HE WOKE INSIDE HIS OWN CASKET AND HEARD HIS WIFE THANK HIS BEST FRIEND FOR THE HIT—NOW THE HARBOR'S DEAD MAN WALKS

Three weeks later, the cold autumn rains had cleared, replaced by a crisp, golden November breeze blowing over the bay.

Inside the high-security ward of the state correctional facility, Marcus Vale sat behind a thick glass partition in a bright orange jumpsuit. His right arm was encased in a heavy fiberglass cast, and his face was scarred with fading purple bruises.

The heavy steel visitation door opened.

Adrian walked into the booth, dressed in a tailored wool coat, and sat down on the metal stool across the glass.

Marcus looked up, his face hollow, his eyes sunken into his skull.

“Did you come to gloat, Adrian?” Marcus asked, his voice flat and defeated.

“I came to bring you your final accounting,” Adrian said, sliding a single sheet of paper against the glass.

Marcus glanced at the numbers.

“Elena accepted a plea bargain this morning,” Adrian said. “Twenty-two years without parole. Viktor Cruz’s cartel assets in the state were entirely seized by federal marshals based on the manifests Claire Donovan pulled from your laptop. Cruz’s associates believe you were a federal informant who orchestrated the raid to save your own skin.”

Marcus’s hands began to shake violently. “Cruz will put a contract on me in every prison in the country!”

“He already did,” Adrian said calmly. “The warden has placed you in solitary confinement for your own protection. You will spend twenty-three hours a day in a concrete room with no windows, no visitors, and no voice.”

Marcus pressed his trembling forehead against the glass. “Adrian... remember St. Michael’s. Remember when we were kids. Please... move me to a minimum-security federal camp in the midwest. You have the political influence.”

Adrian stood up slowly, adjusting his coat.

“The boy from St. Michael’s died the day you paid a doctor to sign my death certificate, Marcus.”

Adrian turned his back and walked toward the exit.