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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

“Dom, the guy is a schmuck. You’re wastin’ your money, our bonus.”

“The guy drives at least as well as Rosso does, did.”

“The guy don’t know shit from Shinola. Eddie’s a good driver. He already works for you, and you’re already paying him so—”

The rest of his sentence became a yell of shock as the Porsche suddenly wheel spinned out of the loading bay, leaving them in a cloud of tire smoke. New-tire smoke.

12

12

Making the Right Impression

You’ve got to be closer to the edge than ever to win. That means sometimes you go over the edge, and I don’t mean driving, either.

—Dale Earnhardt

The Porsche laid two thick glossy strips of smoking rubber right out of the bay. With engine whining and sunlight glinting off rims and roof, it raced over to the far corner of the lot, seemingly going too fast to do anything other than crash into the right angle formed by the depot fence and the wall of the neighboring warehouse. At the last moment, the car whipped around, white smoke belching from screeching, juddering tires. The gears coughed downward, the revs climbed, and the back end of the Porsche slid around as if on ice. Tires fought for traction. Stones and gravel crackled off the fence and nearby dumpsters.

Back end still slewing, the car picked up speed again. No one in the loading bay spoke as they watched Cal’s car heading straight toward a light pole. Must’ve been doing at least eighty they figured. Some of them had decided the English guy had just gone plain nuts, was still rolling only by virtue of sheer luck, and right about now was just choosing his moment to end things in a snazzy German fireball.

Inside the car, Spencer waited until the light pole was filling his windshield before jabbing the brake and flicking the wheel to the right. Then he floored the gas.

Cal’s face turned to stone as he watched his car sliding around and around, front bumper inches from the light pole, the car disappearing and then reappearing among clouds of smoke like a sleek white genie. He looked back at McGrath.

“Six months old that car. Those tires are two grand a set. I’m gonna kill your new boy, Dom.” He said it with righteous conviction.

Johnny Boy liked watching McGrath in moments like these. They worked with men who didn’t scare easily and who weren’t the rule-abiding type.

“You’re the numbers man, Cal, so why can’t you do the math?” said McGrath. “Both drops Rosso made in the last month were intercepted. Straight after, so they pulled in the couriers too. AtoB’s guys are goin’ nuts: two of them caught with dirty cash. Two guys who might talk. So you tell me, why might I want a guy who’s not from around here?”