5

As long as Mason Taylor could remember, blending in had been as easy as breathing. By the age of twelve, he’d been fluent in English, Spanish, and Portuguese, thanks to his Brazilian mother who died from an overdose when he was fourteen. By the time he turned eighteen, he and his three brothers had lived in Los Angeles, Phoenix, St. Louis, and a dozen other crime-ridden inner cities across the US—thanks to his deadbeat dad.

Suburban homes with their picket fences, Little League baseball, soccer teams, and private schools had never been an option for the Taylors. They’d moved from one flea-infested hole to the next, skipping out when there wasn’t enough money to pay the rent and changing schools more often than his father changed the oil on their 1972 Ford pickup.

In the process, Mason had become the perfect chameleon, learning to avoid the bullies at school and the gangs on the streets. No one remembered Mason Taylor from the class of ’02.

Until the night that changed everything.

Mason wiped the beads of perspiration from his neck and leaned back into the shade partially covering the wooden bench where he sat. Suburban Atlanta had been the last place he’d imagined living . . . and the first place he’d run to after his brother Sam’s death. Piedmont Park was one of those places where he’d found the anonymity he’d craved. No one had noticed or cared about his late-night runs or early-morning study breaks. And that was how he wanted it.

Burying Sam that foggy November became not only his wake-up call but his way out. He’d stolen three hundred bucks from his father’s wallet, and with his two younger brothers, disappeared to Atlanta, where he’d begged his mother’s older sister to take them in.

She agreed, as long as they followed her rules. Church three times a week, no swearing or drinking, and piano lessons. He’d managed to avoid the altar calls and music recitals, but not his aunt’s unconditional love and bottomless pans of peach cobbler.

She’d been gone four years now. It was days like today when he missed her most.

A woman jogged by, late twenties, short shorts, and a smile just for him. He studied her perfect figure as she passed before reining in his thoughts and forcing himself to look away as Finn approached Mason wearing his signature baggy pants, rumpled T-shirt, and a Braves cap. He dropped his cell phone into his back pocket and slid into the empty space beside Mason.

Mason shoved any lingering memories from the past aside and let his fingers drum against his thigh. Playing the part of user had become all too natural. “Wasn’t sure you were gonna show up.”

“Didn’t know you were in such a hurry to be somewhere.”

Mason shifted his weight on the bench, shrugging off the urge to finger the pistol missing from his hip. Trust wasn’t something he could afford, just like he couldn’t forget who Finn really was. He shoved his hand into his pocket, making sure the marked bills were still there.

He leaned forward, then back again, completely into his role. “Did you bring what I asked for?”

Finn set the package on the bench between them and took the money Mason offered. The exchange took less than five seconds.

Finn stood to leave.

“Wait,” Mason began. “There’s something else.”

Finn raised his brow but didn’t respond.

“I’m lookin’ to make some extra cash.”

“Selling?” Finn’s voice lowered, even though the nearest jogger was a hundred yards away.

“No. Heard your boss wants drivers to transport goods.” Mason added a hint of desperation into his voice. “I need this, Finn. I’ve . . . I’ve run into some serious financial trouble. I was told you’re the one to talk to.”

“By who?”

“One of the guys at the dock.” Mason studied Finn’s face. So far, Finn had no idea that Mason saving his life had been nothing more than an elaborate setup. Or that their relationship was based on lies.

“Think I owe you that much?”

Mason measured his words, knowing he had to push hard enough to motivate Finn, but not too hard that he started asking the wrong questions. “You’d be looking at ten to twenty if it weren’t for me, and you know it.”

Finn didn’t look convinced.

Mason pushed harder. “I didn’t think I’d need to remind you how I took out that cop so you could—”

“You not trying to blackmail me, are you?” Finn took a step toward the bench.

“Never.” Mason weighed his options. Even at three inches shorter and ten pounds lighter, he was certain he could take Finn down if it came to that, but a fight wasn’t what he was after. They were supposed to be on the same side.

Mason searched for another angle, his fingers tapping faster against his leg. “I grew up—”

“Forget the tough-boy sob story.” Finn shook his head. “My connection isn’t looking for some hungover druggie.”

“My habit won’t affect my work.”

“You’d be transporting certain goods across state lines that would require avoiding both the local cops and the Feds.”

Bingo.

Mason tempered his desire to smile. This was the break he’d been waiting for. “I need the extra work, so illegal or not, I really don’t care.”

“If you get caught, you’ll be on your own.” Finn grabbed a pen from his front pocket, then scribbled on a scrap of paper. “Show up at work tomorrow as usual and talk to Owen.”

“You won’t regret this.”

“I know.” Finn handed Mason the note and started to walk away. “’Cause we’re even now.”