“I need you to tell Denise something for me. Not that I’m sorry for what I did to her, even though I am. She’s already heard me say that and she doesn’t care. Nor should she.” He took a breath. “I want you to tell her I blew it. I was happy, with her and the kids and my normal, boring job, and I blew it. Whether it was for what I thought were the right reasons or not doesn’t matter. I destroyed not only my life but theirs as well, when all I ever wanted to do was protect it. I own that. And I won’t do any more damage. I’ll stay away, just like she told me to, and I hope that makes her happy. Because she deserves to be happy. They all do.” He coughed, just once. It was as if he was trying to dislodge the last remnants of what he’d said. “Will you tell her that for me, please?”
She nodded. “I will.”
“Thank you.”
Nobody in the car looked up at her as she walked past them and continued down the highway in the opposite direction while she listened to Rick’s speech. To his confession. Nobody saw her dial another number on her phone after her and Rick said their goodbyes.
A recording answered, asking for a code. She spoke four numbers and a letter, taking care to enunciate each one. The wind had picked up and if it distorted anything she said, she wouldn’t get a chance to repeat them. After a few clicks and beeps as her code was verified, a male voice came on the line.
“The job’s done,” she said. “The Persian’s dead. She was the last of the three.”
“Excellent news,” the male voice said. It was hoarse, like he’d just gotten over a bad cold. “Our client will be pleased. What about Carter? Is he what we thought he was?”
“Oh yes,” she replied. “He might be even better.”
“How does he handle himself?”
“You need him to be a recruiter, not a fighter. That’s why you have me.”
The voice paused to consider this, then cleared his throat. It was an awful, juicy sound. “You haven’t checked in since you took out Ian Matthews. I was starting to get worried.”
“Circumstances wouldn’t allow it. Besides, you should know better than to worry about me by now.”
“Does he know you were the one who popped the kid? He was standing right next to him.”
“No.”
“I’m told he and Matthews were close. If he suspects you at all then we have to be careful how we—”
“He doesn’t suspect anything. He trusts me.”
More nauseating throat clearing, but he didn’t press the issue. “Do you know where he is now?”
“Not yet, but I will. He’s going to call me to get a drink after he settles in somewhere.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“He will.”
“But if he doesn’t? This next job is everything, Erica, and it doesn’t stand a chance of succeeding without Rick Carter.”
She had reached a bend in the road. The SUV was just out of sight. Since the tractor trailer rocketed by, not a single other vehicle had appeared. Not even the faint twinkle of headlights in the distance. It was so quiet that the thin dusting of snow on the asphalt lay undisturbed. After a quick check to make sure Robert hadn’t followed her, she pulled the blonde wig off and ran her hand over her short, military-cut hair, scratching her scalp where the adhesive strips left it red and irritated.
“If he doesn’t call, I can track him down.”
“Good,” the voice said. “Go get him.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
You made it! Either my debut novel didn’t suck as much as I feared or you’re one of those people who refuses to put a book down until you’ve finished it, even if you think it’s hot garbage. Regardless, I appreciate you spending not only your money but your time on the previous ninety thousand words.
Now that the credits have rolled, so to speak—and I hopefully didn’t piss you off too much with that cliffhanger—I’d like to ask for just a few more minutes of your time so I can shout out some very important people.
Mom and Dad come first, because of course they do. Ever since they submitted the short story I wrote in elementary school to Highlights Magazine, they have supported me in my writing journey. (That story, “The Horse Raised by Wolves,” can be read in its four-paragraph entirety on my website, by the way. While you’re there, check out the article my local paper wrote about it in which my father, whose name is NOT Larry, is nonetheless referred to as Larry several times throughout the piece. Classic.) Seriously, though, you both set the bar for what I hope to be as a parent, and I strive to reach it every day.
Next up are the three people to whom this book is dedicated. My wife, Kristina, has been putting up with my shit for longer than anyone who knows me would have thought possible. It takes a special woman to not only stay with the douchebag who fake-proposes to her as a joke, in a gazebo under the moonlight, but then to also say yes when he proposes for real a few months later. Our marriage is proof that Paula Abdul and that cartoon cat were right all along: Opposites really do attract. She was the first person to read this book, and has been one of my biggest cheerleaders. Love you, babe. You’re amazing. And I’m sorry in advance for the next stupid thing I do.
My kids, Kayla and Evan, remind me every day what’s really important in life. Their enthusiasm and excitement on my behalf has been one of the most rewarding experiences of writing this book. I can only hope they are half as proud of me as I am of them.
My brother, Jeff, didn’t really have anything to do with this book, mainly because I never told him about it until after it was sold. But if nothing else, his constant drive and desire to be the best at whatever he does likely served as subconscious motivation during those times when the writing wouldn’t come, or the rejection letters from agents started to pile up. Thanks, little bro.
My in-laws are some of my favorite people, and have been ever since they laughed when Kristina told them about that gazebo prank, instead of throwing stones at me like they probably should have. Too numerous to list by name, if you’re a Mazza, Krick, Leslie, Wright, or Vasapollo, I love you. A special chest-pat and point to the sky for my mother-in-law, Mooneen, who passed away before I told anyone I had written this book. As the biggest reader of the bunch, I bet she would have loved it. Miss ya, Ma.
As incredible as my real family has been throughout this process, my work family has been equally amazing. Emerson Group is a second-generation, family-owned, boutique staffing and recruitment firm operating in the South Jersey/Philly area. Submitting my résumé to them thirteen years ago was the best decision I ever made in my non-writing career, and would eventually lead to the inspiration to write a book about a recruiter. (For the record, NONE of what Rick does in this book would be sanctioned by Emerson Group. Cool? Cool. Nobody call the cops on them, please.) In an industry that gets a bad rep, they are a shining example of how to do things the right way. It starts at the top with Bill Emerson, who has built a culture of respect and professionalism that is truly special. Your constant support, both for my work as a recruiter and an author, has been invaluable.
My literary agent, Dan Milaschewski, is a rising star in this business. When he agreed to represent me, I felt like I’d just bought stock in Amazon during the early days. He gets my humor, digs my writing, and works his ass off to make sure my career stays on the proper trajectory. Dan’s the man.
Addison Duffy and Orly Greenberg, my film/TV agents, are lending that same work ethic to putting this book in a position to be on a screen one day. My friends who don’t read are eternally grateful to you both, as am I.
Blackstone Publishing is cool. There’s nothing else to say. As soon as Dan told me we had an offer from them, I started researching the company online, and everything I read made my decision to accept a no-brainer. They run a big business like it’s a family, are on the forefront of marketing, and their covers rock. (Thank you, Alenka Linaschke, for mine.) Daniel Ehrenhaft believed in this book from the moment it hit his inbox and has been in my corner every step of the way. Josie Woodbridge earns her living by keeping a thousand plates spinning at once, and I count myself lucky to be merely one of them. Celia Johnson got her hands on the original manuscript and, through her editorial genius, made me appear to be better at this than I actually am. Cannot wait to work with her again. Cole Barnes caught all the typos I missed, so thank you for making me not look like an idiot. My marketing team of Tatiana Radujkovic, Rachel Sanders, Brianna Jones, and Francie Crawford are likely the reason you even knew this book existed. And to anyone else behind the scenes at Blackstone who had a hand in this process, thank you.
If you want more in-depth knowledge of the people who have helped bring this book into existence—because I know this acknowledgments section is dragging on, but it’s my first one, so bear with me—please check out the Beyond Words section of my website, GreggPodolski.com, where I interview those individuals and give them the due credit they deserve. Including Sierra Godfrey, a talented author in her own right, who also designed that very website for me.
There are plenty more people to thank, including my friends, all of whom are like an extended family, but the orchestra is starting to play me off, so I’ll just offer a blanket thank you to anyone I’ve left out. Particular nod to my beta readers, Junan Collins, Avanti Centrae, and Sam Richey, all of whom read the manuscript after my wife and provided valuable feedback before I began querying agents. To anyone else who read an advance copy and offered advice, praise, or criticism, every bit of it is appreciated.
Finally, I want to thank you. A book can exist without a reader, but it’s a sad, lonely existence. My words live on with every fresh set of eyes (or ears) that takes them in, and that’s a gift I could never repay. Whether you liked what I wrote or not, thank you just for reading it.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
