PROLOGUE

10:00.a.m Monday, September 10th, 2012

Thomas Ingram was having a bad day. Hell, he always had a bad day when it was Monday. But there were a couple of reasons why that particular Monday morning ranked as one of the worst. For starters, it was another ninety-five degree morning in Albuquerque. The scorching dry heat of the Duke City seemed relentless as the final weeks of summer were drawing to a close. To Thomas, however, it made no difference to him if it was a sweltering 100 degrees or a freezing 30-below outside; he wouldve sweated like a stuck pig all the same. Fear had a way of doing that to most people. Especially considering Thomas had to provide testimony that morning to a federal grand jury inquiring into whether or not to initiate criminal prosecution against his former employer, Pablo El Diablo Salazar, for a number of charges ranging from drug trafficking and smuggling to money laundering and murder. That laundry list of not-so-great goodies went on and on. And thanks to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Thomas was forced to choose between becoming Pablos backstabbing dry cleaner or spending the rest of his life behind bars doing laundry for all of the other convicts at a federal prison. It seemed a fitting penance for Thomas considering he was a corrupted, certified public accountant who had laundered close to 3.8 million dollars in drug money for Pablo over the course of seven years. While the idea of looking at soiled undergarments and bloodstained prison blues until his end of days didnt really appeal to Thomas, the thought of Pablo putting him six feet under the ground much sooner didnt sit too well either. Every morning for the past thirty-eight years of his life, Thomas always made a choice like most people did. He could get up and face the world or he could be a really brave man and stay in bed, roll over and go back to sleep. To Thomas, going out into the world never really took any guts, no cold-steel courage, and no balls. The way he looked at things basically boiled down to this: no matter what he did or how hard he tried, the difference he made in everyone elses lives was always minimum. Except to Pablos, that is. For a few million reasons to say the least. Thomas never really considered the work he did for Pablo as being anything more than business as usual. No different than a regular nine-to-five job. Five days a week, Thomas would get in his car and make the drive north from his upscale $1,200 a month studio apartment in Uptown all the way to the Village of Corrales where Pablos custom-built Hacienda El Alacrn stood. There, he would perform the lackluster bookkeeping duties that were expected of him in the comfort of his own air-conditioned office until the end of the day came when Pablos ebonyskinned, right- hand woman, Sherrie Vaughn, would give him $500 bucks in cash for a job well done. Nor did the possibility ever don on Thomas that he was under the microscopic eye of satellite surveillance courtesy of the United States government every time he came and went from Pablos humble abode for the better part of a year. As far as Thomas was concerned, he had nothing to fear. In his eyes, his life was as carefree as a chickens crossing the roador at least it used to be until the day two FBI agents

showed up at the door of his apartment eight months earlier and threatened to deep fry his ass like Colonel Sanders did his hens. Fifteen counts of money laundering, Tommy Boy. At 20 years a pop, youre looking at upwards of 300 years behind bars since well be pushing the judge to have you serve each charge consecutively. With any luck, you might make parole when youre 120 years old. Thomas sat in the back seat of the Blue Chevy Malibu he was riding in and sighed. He shouldve been a real man and stayed in bed for the past seven years instead of being a stupid, greedy son-of-a-bitch with no fear. Now he was a paranoid chicken-shit on his way into the United States Federal Witness Protection Program who would have to look over his shoulder for the rest of his life. It wasnt much of the lifestyle he was used to living, but it was better than being dead. As he sat in the back seat, seeing the ever-changing landscape moving past him in a blur, pain had begun to throb in Thomas temples. He realized that his teeth were clenched tighter than the jaws of a vise. He tried to relax and breathe through his mouth. He rolled his head from side to side, working the stiffening muscles of his neck. Stress could be beneficial if you used it to stay focused and alert. Fear could paralyze, but also sharpen the survival instinct. The way Thomas felt right then and there, he couldnt tell which was which. Either way, he needed something to help calm his nerves. Something like a Caff Americano from Starbucks. Venti-sized. Hey? If its not too much to ask, can we stop at that Starbucks coming up at the light? Thomas asked the two FBI agents seated in the front seats of the Malibu. Can it wait, Ingram? responded the female agent in the passenger seat. Im sure there will be coffee available at the federal courthouse. You dont understand, Agent Jones. Regular black coffee doesnt work for me, okay? I need the premium stuff. The quicker, picker upper. Got it? Agent Jones looked back at him. Your dispositions at 10:30.a.m. She glanced down at her Seiko watch. Its 10:10 right now. What a cunt, thought Thomas. She looks like Megan Fox but has the personality of old decrepit Sophia Petrillo from the Golden Girls. Were less than five minutes from the courthouse for Christs sake. Im not asking you to drive me to China or something, protested Thomas as he leaned forward. Let me remind you of something in case youve forgotten, Agent Jones. I am the star witness that can either make or break this criminal indictment youre trying to put together against Pablo Salazar. By doing this, Im putting my life on the line here. As a courtesy, I dont think its too much for me to ask you for a goddamned cup of coffee from Starbucks! Agent Jones glared at Thomas, seemingly unfazed by his over-the-top dramatics. Blow it out your ass, Ingram. Let me remind you of something in case youve forgotten. Youre not being our star witness out of the kindness of your heart. Youre doing this to not only escape a lifetime prison sentence but youre also trying to save your own sorry ass from Pablo in the process. As far as Im concerned, neither the FBI nor I owe you anything. Thomas tried to speak. But. Maybe what Agent Jones was saying got lost in translation somewhere from her lips to your ears so Ill spell it out for you, interjected Agent Michael Whitmore as he eyeballed

Thomas through the rear view mirror. N-O. Youre an educated man, Thomas. Do you know what that spells? Thomas set back in his seat. Fuck off. Agent Jones laughed. To Agent Whitmore, she said Thats certainly one way to get your point across. Allison, you ought to know me by now after three years of being my partner that Im always straight to the point. Very true. But I will say that Mister Ingram brought up a good point, said Whitmore as he stopped at the red light. What point would that be? About stopping at Starbucks. I could really go for one of those ice-cold mocha frappuccinos right about now. Agent Jones shook her head in disbelief. Michael, are you for real? Damn right Im for real. Its hot as hell out here. Then get some bottled water when we get to the courthouse. Agent Whitmore glanced in the rearview mirror at Thomas while responding to Allison. Water doesnt have that same kick like a frappuccino does. The Starbucks Caf sat at the intersection of Broadway Street and Lomas Boulevard next to a Carls Junior restaurant and directly across the street from a McDonalds. Once the light turned green, Agent Whitmore turned right from the Lomas westbound lane onto Broadway then hung a sharp right into the Starbucks parking lot without skipping a beat. He parked the Malibu directly in front of the bustling coffeehouse next to an empty handicapped spot and killed the engine. Agent Jones just looked at him with a screwy look on her face. What? What do you mean what? she asked. This Starbucks has a drive-thru. Yeah, acknowledged Whitmore. And your point is? Do you see how busy it is in there? asked Jones as she pointed inside the caf. Theres less cars in the drive-thru then there are people waiting in line. True, agreed Whitmore. But I have a plan thats going to allow me to bypass that line altogether. Whats that? Whitmore pulled out his FBI identification badge. Like the man says: dont leave home without it. Jones shook her head. Michael, are you crazy? You cant abuse your authority like that for a cup of coffee. Im not abusing anything for personal gain. Lets just say Im using my position to expedite the needs of a federal witness whose about to testify in court. He looked back at Thomas. You still want that cup of coffee or not? Thomas nodded. Yeahsure. I guess. Allisons jaw dropped. Whitmore looked at her. How about you? My treat. Just when I thought I had you finally figured out, you go and pull some shit like this, said Allison as she shook her head again in disbelief. You can be such an asshole, you know that?

Whitmore smiled. Its part of my charm. If you say so. Im sure your ex-wife would call your charm something else. Whitmore scoffed. Her loss. So Im assuming thats a no then? Allison just gawked at him without saying a word. I guess so, said Whitmore. He glanced back at Thomas. Do you already know what you want? Yeah. A Caff Americano. Venti-sized. Good. Thats actually one of the few things off their menu I can pronounce, said Whitmore as he opened the car door and stepped out. Ill be right back. Just as Whitmore closed the door, Thomas got out of the car as well. This prompted Allison to yell loudly. Ingram! What the hell do you think youre doing? Get your ass back inside the car right now! Why? First you guys say I cant have a damn cup of coffee, then you say I can, now youre saying I cant? What gives? Whitmore walked around to the passenger side of the car and stopped a few feet in front of Thomas. Because you are about to give the testimony of a lifetime to the federal grand jury in less than fifteen minutes against the biggest drug lord south of the Colorado Rockies, thats why. So? So Pablo aims to kill you the first chance he gets in order to keep that from happening. Hell, if I was Pablo, Id want you dead. As soon as Thomas heard that, the uneasiness that had caused his neck muscles to stiffen up, his jaw to tighten, and his head to ache returned with a vengeance. He tried to shake off the stress and fear and glanced around warily as he surveyed the parking lot. It was broad daylight, packed full of people. Hell, they were just a hop, skip, and a jump away from the goddamn courthouse. If Pablo was going to try anything, he wouldve done it months ago. Besides, even Pablos not crazy enough to kill him right there at a public place in broad daylight within the presence of two armed FBI agents. Right? Thomas unspoken question was answered when a 7.62 millimeter bullet pierced the back of his skull and blew his forehead wide opened, showering Whitmore with blood, brain tissue, and pieces of scalp. Guess his Monday just went from bad to worse.