Chapter 1 - The Wrench in the Dirt
The silence of Northern Dutchess County was oppressive, punctuated only by the relentless drone of cicadas and the metallic pinging of Adrian’s cooling engine.
Adrian stood beside his dead armored sedan, his hand still holding the useless phone in the air. The dark suspicion that had settled over him wasn't paranoia; in his world, paranoia was simply survival. The car was a modified Mercedes S-Class with a twin-turbo V8, reinforced steel plating, and run-flat tires. It was serviced weekly by a private mechanic in Queens who had worked for the Moretti family for twenty years. A total water pump failure on a vehicle with fewer than twelve thousand miles did not happen by chance.
Someone had tampered with the coolant lines. Someone who knew he was taking this isolated back road.
A faint rustling sound in the tall brown grass across the narrow drainage ditch caught his attention. Adrian’s right hand moved reflexively inside his tailored suit jacket, his fingers resting on the cold textured grip of his concealed firearm.
"You shouldn't hit it," a small voice said.
Adrian didn't draw his weapon, but every muscle in his tall frame went rigid. He looked down into the ditch.
Standing in the waist-high weeds was a little girl no older than six. She wore faded denim overalls over a striped yellow t-shirt, her dusty knees scraped from playing in the dirt. Her dark hair was tied into two messy pigtails, and she held a heavy, grease-stained 1/2-inch crescent wrench in both hands like a prize sword.
Adrian stared at her, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "Excuse me?"
"My mom says when men hit cars with their hands, it just makes the car mad," the girl said matter-of-factly, stepping out of the ditch and onto the warm asphalt. "And it hurts your knuckles."
Adrian blinked. He controlled shipping terminals in Brooklyn, construction firms in Queens, and a small army of men who lowered their voices when he entered a room. He was not accustomed to being lectured on mechanical repair by a child holding a tool half her size.
"Is that right?" Adrian asked, his voice dropping into its usual low, measured rasp.
"Yep," she said, swinging the heavy wrench back and forth. She took a few steps closer, examining the steam still rising from the open hood. "Your water pump blew up. It smells like sweet syrup."
Adrian looked from the steaming V8 back to the small child. "How do you know what a water pump smells like?"
"Because my mom fixes them all the time," she declared proudly, chest puffing out beneath her overalls. She pointed a small, dirty finger down a gravel driveway tucked behind a clump of overgrown wild berries fifty yards back. "Our garage is right there. My mom can fix your car. She has a lift and everything."
Adrian looked toward the dirt driveway. From the main road, the property was almost entirely invisible, hidden behind oak trees and dense brush. He pulled his hand out of his jacket, folding his arms across his broad chest.
"What's your name, little girl?"
"Maya," she said, squinting up at him against the harsh August sun. "What's yours?"
"Adrian."
"You wear a funny shirt, Mr. Adrian. It's too hot for a jacket." Maya looked at his polished leather shoes, then back at his face. "Are you a rich guy?"
A faint, fleeting smirk touched the corner of Adrian's mouth—the first in months. "Something like that. Where is your mother, Maya?"
"In the shop," Maya said, turning on her heel and marching toward the gravel lane without checking to see if he was following. "Come on. Before the black cars come back."
Adrian stopped dead in his tracks. The dry heat suddenly felt freezing against his skin.
"What did you say?" Adrian asked, his voice sharp and dead serious.
Maya stopped and looked back over her shoulder, her dark brown eyes clear and untroubled. "The big black cars. They drove past two times this morning. Real slow. They looked like your car, but they had dark windows so you can't see the people inside."
Adrian felt a cold, electric pulse run through his nervous system.
He was ninety miles from Manhattan on a back road he had chosen at random five hours ago. The only people who knew his general trajectory were Sam Russo, his long-time underboss, and Marcus Vale, his chief of security.
Maya held out her hand, offering him the heavy crescent wrench. "Here. You can hold my tool so you don't look scared."
May you like
Adrian looked at the small metal wrench, then down at the six-year-old girl standing barefoot on the gravel road. Slowly, deliberately, he reached down and took the tool.
"Lead the way, Maya," Adrian said quietly, his eyes darting toward the tree line as he stepped off the asphalt.
