Butterfield’s rated as the number one blues joint in Chicago, perhaps in all of North America. The best professional singers and musicians—individuals and groups—counted this as one of the must venues on their regular schedule. So did any young artist who harbored aspirations of making it to the big time. A gig at Butterfield’s, like an appearance with Leno or Letterman, could provide that desperately needed shot in the arm for up-and-comers.

Collins sat at a table directly across from the front door. Three hours of waiting had left him numbed by the noise and convinced Jefferson wasn’t going to show. The bartender had said Jefferson left on an errand and should have been back by eleven. It was now a quarter till one. Collins debated calling it a night, decided to give it another hour, then leaned back in his chair just as the band finished its set.

The bartender, carrying a tray filled with shot glasses, worked his way in Collins’s direction.

“Have one. It’s on the house,” he said.

“What is it?”

“I call it The Blues Bomber. A little concoction of my own.”

“What’s in it?”

“That’s top-secret information.”

“I’d better pass. It’s too late for surprises.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing.” The bartender looked around. “Derek hasn’t showed yet?”

“Haven’t seen him if he has.”

“Hell, you can’t miss that big galoot.” The bartender shrugged his shoulders. “He should’ve been back by now. It’s not like him to stay away this long.”

“Must’ve gotten tied up.”

“Shouldn’t have. All he had to do was talk to a guy for me. That shouldn’t have taken more than a few minutes.”

“Could he be at another place?”

“Nah. This is Derek’s joint. I can’t imagine what’s keeping him.”

A pretty woman, late twenties, walked past, smiling at him. Collins kept his eyes on her until she disappeared from his view.

“That’s Jamie,” the bartender said. “She’s a regular. Want an introduction? She’d be better company than Jefferson; that I can guarantee you.”

“Better pass,” Collins said, grinning. “Like I said, it’s too late for surprises.” He stood, feeling the blood flow again in his legs. “Maybe I’ll catch up with Jefferson tomorrow.”

“Oh, yeah, he’ll be here. Saturday nights he helps me out. Keeps the rowdies in line.”

Collins walked outside, thankful to leave the noise and smoke behind. His ears were ringing, his eyes burned, his throat felt like parched bark. He took several slow, deep breaths. The cool, clear Chicago air felt good.

He pondered Jefferson’s failure to show. That was troubling. Unexplained absence usually meant something was wrong. Most likely, Jefferson got wind that someone was asking about him. Perhaps Trish wasn’t so good at keeping secrets. Or maybe Jefferson forced the information out of her.

But the violence …

Walking toward the parking lot, past a crowd heading into Butterfield’s, Collins was dogged by an uneasiness clutching at his insides like a steel claw. He felt observed, the watcher being watched. Eyes trailed his every step. He could feel it, like some special sixth sense working in overdrive. Someone was watching him at this very instant.

His survival instincts, especially his hearing, went to Code Red.

That had always been the case, even back in Nam. When danger threatened, when warning signals flashed, he could detect even the smallest, most insignificant sounds from two hundred yards away. Not only detect them, but identify them instantly as either threatening or non-threatening, then react accordingly.

The sound that saved his life came from fifty feet away—a click barely audible to the average person but louder than a cannon blast to him. It came from behind his left shoulder and was immediately classified as menacing.

He dove to the ground a split-second before the bullet shattered the windshield of a BMW. As he scrambled to the other side of the car, a second bullet blew out the left front tire. A third bullet hit the pavement and ricocheted beneath the car.

Collins worked his way down a row of cars until he was in a direct line with his would-be assailant. He felt safe enough to stand; the assassin had had his chance and failed. There wouldn’t be a second opportunity, now or ever. Collins’s eyes, now gray, continued to study the darkness, searching for the shooter. Off to his right, he saw a silhouette moving between buildings and then vanishing into the night. For an instant he thought of giving chase, but quickly decided against it. There was no need to rush. He would have his revenge.

On his terms.

By this time, several bystanders had begun shouting for someone to call the police. Patrons from at least four nearby clubs, drawn to the excitement like passers-by to a bloody accident, flooded out onto the street, oblivious to the potential danger. One man screamed, “Firecracker!” Another said it was gunfire.

Within five minutes two police cars, a Cook County Sheriff’s car and an emergency medical unit, arrived, lights flashing, horns screaming, giving the scene a carnival-like atmosphere. Several men pointed in the direction of the gunfire, while others pointed toward the parking lot. As spotlights scanned both directions, policemen, weapons drawn, began to fan out over the area. Several gawkers tried to follow but were quickly—and forcefully—herded back into the bar.

Collins was far enough away to avoid being hit by the lights. Remaining in the shadows, he worked his way back toward the crowd, quietly slipping in among the curious. No one noticed—or seemed to care—about his sudden appearance. That was fine with him. The last thing he wanted was to be questioned by the police.

“You’re positive it was Jefferson?” Lucas asked, concern registering in his voice.

“Had to be. I’m in Chicago, and this is his turf.”

“You’re very lucky, my boy.”

Collins looked out his hotel window. “Not really. Deke has become careless. His choice of location was terrible. So was that loud-ass weapon he used. I taught him better than that.”

“I’m thankful he was careless. Otherwise, you might be on a slab right now.” Lucas waited several beats before continuing. “What precautions have you taken to ensure this doesn’t happen again? Have you changed hotel rooms?”

“That’s not necessary.”

“You needn’t take any chances. Next time he might not be so sloppy.”

“There won’t be a next time, Lucas.”

“I understand. Do you think Seneca knows about you yet?”

“Hard to say. Deke will undoubtedly make contact with Seneca as soon as possible. So if Seneca doesn’t know about me, it’s only a matter of time until he does.”

“Which only adds a sense of urgency to locating him.”

“And eliminating him.”

“Who would have thought it would come to this—brother against brother?”

“Ever read the first chapter of Genesis, Lucas?”

“I’m familiar with that story. I’m also familiar with the outcome. Cain survives, if I’m correct.”

Lucas waited another beat. “Be wary, my boy. Study the shadows closely.”

“The shadows, Lucas? They’re my sanctuary.”