Page 1 of Ballistic

Prologue

Death has a pretty unique scent.

First time you come across it, you never forget it. Although it’s not a physical thing, it tends to feel heavy on the air. Stagnant and still. Suffocating. It looms like a shadow. Watching. Waiting.

A soundless observer with no regard for time, or place.

Some see it coming. Their eyes go wide with fear, because anyone who says they’re not afraid to die is a fucking liar. Their faces turn white. Bodies feel cold all of a sudden. They shiver. A few even piss themselves.

They say sharks can detect death that way. They smell it on the water when one of their kind is slaughtered, like a chemical signature for tragedy, and just know to stay the hell away.

Others don’t see it coming, at all, though, until that cold steel barrel is pressed into the back of their heads with a steady hand.

Game over.

I stare down at Tesarik, who sits slumped over himself on the wooden floor. A pool of blood marks his own circle of death. His skin is ghost-white, eyes kinda glassy, like he’s got one foot on the other side already. He lifts his arm up into the air, and where his hand should be is nothing but a stump, through which bones have poked, the skin melted away into the mess around him.

“Perhaps now, we both regret … touching her.” The loud and obnoxious laugh that follows tells me he’s more than one step on the other side.

I’m surprised the loopy bastard even recognizes me behind that batshit expression on his face.

The steel pushing into the back of my head presses harder, as Death’s cold breath hits the nape of my neck, feeling closer than before. “Do you?” it asks.

“No,” I answer, in a voice more resolute than I’d imagine, given the circumstances. Not even my own demise can make me regret one moment with her.

The scent of death grows stronger. Sweeter. Thicker on the air.

I close my eyes, imagining her face and those soft amber eyes that’ll haunt me in my fucking grave.

I wait for the bullet’s silence.

1

Dax

Only two types of people in the world made my skin crawl: pedophiles and shitty liars. And the shady son of a bitch sitting across from me happened to be throwing off both vibes.

“How’d you find me?” I leaned back against the booth, eyes glued on the slightly older man opposite me, whose black wool overcoat swallowed his lithe frame. Too fancy not to stick out in a hellhole bar like Sharky’s, which mostly catered to locals. The thick aroma of greasy burgers and frying fish clashed with whatever the hell aftershave settled over everything like smog since he’d walked in. “Try answering truthfully this time.”

Black gloves covered his hands, ones he hadn’t bothered to remove. Maybe a germophobe. Like those sick fucks who’d eat someone’s spleen straight from the body cavity, but lose their shit after touching a wet doorknob. “I already told you, Mr. Wolfe. Mutual friend.” His voice carried a thick Slavic accent, though I didn’t have a clue which language. Could’ve been Russian.

“Bullshit.” No friend of mine would’ve said a word to the asshole, unless he beat it out of ‘em. “I may look like some swinging dick to you, but half this joint’s been peeping you out since you walked through that door. Not a single one would give you the time, let alone my favorite fucking hang out.”

He casually scanned the room, no doubt taking note of all the stares, before his gaze fell on me again. “You’d be surprised how quickly money changes the game in a city like Detroit. Couple grand, and I know more than I care to about you.”

“Wanna tell me which chatty cocksucker I need to slap?”

“Your ex, ironically.”

Christ. I hadn’t officially dated in months, but the break up with my last girlfriend could’ve qualified as a cold war. Stripper, and feisty as hell. Wasn’t exactly quiet, either, considering she’d posted my mug on some ex-bashing website called The Hall of Shame, telling everyone what an absolute bastard I was. That’d been after she’d smashed the windows out of my car and set every piece of clothing I owned on fire. She’d have, undoubtedly, jumped at the chance to sic some decrepit mafia-looking son of a bitch on my ass. “No shit.”

“I’m here because it’s come to my attention that you’re looking for a young girl who was picked up at an auction a few months ago.”

I snorted, resting my elbow on the back of the booth. “Yeah? My ex tell you that, too?”

“No. Word travels fast, as I’m sure you’re aware. And as it relates to my daughter, I’ve made a point to listen for any clues that might lead to her whereabouts.”

“You’re her father.” It wasn’t a question. It was a smack upside my head.