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1
He should go the fuck home.
Zander stretched his legs out on the beat-up sofa in his tiny office slash break room slash waiting area. His eyes were gritty from the deep sleep he’d just woken from, but the blistering headache that had been with him for the majority of the day was gone now, thankfully. His last customer had been hours ago, long before the sun went down and the bitter cold the weather guy forecasted really set in. Zander should have left at the same time his two employees did, but he’d fallen dead asleep. Happened every time he got those headaches.
What sense did it make driving home to his cold and empty apartment now when he could be cold and lonely in the mechanic shop he’d bought for way more than it was worth? His life had become a monotonous blur. Wake up, open the shop, stay until sundown, then maybe find somebody to distract him for a couple of hours before he went home and fell into bed only to do that shit all over again.
He hadn’t anticipated how boring his new life would be when he’d made the decision to leave the old one behind. Hadn’t given much thought to having a purpose beyond oil changes and plugging flat tires. He was somebody new, with a new name, and this new person—Zander—led this achingly boring life.
It was a far cry from the man he’d once been. The one used to danger, to the sharp scent of blood and loud piercing cries of pain.
He rubbed his temple and lowered his legs to the floor just as the office phone rang. Fuck. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with customers, not at—he checked the time on his phone—8:52pm. His regular office hours were from ten in the morning to six in the evening, so who would be calling at this time of night? He ignored the phone, getting to his feet and stretching, hands reaching to the ceiling as he stood on tiptoes.
He was definitely going to the bar. The best way to snap out of his funk was to lose himself in liquor and a warm body.
Grabbing his wallet, he shoved his phone into his pocket, then picked up his keys and shuffled out of the office. The mechanic shop he’d bought just three hours after arriving in town was all he owned in this new life. In the almost two years since he’d walked away, the anger at what he’d had to give up was only lessened by the reminder of why.
“Enough,” he grumbled under his breath as he made his way out to the work area. He knew the layout of the shop like the back of his hand, so he didn’t bother turning on the light.
A sound reached his ears when he was about halfway across the room and he stopped, head cocked. It took a second, but there it was again: harsh breathing and teeth chattering; he’d heard that particular sound enough in his past life to recognize it.
He narrowed his eyes. The room was in darkness, but the hairs on the back of his neck lifted and he inched backward, retracing his steps without turning around. His weapon was inside the office. Why didn’t he have it on him? He usually kept it on his person, but he recalled unclipping it from his waistband when he’d dropped onto the couch earlier to rest. “You can come out.”
The sounds that had been coming from his left, from behind the hideously green Honda Civic he’d been working on earlier that day, stopped.
Then started up again.
He inched backward until he reached the light switch and flipped it on. For a brief moment he thought maybe his past had arrived on his doorstep, but no, he knew how they operated. If his deceit, his faked death, had been uncovered, they wouldn’t wait around in the dark for him. He would want a message to be sent, would want Zander to see him coming. It wasn’t them.
So, who the fuck was in his shop? “You have five seconds to come out from wherever you’re hiding.” He kept his tone short, cool. “One,” he counted down. “Two.”
A white blur shot out from behind the green vehicle and the person faced him.
Fuck. He’d really gotten lax.
The man before him was a pale, skinny thing wearing only a white t-shirt and black jeans that had seen better days. At least his feet were covered in beat-up sneakers, the faded black leather peeling away. The man—well, he looked younger than Zander—wore his blond hair long and scraggly. Blue eyes wide, his hands shook as he pointed a gun at Zander.
Hmm, Glock 19. Sixteen rounds, one in the chamber. Not a bad choice.
“Three,” Zander kept counting. “Four?—”
“Shut up! Shut up!” the guy barked. “You’re not supposed to be here. Why are you here?”
“This is my shop,” Zander answered calmly. He could deal with a single junkie, because that’s what the guy clearly was. But he couldn’t deny a tiny spark of disappointment that it hadn’t been his past hiding there; at least with them he’d have a good fight on his hands. “Why are you here?”
“I-I—” The intruder gestured wildly with the gun. “Give me your wallet.”
Zander chuckled. “Definitely not doing that.”
“Do it!” the other man screamed. “I’m gonna shoot. I’m gonna shoot you.”
Zander didn’t look at him. Instead, he kept his gaze on that gun. “You won’t be the first man to shoot me,” he said calmly. “Doubt you’d be the last.”
The guy blinked slowly, hand gestures stilling momentarily. “Wha—What? You-you want me to shoot you?”
Zander shrugged. “Do what you gotta do because you’re not getting my wallet.” Fuck, this night had taken a turn, hadn’t it? How had the guy even gotten in? Zander recalled Kat, one of his only two employees, telling him she would close up when the headache had driven him into the backroom. Clearly, she hadn’t. Goddamn it. “Whatever you’re looking for”—the guy with the full-body shakes continued to stare at him—“you won’t find it here.”
In answer, the younger man’s grip steadied on the gun and he squared his shoulders, desperation darkening his wide eyes. “Give me your wallet.” His gaze darted around. “And the keys to that car,” he said, gesturing to a red Altima.
