Chapter One
Mitch eased his hand around the cool brass of the door-knob. He turned it noiselessly, feeling the bolt slide free of the catch.
He didn’t start when he heard one of the officers clear his throat behind him. He’d expected it.
“Uh, Mr. Drake, you weren’t actually thinking of leaving, were you?”
Mitch turned in time to see a third officer round the corner to join the other two in the room. Expectation replaced the previous boredom that had marked all three of the officers’ faces from the moment they’d arrived for duty at the safe house one week ago.
“As though I could go anywhere in this?” Mitch responded, nodding to the back window. Except for the narrow path that had been trampled down during the officers’ frequent smoke breaks, the small, fenced-in yard was buried under a good three feet of snow. Chicago had been socked by one of the worst New Year’s storms it had ever seen. Five straight days of freezing temperatures, nonstop flurries and winds that drove the snow into waist-high drifts, closing highways and more than half of the city.
“Why don’t you guys go back to the game?” He could hear the Bulls game still blaring from the TV in the other room. “I’ll be ten minutes.”
“Look, Mr. Drake. It’s the D.A. who makes the rules, not us, okay? And rule number one is we’re not supposed to let you out of our sight.”
“I won’t be out of your sight. I’ll be right outside. Now, if one of you wants to join me, you’re more than welcome. I’m going for a smoke.”
“But you don’t—”
“I do now.” He snatched up the pack of Camels left on the Formica-topped kitchen table, and tapped one cigarette out into his palm as though he’d done it a thousand times before. And when one officer tossed him a plastic lighter, Mitch caught it in the air, nodding the man an insincere “thanks”.
He half expected one of them to scramble into his coat and come out after him. But no one did. The door slammed shut in its frame as Mitch stood against the full force of the gale that blasted around the side of the split-level bungalow.
No matter how bitter cold, he was grateful for the privacy. There’d been precious little of it these past few months, with a new safe house every couple of weeks, and a constantly changing team of officers breathing down his neck at every move as though he was the one waiting to go on trial.
Turning up the collar of his leather bomber jacket, he stepped off the snow-packed deck and ventured down the steps to the first low drifts. He buried his hands in his pockets, crushing the cigarette in the process, and followed the six-foot-high fence. Snow packed into the sides of his leather shoes. Icy wind bit at his exposed skin and whipped at his hair. He didn’t care. At least it made him feel alive.
And—after eight months of safe houses, not to mention the two months prior to that recuperating in hospital—it was hard to remember what “alive” was anymore. Hard to remember there had ever been a life before this nightmare. Harder still to remember life with Emily.
He stopped at the far end of the yard, sheltered somewhat by the fence, and let the wind wrap its chill around him.
One thing he would always remember, however, was that night—the night his life had ended in one wrong turn, a detour directly to hell. Closing his eyes against the driving snow, he could, in an instant, conjure up every last detail of that night. The events unfolded before his mind’s eye like some stuttering, overplayed movie reel—the grand opening of the Carlisle Office Complex he’d spent three years designing and building, the project that sealed his reputation and success in the world of architecture, a night of high society and glamor, of celebration and champagne. But the most vivid image, beyond all the glitter and opulence of the evening’s events, was Emily—her glowing beauty, that shimmering smile of joy, her laughter and her words.
“Look at this, Mitch. All this—” she’d whispered, waving one slender hand at the grandeur around them. “It’s unbelievable, and all of it is yours. You did this. I am so proud of you.”
She’d kissed him then, oblivious of any onlookers. It was a passionate kiss that Mitch knew he’d remember to his grave, because it had been their last.
Within three hours of that kiss, everything he had known and loved was gone. They’d left the opening early. Emily, in spite of all her good cheer and exuberance, hadn’t been feeling well. Mitch could still remember the unseasonable warmth of the spring night air wafting through the car’s partly open window as they left the city center behind them.
If not for the road construction, they would have been safe in their bed, his body molding to Emily’s curves as he held her through the night. Instead, there was the detour sign, followed by a wrong turn. And then that dark street—made even darker now by the memories.
Emily had asked if he was lost. There was no time to answer. The sports car’s headlamps panned to the left as he took the turn, the light glaring across wet asphalt, illuminating the graffiti-covered wall of the overpass and finally capturing the small group of men.
They stood under the concrete arch, next to two dark-colored sedans, as the world spun into slow motion. Mitch couldn’t be sure which came first—the piercing crack of the gunshot or the flare from the weapon’s muzzle. Then there was the figure, crumpling to the shimmering pavement. And finally, the man…the man holding the gun. He’d turned, his deeply lined, sallow face forever etched in Mitch’s mind.
Emily was speechless, but Mitch remembered how she’d clutched at the sleeve of his tuxedo, tearing at it as though prompting him into action. The gearbox ground when he forced the sports car into reverse, the engine whining as he accelerated back to the intersection.
He didn’t need to glance in the rearview mirror to know they were being followed. And he hadn’t needed to hear Emily’s panicked observations as he steered for the on-ramp to the expressway.
They were already on him. Headlights blazing in the rearview, then disappearing below the mirror’s field of view as the tailing car took its first crack at Mitch’s bumper.
The small car was no match. The vehicle lurched, then swerved just as the battering sedan delivered another ram, and then another, to the ruined bumper. Mitch had already known they weren’t going to make it to the expressway. One dark sedan was alongside them. A single sideswipe from the heavy vehicle tore the wheel from Mitch’s hands. There was the agonizing squeal of metal on metal as the passenger side ground along the guardrail, and a spray of sparks lit up the night like a million stars. Then there was Emily’s scream. And finally the gut-wrenching crack as the rail gave way, hurtling the tiny car into a headlong somersault down the earthen slope.
Mitch remembered little after that. Not until the blipping of hospital monitors and support machines. It could have been hours or days that passed before the detectives came. Time meant nothing once he’d been told of Emily. Eventually he’d been presented with a photo lineup, and now, after months of safe houses, Mitch wished to hell he’d never pointed out the man he’d witnessed firing the gun.
He had never actually seen a photograph of Sergio Sabatini until he’d picked him out of the photo array. But he’d certainly recognized the name the instant one of the detectives uttered it: Slippery Sabatini. What resident of Chicago hadn’t heard of the notorious mob kingpin who’d spent the past fifteen years slipping through one judiciary crack after the next, evading every last criminal charge the Chicago Police Department tried to pin on him?
As though life without Emily hadn’t been bleak enough, from that moment on, Mitch’s life had literally disintegrated. First there had been the weeks of recovery in hospital under heavy police guard. And then, when Sabatini’s slick, high-priced lawyer managed to convince a judge that his client was established in the community with a family that depended on him, and was, therefore, in no way a flight risk, Sabatini easily met the million-dollar bail. On that same day,