Nick Patterson was moving fast down the tree-lined stretch of Massachusetts Avenue, fighting to keep up with the strange young woman in the tennis skirt. She’d been two steps ahead of him the entire journey from the alley in South Boston, her tan legs churning at a thousand RPMs. Dodging parking meters, bike racks, the odd pedestrian—no question, she was on a mission now, and Nick was along for the ride.

They’d gone the six miles almost in silence, despite the brief efforts Nick had made to engage her in conversation. Along the way he’d learned her name—Hailey—but little else. Certainly, she was wary of him, and she had every right to be. But Nick knew there was something else going on with the sudden change in her demeanor. Before the warehouse—and what they’d found in the trunk of Gail’s car—she’d been reluctant, reticent, despite her outward bravado, a little scared. Now she seemed possessed.

When things go sideways… It was something Nick’s father used to throw at him, on the few occasions the man was home and lucid; the sort of philosophy lesson you expected from a guy who spent most of his time under a table at the local pub. But at the moment, it seemed to apply.

Things had certainly gone sideways. Nick’s hope for the sort of easy score that would set him up for a lifetime had been pretty much shattered in the past twelve hours, replaced by three dead bodies and the threat of the sort of criminal charges that would make his past indictments look like petty indiscretions. And yet instead of wallowing in the turn of events, they were indeed moving forward, at a pace that had him breathing hard.

It had helped that most of the sprint had taken place underground and by way of subway cars; the Blue Line from Southie to Government Center, a short hop to Park, then the Red Line to Kendall. Nick had known all the stops, because the T had been a lifeline to a kid who’d grown up with little money and even less of a home life, but he’d never taken the stops in this order. Even though it was only a few miles, there was an enormous distance between the stoops and concrete playgrounds of Dorchester and this spot, a long stone’s throw from the Mass Ave. bridge.

Just looking at the people brushing by them on the sidewalk brought some of Nick’s old insecurities into his shoulders. College-aged kids in sweatshirts with letters on them. Professorial types in slacks and blazers. So many people with glasses. When Nick was a kid, hardly anyone he knew wore glasses. You didn’t see well in Dorchester; you squinted.