Chapter 8January 1983
Rhys had known Liam Abbott for five years now. And in that time, through many a jam, most of which should have seen both men, dead and buried, Rhys had never seen his friend this frazzled about anything. Or anyone.
Liam had been out of sorts the entire evening. Their routine job had taken a turn for the worst—a series of disasters—each more ludicrous than the last.
Mr. C.H. Hilton. A low-level bookie targeted for murder came strolling out of a seedy Bronx bar. Oblivious to the danger in his midst, he headed for his enormous, tacky Lincoln, stumbling and drunk. Liam, who had him in his sights, gun raised, ready, failed to get off a shot—a definite first.
“f**k!” Liam swore as Hilton climbed into the safety of his car and drove off into the snowy night, nary a care
