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Chapters (57)
  1. Welcome to the Game
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraphs
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  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
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. Six months later . . .
  56. Acknowledgments
  57. Back Cover

Spencer looked at the money and thought about Ron-at-the-Bank, the rent he owed, Angela’s pay, a few grams of coke. He thought about the thirty minutes the drive to the MGM Grand Detroit Casino would normally take from where they were.

Four grand. The Grand. Fifteen minutes. Three fifty brake horses. Zero to sixty in four point nine seconds. Ron, rent, Angela, the Grand, fifteen minutes.

“Alright.”

He checked his mirror.

“Hadn’t you better get going?” asked McGrath.

“Yeah, I will as soon as that cop without the roof lights disappears, the one you clocked before you put that money down.”

“Those are a pain in the ass, aren’t they?”

And without knowing it, Spencer had just ticked another box.

They watched the cop car turn off. Spencer downshifted. The revs jumped, but the speed of the car stayed the same. He turned to McGrath.

“You sure about this?”

“Are you sure about this?” replied McGrath, with that whatever-you-did-that-was-naughty-I’ve-done-before-but-worse smile. Spencer found himself liking Dominic McGrath, but he suspected that was akin to liking a dangerous animal; you wanted to befriend it, but it might well take a limb in return.

McGrath took out his phone, clicked the stopwatch, and ostentatiously put it in the cupholder.

Behind them, Johnny Boy had finally caught up. But suddenly Spencer’s car was just gone, like in the old Star Trek episodes when Chekov engaged warp speed. Just . . . gone.

“Whoa.”

8

8

Welcome to the Edge

And suddenly I realized that I was no longer driving the car consciously. I was driving it by a kind of instinct, only I was in a different dimension.

—Ayrton Senna

Detective Sergeant Evan Batiste and Detective Don Scott approached the steaming wreck of Rosso’s car. One of the troopers asked them if they wanted an ambulance summoned seeing as the guy in the front still had a pulse. They didn’t answer—neither of them cared about the guy in the front.

Zeb’s head rested on the doorsill that had terminated its brain function. Batiste grasped the blood-matted hair, turned the head round, sighed—and let go. Zeb’s head dropped back on the jagged glass with a crunch.

“What the hell is he doing here?” asked Scott.

Batiste thought about it, then nodded at Rosso. “They must have suspected Rosso, so they sent him with this loser, the sacrificial lamb.”

Scott looked at Rosso. “So if this guy Rosso here makes it, he might cut a deal. He probably hasn’t got long though.”