Prologue
Wes Rockville stared bleakly out the dirt-encrusted window into the overcast day. Muffled horns could be heard through the glass. The late-afternoon sun peeked through the tall buildings, painting the streets of Manhattan with touches of gold. He squinted, his broad face crinkling. The bruise on his jaw still pained him, reminding him of his failure. The purple mark had faded over the past three weeks, but he felt the ache deep in his bones. He scrubbed his head. His wiry blond hair sprang to attention with its military cut. Close-shaven on the sides, the jarhead he stubbornly groomed failed, the wavy curls softening the top of his well-shaped head. He tried to make out the billboard across the way, but in his state of mind, the words appeared like a jumbled puzzle, and he didn’t have the patience to put them in order.
Harris rushed in without looking at him. His white shirt was wrinkled, and he had sweat rings under his armpits. His bald head reflected the dull lighting. His deep-set eyes were shaded by iron-gray eyebrows that grew comically outward like a ledge. The older man threw his files with disgust onto the cluttered desk, his deep voice growling, “Gone!”
Blue eyes met blue eyes. Wes looked down before his superior continued, his large shoulders hunching in despair. His six-foot-three frame slid low in the seat. “Three years at the state police level.”
“Do we have to do this?” Wes mumbled.
“Quiet!” Harris ordered. “You passed all written tests.”
“Your point is?” Wes responded sulkily.
“Is that a whine, Rockville? As I was saying, you were cherry-picked for this department. The youngest recruit. I personally vouched for you.” Harris leaned forward, his hairy knuckles pressed on the messy stacks of reports on the desk. “It was too soon. I should have left you in the office, but I wanted to avoid putting you where there was excessive paperwork. It’s that reading thing; it always holds you back.”
“That was disclosed on my application,” Wes said coldly. “It’s not an issue, sir. I have mastered my disability.”
“That may be true, but I feel that I rushed you. This is an elite agency. Only the best are recruited,” Harris said, more to himself than to the younger man.
“Are you saying that I don’t measure up with the rest of your team?” Wes asked.
“You put me in a terrible position. My own reputation has been brought under scrutiny.”
“I’m sorry,” Wes said, his voice low.
“You’re sorry!” Harris yelled, the purple vein bulging on his pale forehead. Wes stared at it with fascination. “See something interesting? Look at my face. Look at me, Wesley!” Harris was seething.
Wes gazed up.
“You couldn’t transport one little old lady,” said Harris.
Wes sank lower into the chair, his eyes downcast. “I don’t know what happened.”
“You don’t know what happened? I’ll tell you what happened!” A bubble of saliva gathered at the corner of Harris’s mouth and exploded off his face as he shouted, “We said don’t look her in the eyes!”
“I didn’t. I mean, I might have, but—”
“But nothing. You’re a disgrace. Your sister is the most distinguished prosecutor in New York City.” Harris fell back into his leather chair, his voice losing steam. He pulled an eight-by-ten picture from the side of his desk and pointed to a handsome blond man beaming in a family picture. “Your brother is Head of Counterterrorism.” He placed the photo carefully back in its place. Sighing, he rubbed his face. “We’re in a goddamn building named for your grandfather.”
“I know, Dad.”
“Don’t ‘I know, Dad’ me.” He held out a large, square hand. “You have placed my ass on the line with your incompetence! Don’t expect any special treatment.”
“I’m not expecting to be treated any differently than anybody else.” Wes bit back the rest of his response. It would be nice not to be picked on because of his circumstances, either.
“You know, I tolerated the episode with the goat.”
Wes fought the grin that tugged at his lips.
“Oh, you think that’s funny? Your mother didn’t think so.”
“Getting him into the dorm was a lot harder than getting him out.”
Harris shook his head. “This never happened with your brother.”
Wes looked away, the smile fading from his face. Here it comes, he thought. The comparisons with Andrew. Good old Andy, boy wonder. Top of his class, unbeatable athlete; no matter how many hours he worked, he never needed a shave. Every hair was always in place; his teeth were so white, they gleamed in the dark. Resentment filled Wes’s gut as his face heated with shame. In truth, Andrew never competed with him; he didn’t have to. All he had to do was show up. Wes had given up trying to meet Andy’s bar years ago. The only one who seemed to understand was Wes’s mother. She fostered peace in the house, refusing to allow her husband’s tough love to intimidate Wes. His father must have been thinking the same thing because Wes heard him mutter, “She always coddled you. Never let you grow up.”
“Wes,” his father sighed yet again. He looked up to find the older man studying him intently.
“That’s not true,” Wes said, defending both himself and his mother.
“Hand me your badge,” he said softly. He meant business.
“Aw, come on …” The words froze on his lips when he saw the ice in his father’s eyes. In complete silence, Wes dejectedly handed his father the badge he had worked hard to earn. He had made it to this special arm of the police that had been founded by his grandfather over fifty years ago—his lifelong dream. It was an undercover branch of a federal division created to do jobs that local law enforcement couldn’t handle. Words clogged his throat; his jaw ticked in sync with that of his father. He swallowed, biting back the choking sensation of disbelief.
“You disappointed me, your family, and the entire force,” Harris sputtered. “I knew you weren’t ready. I shouldn’t have sent you into the field.”
“Can’t you cut me some slack? It was my first assignment. There has to be a learning curve,” Wes said reasonably.
“No excuses. Learning curve, my behind. With your background, this should have been a walk in the park.” Harris paused, his jaw grinding. “There’s no room for that kind of bull in what we do. The only way you’re going to survive this debacle is by embracing it.”
“I’m not being fired?” Wes asked, hope filling his chest.
“Nope.” His father sat silently, his chair turned toward the fading daylight.
Wes gritted his teeth with impatience. If he wasn’t being fired, what was happening? He looked at the collection of photos on the wall and cabinet behind his father. Pictures of his sister, Lauren, at a podium at her graduation, the valedictorian of Yale, then being sworn in to the bar. His brother, with his unit in Iraq, or maybe it was Afghanistan; another of him surfing at Phuket Beach and climbing some mountain in Tibet. He focused on his own graduation picture, a small one from his school in Potsdam on a tiny corner of the wall. He glanced at the family photo. His eyes found the young boy in the picture, standing beside his slight mother, pushed into the corner by his larger-than-life father, his brother’s hulking muscles casting him into the shade. They were all brilliant. All of them had the ability to excel at everything they did—that is, except for him. Everything took him longer, from learning to ride a bicycle to reading a book. They didn’t understand that the words were jumbled. He had to slowly put them in the right order before he could proceed. In fourth grade, Mr. Wayne had armed him with a trick so that with a little extra concentration, he could work things out with no one the wiser. His parents knew, of course. It didn’t matter; he was expected to perform, so he worked longer with a driven intensity to succeed. He studied hard to pass; he spent hours at the gym to be able to master every physical test. Many times, others grumbled that his name earned him his grades at the academy, but Wes knew it was the result of working his butt off.
His father’s harsh voice interrupted his musings. “You are being reassigned.”
“I don’t want to be reassigned.” Wes stood, pacing the room. “This was my dream. Give me another chance, Dad.”
“Believe me, son. This hurts me more than it hurts you.”
Yeah, sure, Wes thought. Why do they always say that? This couldn’t be happening; he was twenty-five and had spent his entire life training for this job. “This is ridiculous! What, are you gonna send me to my room without dinner?”
“You have left me no choice. If I don’t do something, the commissioner will bring me up on report,” his father said, his eyes boring into Wes’s. Harris scribbled a number and then held out a scrap of paper to Wes. “I’m sending you to DUMBO.”
Wes laughed. “Like in the circus?”
His father sat back. “This isn’t funny. Down under the Manhattan Bridge overpass. In Brooklyn. Memorize the address and phone number, then burn it. Oh, and ask for Alastair. Alastair Verne.”
Wes stared at the paper, the faint handwriting swimming before his eyes. “Give me one more chance.”
“This is your only chance. Blow this, and you’re completely out. Not even your mother will be able to help you.”
Head down, Wes didn’t see his father’s blue eyes soften. Harris cleared his throat. “Remember what I said, Wes. Memorize it and burn it. Alastair’s waiting for you.”