“There’s one problem.”
“What?”
“The police are having a convention at your house.”
“How do you know?”
“Carmine told me.”
Lucky’s heart sinks. “You don’t think something’s happened to Gwen, do you?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“Why?”
“No ambulance.”
“Mr. Creed. Are you in fact in Las Vegas?”
“Let’s put it like this: I can be at your house in an hour.”
“And you’ll take the job?”
“If you agree to cooperate.”
“What would I have to do?”
“Tell me everything.”
“Everything?”
“That’s right.”
“About Connor Payne?”
“We can start with him and see where it takes us.”
“Fine. But I can’t divulge any details about my business.”
“Why not?”
“It could ruin me.”
“Let me put it this way. You can tell me what I want to know, or you can tell Connor Payne everything. And he won’t ask nicely.”
1.
29 Hours Earlier…
The chip in my head can be activated by tapping a four-digit code into a device that looks like a wrist watch. When the code is entered, the chip heats up and starts liquefying my brain. Do that to me, and you better have fresh batteries and type in the right code, because if you don’t, I’m going to come for you.
It’s not personal.
I know you’ve got a life, a loving spouse, two apple-cheeked kids, three dogs, four cats and five parakeets. Or maybe you live alone in a basement apartment with a single window that’s half dirt and half sky, and you dine nightly on canned cat food while fantasizing about large, hairy women in boxer shorts who could win the limbo contest if the people on either end would just raise the fucking bar!
Either way, you’ve got a life, and as far as I’m concerned, you deserve to live it without interference from me.
Until you press those buttons.
Do that, and your life belongs to me.
I’m Donovan Creed, former CIA assassin, sometime hit man for the mob. I currently head up a team of assassins who kill suspected terrorists for Uncle Sam. I can be your best friend or your worst nightmare.
But you should know I don’t have many friends.
I’m a tolerant, even-tempered guy who likes the same things you do: long walks on the beach at sunset, holding hands, romantic candlelit dinners featuring great food and premium Kentucky bourbon, making love under the stars with high-end call girls, torturing, maiming and killing bad guys…
I’m not a bully.
Random comment, I know, but God, I hate bullies.
I’ve been told I have a hero complex, which means I feel compelled to help those in need. Personally, I think the world would be a better place if more people get involved when bad things go down. But apparently the fact I feel compelled to help people, instead of choosing to help them—makes me something of a sociopath. Let’s say it this way: if you’re a bully—and that word covers a lot of ground with me—it won’t take long for you to see something no one wants to see:
The man I keep hid.
To prevent that from happening, don’t fuck with the U.S.A., and don’t fuck with me, or the people I care
