1. SUTTON

The music in the earphones cut.

The sharp click of a gun cocked behind my head.

This was the end.

"Put your fucking hands up," a gravelly voice snapped. "Now." There was a slight Eastern European twang to it.

My mind raced, trying to place the accent through the muffle of my earphones in. I knew having my desk face the window was a bad decision. Picking my gaze to see his reflection in the glass. A tall man in a suit jacket. It confirmed that noise was a gun.

"Take what you want," I said, pulling my earphones out as I raised my hands from the computer keyboard.

"Four million."

I burst into laughter. "I—I don't have that. Be reasonable. Who sent you?"

"You stole it." A firm hand on my shoulder, he tugged the hood of my jacket and spun me in my desk chair. "Look at me. In the eye."

It was hard to look past the big silver gun in my face. It wasn't the biggest I'd seen, but it was still in my face. "Listen. I don't know who you are. You have the wrong person. Plus, it's late. Come back tomorrow during business hours."

He stood straight, revealing his true height and how broad his shoulders were.

"Are you a stripper?" I asked. "Your body is just." I popped my tongue.

He combed his slicked black hair back. "Don't play games." He tutted, shaking his head. In the light, I noticed a shiny silver scar beneath his eye. "You're a boy," he said, lowering the gun.

Maybe I was the person he was looking for. I was taught that fucking around with dangerous men could lead to having their load fired in my face.

"How old are you?" he asked, snarling. "No more than what—twenty?" He holstered the gun inside his jacket.

"Twenty-five, actually."

"And you own this place?" His head panned around.

"Ownership is a broad term," I said. "Who owns anything anymore?" I copied his head movement, scanning the apartment for points of entry and exit. I lived in a loft in Williamsburg. There were plenty of windows, but I wasn't eager to free fall.

"Listen kid," he said. "I'm not a bad person. I'm trying to get back something that was stolen. Tell me who owns this place?" He stared at me. His cheek twitched where there was a scar.

"Is this the person who stole that money?" I asked, shaking my head. "What does four million bucks even look like? Was it in gold bars? I watched a show where they melted them into little balls. Super creative."

"No, no, no." He waved his hands over each other. "This was worse."

"In cash? Was it a briefcase or something? You know you should have an armored truck and those FBI guys transport it."

"Stop. Tell me. Who owns the apartment? Wait. No. Who lives here?"

"I do."

He laughed a little before cutting himself off. His face turned stern and his gaze cold. "So, you stole four million, huh?"

It was probably more than that. I pressed my lips together, keeping myself from any snarkier remarks. "First off, who are you?"

"No, who are you?"

"And how did you find me?"

"I'm asking the questions," he said. "I have a gun."

"You're right," I said, smiling. "Ask your question."

He walked back and forth across the floor. "First, your name? If it's the same name I know, you're coming with me. Second, how did you get into the bank and steal so much? Three, who—who do you work for?"

I spun in the chair back to my keyboard. My fingers punched in an error code. The computer screen turned black. The lights shut off and a loud beep screeched from the speakers in all corners of the loft.

Dropping from the chair to my knees, I crawled toward my backpack by the mattress on the floor. Into a crouch, I swung the bag over my shoulder and pushed my hood over my head before leaving.

Two shots whipped through the air, cracking into my computer drive and monitor.

"Not so fast," he said as the lights flickered on. "You think you're slick. Computer boy. Huh."

In a slow turn, I contemplated throwing myself that free fall from the window. I was almost at the door. But he had a gun, and I didn't know how many bullets he had left.

"Listen," I said, holding my hands in the air as he aimed the gun at me. "I'm not the one you want. I don't own this place. It's—it's somewhere I crash."

"You're right, a woman named Wendy owns this place, but I'm not looking for her," he snickered. "Yes. I did my research."

"I could be Wendy for you," I said, trying to not smile.

Rule number one. Don't let anyone know anything about you. You can scrub your records clean, but you can't erase the information someone remembers. "If it's all the same with you, I'd like to live, and I'd like you to stop pointing that gun at me."

"Listen here you little—little—"

"Ok, I'm five-seven. You don't have to make a joke about it."

"Weasel," he said. "Come here. I'll cuff you. You're coming—coming with—"

"Coming," I snickered. He was making the jokes far too easy. "Buy me dinner first."

He growled. "You'll be the prettiest example I make."

"Aww," I cooed. "So, you think I'm pretty?"

He grabbed me by the arm and tugged me like a rag doll. "Start talking and talk quick."

Too close, an array of combating cologne scents assaulted me. Wrinkling my nose, I let out a sigh. "You don't have a clue about what you're doing, do you?" I stared blankly at him. "I'm not the one you're looking for."

"Listen, kid."

"I'm an adult."

"Kid. Listen. You stole from my family."

I tried to wriggle out of his grip. "I didn't." A lie: I stole from many people, mostly bad people. It wasn't my fault they were easy to get a keylogger access on one of their computers. "Do you seriously think someone like me would steal over a million dollars?" I shrugged, continuing to struggle out of his grasp. "Could, on the other hand, I could. But four million is too much."

He must've been wracking his brain; I watched his eyes ping-pong from left to right. "With that stunt you pulled on the computer. Maybe."

"Oh, I can see that, you Neanderthal."

"You got a smart mouth," he grumbled, pulling out a zip tie from his pocket. He pulled my wrists together, zipping them tight.

"You know, the least you could do is tie me with something a little stronger."

Sucking on his teeth, I'd gotten him riled. "You're going over my shoulder."

"As kinky as that sounds, and this roleplay is cute, I'm kinda booked solid for the week," I snipped back. "So, if you could give me a name, it might jog my memory and we can part ways. Unless what you want is—" He placed his hand over my mouth.

"Enough talking," he said. "I'm Danya Alexeyev."

The Alexeyev Crime Family.

Color me surprised. I always imagined that if it were to happen, they would've arrived with a small army. Instead, they sent one man. An Alexeyev by name, maybe also by blood.

"Eh hon," I garbled behind his hand.

"What?" He removed it.

"You're the son," I said. "You're important, right? So, why are you here alone?"

Tutting, he shook his head. "Top secret."

"Unless—unless you're here without telling anyone. No. You're here because they used your name in the financials. That's how the money was taken. It was your fault." I wasn't speaking from knowledge of the situation, just guessing.

His smile dropped. "Think you're funny, don't you?"

"I've been told I could do well on the comedy circuit," I admitted. "So, when are you throwing me over your shoulder? And where are we going?"

"No, I told you my name. You tell me yours. And who do you work for little boy?" He tugged at the zip ties, pulling them tighter.

"Ouch." I pouted, wincing my brows together. "I didn't hurt you. Why do you have to hurt me?"

The question stumped him. "Listen. I need the money back. Can you—can you do that?" He gestured to the computer.

"Why are you pointing at that?" I asked. "You shot it." Although that didn't matter, I'd already sent the error code. I'd never had to use it before. "Take me home to your daddy and explain to him why you're dragging some poor, innocent boy home with all your wild theories. I can cry on command, if that helps."

He threw me over his shoulder like I weighed nothing. "You're right. My father has worse means of getting information."

As soon as we were out of the apartment door, I began flailing my limbs around with my backpack hanging at the corner of my elbow. "Help!" I called out. "Help! Someone is trying to kill me. He's got a gun!"

Danya huffed. "You know help doesn't work. You're supposed to yell fire. And telling people I have a gun won't help. They'll run scared."

"Why? Is it really big?" I chuckled. My eyes darting around the hallway, examining escape routes. Step one was already in place, disarm with jokes. "I bet it's super hard as well."

"Stop."

"Your gun," I quipped. "If I had a gun as big as yours, I'd want everyone to see."

There was my escape. The trash chutes. It was large enough for me, but getting it open long enough and overcoming the fear that I might break both legs wasn't going to be easy.

"I'll tell you one more time," he said. "Shut up."

"Got it," I said, trying to sway him with my weight. I didn't weight much, so it was difficult, but I saw the pattern in his steps and the length of his stride from behind. As he lifted his left foot, I rocked myself on his shoulder, forcing him to walk closer to the wall.

"Stop wriggling."

"You know, I bet you'd be more attractive if you didn't kidnap people," I said, step two, compliments. "And, if you wore a little less cologne. Unless you fell into a perfume vat before coming here."

My leg touched the wall.

I had one shot at this.

"You're lucky," he grumbled. "If it had been anyone else, you would've been shot already. Maybe that can still happen."

"Why am I different?" I asked.

"Well, you kinda look—"

My foot caught the handle of the chute. I pulled it open and threw my weight into it. I slipped in with ease, but before I could slide to freedom and doom, he caught the backpack. My arms in the air clinging to the bag. It was stuck in place from the way my wrists were bound. "Let me go," I shouted. It echoed.

"Why are you making this difficult?" He said, his voice turning into a low growl. "You're a kid."

"Yeah," I said, trying to strain the handle of the bag in my grasp. "A kid who stole four million."

He let go. I dropped through the chute into the dumpster below. The trash cushioning my fall. Thankful the chute led to a dumpster on the alley.

I laid in the sour stench of trash for a moment, counting my lucky stars as I made it out alive. The last place I wanted to be was in a mafia safe house pleading for my life.

"We got your message," a voice said, banging on the side of the container. "Come on."

Peering out of the bin, a man and woman stood in colorful comic slogan T-shirts and cargo shorts. "Who—who are you?" I asked. "Oh."

"I'm Star and this is Lazer," the woman said.

I rolled my eyes. "No. I know you." I nodded at Lazer. "What are your real names?"

"We're taking you back to base. Boss wants words with you," Lazer said, sucking in a sigh. "She sounds pissed, by the way."

Star whacked Lazer on his chest. "No, she didn't. But she told us to say, welcome back."

"Right. Well, there's a big Russian guy about to get here any minute now, so—" I rubbed the zip tie against a piece of blunt rusted metal and freed my hands.

Star snapped her fingers. "Come on then. We have a car at the end of the alley."

"Welcome back," Lazer grumbled. "Nobody missed you," he whispered. His voice traveled in the quiet alley.

Climbing out of the dumpster, I wasn't sure which fate was worse. Being taken in by Russian mobsters or going back somewhere I left four years ago. Either way, I searched for another escape route.

"Come on!" Star said. "We're not waiting here all night."

The lesser of the two evils.