1. Matt

ONE

MATT

Because of my work, I kept a low profile these days.

My life depended on it.

Lying on the couch, I stared at peeling paint on the ceiling and picked at a hole in a sofa cushion before grabbing my phone.

Not having had access to this device in days, there were a number of missed calls and a whole heap of crap in my inbox and message folder. My index finger spun into action, hovering over the delete button.

There were messages announcing a cataclysmic event and pleas to buy whatever the sender was selling. I labeled them as junk, and they vanished. Ignoring invitations to dinner and a concert, I hit delete again and again.

Are you up for a round?

Rubbing a hand over my eyes, I erased that too. My finger worked overtime as I yawned, my vision blurry while scrolling and deleting the crap that had accumulated.

I paused at another spammy text.

I'll drag you there if you don't agree to come .

Unusual tactic for a spammer. If I had the energy, I'd get my tech guy, Baxter, to hack into their account and… what? Delete it? There were worse consequences for a cyber pest, but I was too tired to come up with a more drastic punishment.

And yeah, yeah, hacking was bad, but I wouldn't be doing my current job if not for Baxter's hacking ability. Without his help, my lifeless body would probably be encased in a block of cement.

You need to get out more, and I haven't seen you in ages .

This person was determined to get my attention. But as I was about to hit delete, I glanced at the sender. Probably should have done that sooner. Oops! It was my older brother, Josh. Not a spammer, just him being really irritating.

Scrolling through the deleted messages, I re-read Josh's first two messages. Something was missing. A round of what? Drinks? Nope, not when I was working. Applause? Why yes, I'd take a bow. Poker? Nah, I wasn't a gambler. Golf? Boxing?

Whatever it was, I was supposed to leave home to do it.

Josh was an idealist, always looking for the good in people and assuming things would work out, no matter how lousy life was. He was a good guy who worked for a charity, and he'd been my father figure after our folks died.

And me?My outlook on life was more bleak.He was an optimist, and I was the opposite, always assuming the worst. How were we siblings? Somehow we muddled along.

I couldn't make sense of his messages, and my eyes fluttered and closed. I should crawl into bed, but the sofa was comfortable and I'd finished the frozen dinner I'd microwaved earlier.

Maybe Josh's account had been hacked. That would be hilarious… sort of… not really, because of my current work. But there was a fourth and fifth message, talking about an event tomorrow evening.

Rather than respond, I ignored the texts and tossed the phone aside. But the phone buzzing sent my heart racing. I'd lived on a tightrope of tension for weeks… months, if I counted all the preparation and interviews.

A ringing phone could signal an impending disaster or a huge scoop that would elevate me to the top of my profession.

My emotions seesawed as I checked the caller ID. Josh!

"So, are you coming?" He didn't wait for me to say hello.

I hadn't come in a while, thanks to my dual identity and not allowing myself to get close to anyone. "Huh?"

"The speed-dating event." There was a slight pause, and Josh gushed, " We're both going. You have no life, it's always work work work."

Josh didn't know the half of it. He believed, ‘cause I'd told him, that I was a sub-editor at the newspaper where I worked. He joshed—it was his little joke, as that was his name—that few newspapers existed in the twenty-first century and I was really a spy.

He was closer to the truth than he imagined and might not have believed me if I'd spilled the details. Not that I would. Josh's superpower, if I could call it that, was empathy, not keeping secrets.

"Explain, please."

He rambled on about a club, tables set up around the room, participants chatted, and one person moved on to the next table when a buzzer sounded.

"I can't think of anything I'd enjoy more," I deadpanned.

"Great!" Josh knew me well enough to pick up on my sarcasm, but he had to be pretending he didn't. He droned on, saying even if I didn't match with anyone I might make a new friend.

"It's what humans do."

My brother had no clue I had two lives; one in which I slaved away in a building where decades of reporters had transcribed their notes and thumped on typewriter keys as deadlines loomed. The smell of ink still permeated the walls, and the ghosts of people with a pencil tucked behind their ears roamed the newsroom.

The other life was shrouded in shadows, my work known only to two people at the newspaper. And that reminded me I hadn't checked my other phone, the burner.

The one I used when I wasn't Matt but Michael.

Josh had tried to hook me up in the past. There was a visiting colleague from out of town, an old college friend, and a neighbor, all of whom were pleasant but not memorable.

"It's tomorrow evening. I'll text you the address." He hung up before I could get another word in.

Why on earth would I participate in speed dating where you spilled details about yourself in a few seconds? It sounded horrible, especially when I had to lie. Nothing I said would be the truth other than my name.

I'll think about it, I texted. But I wouldn't.

Lying on the sofa, the remains of dinner on the coffee table and the phone— my phone—on my chest, I questioned my career path.

Working at the other job was similar to walking on a tightrope strung between two cliffs. One misstep and that would be the end of me.

If I succeeded, got the evidence I needed and destroyed the organization, I'd be feted in the media, but could I change the world for the better when some other group would take its place?

This was my time for doubting, sometimes a few fleeting moments, others that lasted hours or days, when I questioned what I was doing and whether I should give it up and take up a career writing thrillers.

I had a couple days off because the boss—not Eric at the newspaper but the boss, Dane, the head of The Obsidian Circle—had left town. Eric had told me I'd gathered enough dirtand this was the perfect time to stop what I was doing. But I was always searching for one more bit of information, and I'd told him, "Soon but not yet."

The plan was I'd be in the newsroom today and tomorrow, but Eric insisted I stay home. I'd protested, but it was the right decision. Living on the edge had its drawbacks, the most common being that I could be unalived at any second.

Not making it into the bedroom, I slept fitfully on the sofa and was woken in the morning by Josh's message giving me the speed-dating time, but he forgot the location. Not that it mattered. I turned off the phone and woke again late afternoon.

Don't think I'll make it . That was the end of any speed-dating discussion.

After showering and eating the last of the cereal, I peered into the empty fridge and at the bare cupboards. I needed groceries. Ordering online was an option, but I preferred to not have strangers coming to my door. I had the urge to breathe in the city's polluted air. The closest supermarket was within walking distance, so I put on a nondescript jacket over my T-shirt and jeans and strolled along the sidewalk.

Just a regular guy off to buy food.

But I'd forgotten how to be me, the real me. I kept my eyes on the ground, not wanting to catch anyone's gaze, always wary that someone from my undercover work would pick me out of the crowd. Not that they were likely to venture into my neighborhood.

When I was undercover as a chauffeur, I donned dark-framed glasses and used colored hair spray to streak my hair. I wore a smart suit and a diamond stud in one ear. But the real me dressed in T-shirts and jeans, and I usually covered my hair with a cap.

But as I ambled toward the grocery store, thinking of ready-made frozen meals and overly processed foods, a car pulled up beside me. Every nerve ending in my body sizzled, and I sprang into flight-or-flight mode, not that I had a weapon, and I wasn't much good with my fists.

Goosebumps erupted over my skin, and I grew cold while my heartbeats echoed in my head. I tensed, desperation gnawing at my insides and adrenaline surging through my veins.

This was what it had come to. My desire to expose corruption, or a small part of it, was going to result in my death.

Tension clawed my hands, but other than a phone and an empty backpack, I had no weapon. Running was the only option, but unless whoever was in the car was a lousy shot, I didn't like my chances.

Dropping and rolling under the vehicle would result in me being run over or knocking myself out. I should have worked harder at gymnastics as a kid because I never got past the forward roll stage.

"Gotcha!" a familiar voice yelled.

I clutched my heart, not wanting a bullet to pierce and shatter it. A leg maybe or an arm. I could recover from that. What if I lunged at the guy, but in the movies, there was always a driver and a hitman. Made sense.

My existence was about to be erased, and there were so many thoughts crammed into those last final, fateful seconds.

"You can't escape!"

Not an instant death.

I was going to be tortured.