actually dealing. It was always a “he said, she said” kind of situation. But after those folks had dropped dead, pressure mounted to catch Chad in the act of selling his fentanyl-laced garbage. The NYPD had been scoping out Port Authority, certain Chad would be making his trade-offs there, considering it was such a hotspot for hard drugs in the city, but when they had nothing to show for their time and money, CIs had been called. Specifically, Rufus had been called. And while it wasn’t a particularly thrilling assignment, he knew that the cops—bless their hearts—were playing a game of Marco Polo with a brick wall. So he’d agreed to the job, and within two days, had found Chad.

The bell over the door chimed as Rufus stepped inside the bodega. He wandered down the aisle of processed snack foods opposite the drink coolers. He grabbed a bag of Takis, tore it open, and pulled a few hot sticks out to eat while moseying to the counter. Chad stood there, pretending to read one of the few subway rags still making its money from print editions. He murmured opinions on the headlines to the man behind the counter.

The guy manning the register, his attention mostly on Chad, glanced at Rufus long enough to say, “Buck fifty.”

“Can I get one of those scratch-offs too?” Rufus pointed to the roll of tickets hanging from the wall at the man’s back. “The two-dollar game.” He slid a few dollars across the counter, accepted the lotto ticket, and moved back several steps to a refrigerated deli case. Leaning against the rounded glass, Rufus pocketed the Takis and then dug out a quarter and his burner phone. He turned on the screen and a text message from an unknown number immediately popped up.

GENTLE PATRIOT! JEN NASTA HERE. I’M RUNNING FOR REELECTION, AND I NEED YOUR HELP. ARE YOU REGISTERED TO VOTE IN THE COMING NEW YEAR?

Rufus dismissed the message and tapped the camera app.

Another text notification appeared.

IT’S YOUR AMERICAN DUTY!

And another.

MAKE YOUR VOICE HEARD!

“Fucking Christ,” Rufus whispered.

TYPE Y FOR YES AND N FOR NO. TEXT MESSAGE RATES MAY APPLY.

Rufus swallowed a growl, tapped Y to get the voting bot off his goddamn back, then positioned himself in such a way that while scratching the lotto ticket with the edge of his quarter, he could rest the phone in the bend of his elbow and snap photos of Chad dealing coke to the bodega guy who had a face full of acne scars. Rufus tap , tap , tap ped the phone’s screen, picture after picture with the location, date, and time metadata turned on, catching Chad not so discreetly passing drugs in a fumbling handshake.

HELP US MAKE AMERICA SAFE AGAIN BY DONATING NOW.

“Fuck,” Rufus said, this time loud enough that he saw Chad, from the corner of his eye, turn to look. So Rufus blurted out, “I didn’t win.”

Chad said something that sounded suspiciously like “Dumbass fag” before he saw himself out.

Rufus tore the lotto ticket into a few pieces and shoved the confetti into his jacket pocket. As he passed the cashier, he said, “Have a good night.”

“Whatever.”

When Rufus stepped outside, Chad had already disappeared into the evening crowds. Opening a blank text message, he put in Erik’s number from memory, dropped a map with a pin, then flooded the detective with the still photos he’d taken.

Erik responded within a minute—a thumbs-up emoji.

Having earned his paycheck for the week, Rufus put his hands into his pockets, about-faced, and started the long walk home.