“Sergio. Pop the fucking trunk.”

I glance at Salvatore whose eyes are locked on the closed trunk. I reach around, pop it and walk back at the same moment he decocks his gun.

“Fuck.”

Fuck is right. The driver’s body is inside. His face is bruised and there’s a bullet hole between his still open eyes. On the lapel of his jacket is a note.

Keep your friends close.

Your enemies closer.

A name underneath the cryptic message. An address.

“What the—” Salvatore starts, taking it from me.

“Let’s go. The address is Atlantic City.”

We move quickly, driving the hour and a half to Atlantic City at breakneck speed. Salvatore is beside me. He’s still studying the note, but there’s nothing to learn from it.

“What the fuck does this mean?”

“It means someone’s fucking with us.”

“Vitelli?”

I shake my head. “No. No way. He’d be fucking stupid to after what happened with Joe.”

“Then who?”

“Pick a number. We have enough enemies to choose from.”

“DeMarco?”

“I don’t fucking know.”

Keep your friends close. Your enemies closer. It sounds like a warning.

We drive in silence, both of us thinking. If this is a warning, they won’t hurt her. The plan was to take her. To show me they could. If it was to kill her, she’d be lying in that trunk with the driver.

It’s almost five in the morning by the time we near the cheap motel outside Atlantic City limits. It’s not operational and was probably looted months ago. I park the car a block away and we walk. This part of town is nearly empty. Any streetlights that once illuminated these dark streets were busted long ago. There’s a traffic light flashing red about two blocks down and just past it is the motel. Twelve rooms from what I can see. The building looks like it’s going to cave in any second and at the very last room, a truck is parked outside.

“She’s got to be in there. You three go around back.”

Salvatore nods and disappears behind the building and I walk to the last door, fury making me fist the pistol hard.

As I approach the second to last room, I know from the lights flashing through the split in the curtain that someone’s watching TV in there. But they know I’m coming. Whoever took her left the fucking address. This is too easy. It reeks.

Salvatore and the two soldiers turn the corner. I signal for them to listen at the door of the room next to the one where the TV’s on. A moment later, he nods. I put up three fingers and count down: three-two-one.