"The guy’s name is David Hargrave," Roy said, spooning whipped cream off his mocha coffee, and
slurping it between words. "Killed three chicks in Tennessee. Definitely a were. If his Pack’s not hunting
for him now, they will be soon."
Xavier looked to his left, where a table of college kids pecked at their laptops while sipping three dollar
double espressos. On their right, middle aged business women sniped about their coworkers as they
downed nonfat lattes.
He sighed. There was something so wrong about conducting criminal business in a Starbucks.
"So . . ." Roy continued. "Is that good? We golden?"
"Yeah, you know. Square. Even Steven. Chit paid in full."
Xavier took a swig of coffee. Tasted like it’d been brewed in a dirty ashtray. He pushed it aside and
looked at Roy. "What do you think?"
Roy quailed under Xavier’s stare. There was something to be said for working with guys who were
scared of you. Unfortunately, for Xavier, most of those guys were the type who called meetings in
As his mentor had once said, "Kid, there are guys who can scare the shit outta folks with one mean look,
and guys who couldn’t if they were carrying a machete in one hand and an AK-47 in the other. We’re
type two. Born grifters, but lousy thugs."
True, but there were some people Xavier could still intimidate, though he suspected it had more to do
with the scar on his face than anything in his eyes. There was something menacing about facial scars, like
wearing a T-shirt that read: "I was in a to-the-death prison knife fight and all I got was this lousy scar." If
the true story behind the scar leaked . . . well, let’s just say Xavier’s days of scaring even
whipped-cream slurping toadies like Roy were over.
"I need you to do one more thing for me," Xavier said. "Then we’re square."
Roy deflated, as if this was the answer he’d been expecting, but had remained optimistic.
Xavier continued. "First, spook Hargrave into thinking the cops are on his trail. Second—"
"You said one more thing."