The first man Aaron Beck saw in Florida tried to kill him. Aaron had crossed the state line eleven minutes earlier. He stood beside his dead father’s Buick at a gas station north of Tampa, one hand on the pump, the other around a paper cup of coffee that tasted like boiled tar. A black sedan rolled past the entrance. Slow. Too slow. Aaron watched it in the Buick’s rear window. Dark glass. No front plate. A dent above the left headlight. The sedan circled the building and disappeared behind the car wash. Aaron set down the coffee. Old habits did not die. They just lost their badge. He stopped the pump at nineteen dollars, yanked the nozzle free, and got behind the wheel. The sedan shot out from behind the building. Aaron saw the driver for half a second. Baseball cap. Dark beard. Dead eyes. Then the sedan hit him. Metal screamed. The Buick spun across the lot. Aaron’s shoulder slammed into the door. He fought the wheel, stamped the gas, and bounced over a concrete parking block. The sedan backed up for another run. Aaron threw the Buick into reverse. The black car missed him by inches and smashed into a rack of windshield-washer fluid. Blue bottles exploded across the pavement. Aaron swung onto the interstate ramp. The Buick shook at fifty-five. The sedan reached the road behind him. Then stopped. That bothered Aaron more than a chase would have. A professional did not follow when he already knew where you were going. Aaron drove six miles before pulling behind a closed seafood restaurant. He checked the bumper, the wheel wells, and beneath the chassis. No tracker. Then he saw the envelope tucked under the windshield wiper. It had not been there before. His name was typed on the front. AARON BECK. Inside was one sentence. GO BACK TO DETROIT. Aaron read it twice. Then he tore it into four pieces and let the wind take them. He was not going back. At forty-one, Aaron owned three hundred and eighty-six dollars, an unreliable automobile, and a reputation that had crossed state lines faster than he had.

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