BooksBarbecue
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Chapters (97)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Dedication
  5. 1.
  6. 2.
  7. 3.
  8. 4.
  9. 5.
  10. 6.
  11. 7.
  12. 8.
  13. 9.
  14. 10.
  15. 11.
  16. 12.
  17. 13.
  18. 14.
  19. 15.
  20. 16.
  21. 17.
  22. 18.
  23. 19.
  24. SIX MONTHS LATER
  25. 20.
  26. 21.
  27. 22.
  28. 23.
  29. 24.
  30. 25.
  31. 26.
  32. 27.
  33. 28.
  34. 29.
  35. 30.
  36. 31.
  37. 32.
  38. 33.
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  40. 35.
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  44. 39.
  45. 40.
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  48. 43.
  49. 44.
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  64. 59.
  65. 60.
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  80. 75.
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  82. 77.
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  84. 79.
  85. 80.
  86. 81.
  87. 82.
  88. 83.
  89. 84.
  90. 85.
  91. 86.
  92. 87.
  93. SIX MORE MONTHS LATER
  94. 88.
  95. 89.
  96. Discover More
  97. About the Author

At this point, anything he can learn. Nothing left to lose.

“Federal Department of Corrections, New York East,” says the voice that answers. “How may I direct your call?”

Zack hangs up.

Was Joey Richter calling someone who was directing the hit? Approving it? Or calling another prisoner? Someone worth calling in that noisy, crowded GreenGirl moment.

But either way, calling someone on the inside.

Yes, Joey was sitting in the GreenGirl. But he wasn’t really in the GreenGirl, was he?

Sure, inhabiting the world around him, amid all those GreenGirl patrons hunched over their phones, chatting and texting with their friends. So joining in their world for a moment? Calling a friend? Trying to fit in?

What kind of person has nothing on their cell phone? No apps. No photos of friends. No events, no memories. Maybe not just a person who doesn’t want anything on their phone. Maybe also a person who just got a phone. Who is new to cell phones.

Like someone who’s done a long stretch in prison.

Whose life has perhaps been mostly prison.

Like a pale-looking “businessman” who hasn’t seen the sun in years. Trench coat maybe hiding tattoos. Back of the hand and back of the neck tattoos that Zack thought were simply reckless youth. Maybe a whole torso of tats beneath the trench coat.

What kind of idiot uses 2580 for his code? Maybe just someone who doesn’t know any better. Someone new to technology. Someone back in the world.

A prisoner. Who had experienced years, maybe a lifetime, of prison’s dehumanization. Who has totally lost any other identity.

Something Zack would never understand.

But he might understand just enough of it.

Zack enters the code on Joey’s phone. Opens the browser. Goes online.

“What are you doing?!” says the client, anxious. “We’ve got to get over to the GreenGirl! You don’t know what we’re dealing with!”

“Oh, I think I know exactly what we’re dealing with,” says Zack.

And we’ll know soon enough if I do, thinks Zack.

The client watches Zack tapping away furiously on the phone’s keyboard. Squinting at the screen. Squinting at the keyboard. Typing. Nodding. Typing.

The client is growing frantic. Rising from her seat. “We’ve got to get over there now!”

Zack finally looks up.

“Yes, we do. Let’s get to that GreenGirl.”

17.

17.

Back at the GreenGirl. A table in the back.

Two couples are having coffee together.

Zack and the client sit on one side.

Joey and Emily sit on the other.

Joey won’t do anything here, Zack figures. The GreenGirl is full. Joey needs to stay anonymous; it’s part of his job. But it’s terrifying nonetheless.

The four coffees sit on the table untouched. Only there for show. To blend in. Things are a little too tense for enjoying a cup of coffee.

No pleasantries. No smiles. No discussion.