Chapter 1

The ashes swept over the balcony, dancing and spinning their way toward the streets below. There was no soft nightly breeze to save them, no autumn wind to lift them up and carry them off. They were doomed to flutter lifelessly down, where they would touch ground and meet an unknown fate that befell most ashes and similar forms of debris; one which nobody had ever really cared enough about to look into. The trees that many of the ashes were now sailing into still possessed their usual fall shades, but this time there was no usual fall wind to complement them. Walden City felt eerily still, as if it were a grand watercolor cityscape out of an art magazine. Shop windows and storefronts were lit up as usual, cars were still passing by, and the usual beggar was still sifting through the day's revenues of quarters and candy bar wrappers, but the whole city just felt lifeless.

Jim Milton tapped his cigarette against the guardrail once more before tossing it over the edge. He peered over the balcony and watched as the discarded cigarette butt plummet into nothingness, as was his custom whenever he finished one of them. Satisfied, he turned and headed back inside, switching on the television and flopping himself onto the bed. The black-and-white only got fifteen channels, but Jim wasn't really much of a TV guy anyway. The only shows he really watched weren't even on tonight, so Jim flipped to one of the news channels and took a soda from the mini fridge situated at the foot of his bed. The upcoming election was still the center of most of the news coverage, although Jim hadn't really expected anything different.

"Whatever."

He muttered to himself and took a sip of his drink. 9:30, he noticed, as he glanced at the alarm clock. Time for work soon.

* * *

Jill Scott wiped the tear streaks from her face and applied the last few touches of eye-shadow. She'd already applied her makeup twice, but tears often have a habit of streaking eye makeup. Besides, she'd told herself, people like it when the stripper's crying. And too much makeup would look bad anyway. Nobody wants a classy stripper.

At least, not where Jill worked. Down in Lincoln Lane, or "Tittytown," as the regulars called it, there were two types of strip clubs: the gentlemen's clubs, and the shitholes. Jill worked in a shithole called Riff-Raff, and most of its patrons were only there to see their money's worth. They didn't care about the well-being of the dancers or the rules that were supposed to be enforced. Riff-Raff was particularly good at attracting the sleazebags, more so than any of the other so-called shitholes. Many of the girls there had been raped or killed in the past, but the sad thing was, most of the dancers nowadays were too strung-out to give half a damn. Jill Scott never would have thought herself to be working there (as the current Employee of the Month, no less), but such is life, she had told herself. No one ever really wants an occupation as a stripper, but it was different with Jill.

She'd grown up in a wealthy family with her sister Kenna and attended one of those prestigious Ivy League colleges, but after her parents were killed when she was 19 and her sister 22, Jill's life completely fell apart. She'd turned to drugs, gotten herself expelled from college, and given birth to a baby boy, Connor, all in the same year. Of course, the father had skipped town the second Jill returned from the store with a pregnancy test in hand, and for the past two years, Jill had been raising Connor by herself and struggling to cough up money for dinner and diapers each week. Too ashamed to admit to herself what she had become, Jill had never once asked Kenna for money or assistance. After all, the two of them had never even considered that they would end up the way they did. With a name like Kenna, one would think that she would have become the stripper, and Jill would have been the responsible, respected businesswoman. Such is life.

"Come on, Connor." Jill said, as she switched off the television. "Time to go watch Mommy dance."

* * *

The tacky neon letters that spelled out "Mike's" and "Open 24 Hrs" were a welcome eyesore to the outskirts of Walden City. Located just north of the city, the diner and surrounding backwoods were a far cry from the urban jungle that was The City of Flashing Lights. It was your typical 50s-style mom-and-pop eatery, but according to the handwritten sign out front, Mike's Diner was also the home of "The Best Turkey Burgers in Town!" Normally, most people would have found this an impressive claim, but considering the fact that Mike's was literally the only restaurant in rural Slate County, never mind the only place within 100 miles that even served turkey burgers, it wasn't much of a feat.

Still, the hitman loved them, and he would always order a Gobble Gobble Deluxe and a strawberry milkshake whenever he was in the neighborhood. The guy moved around a lot, but his work always had a habit of returning him to Walden. As a professional contract killer, he had adapted the mindset that it was an overall good idea to keep people away from him, and, of course, keep himself away from people. He'd take up temporary residences for each job, in order to seclude himself as best as possible and to receive as minimal human contact as possible. The man wasn't exactly a hermit, but he felt that what he did was necessary for his line of work. As he trudged in through the front door of Mike's Diner and took his usual seat in the booth near the broken jukebox, he couldn't help but shake the feeling that someone was watching him. He didn't get this feeling often, but he could recognize it from a mile away. He was only glad that his targets never possessed the same type of instinct.

"What'll ya' have, hon?" the pretty blonde waitress asked, as she strode over to the table in her work-issue rollerskates.

"I'll have a Gobble Gobble Deluxe and a strawberry shake, please," the hitman replied. "And hold the pickles."

* * *

Harry Stilson wasn't the type of guy you'd want to run into in a dark alley. His slicked-back hair, his pinstripe suit, and his pseudo-professional demeanor seemed to prove otherwise, but anyone could tell by looking at him that his reputable appearance was all for show. He looked like the type who could run a renowned law firm with one hand tied behind his back, but he was probably the only one who actually believed that. In actuality, Harry was a con artist and a swindler who liked nothing more than taking unsuspecting saps for everything they were worth. However, he wasn't exactly a deadbeat, either. Harry was also the Industry's main "financial advisor," setting up most of their deals and keeping track of their protection rackets. Today he was on his way to oversee the gang's deal with one of the most notorious drug lords on the East Coast. Harry wasn't worried about a thing. His horoscope had foretold a great change in his life was soon to occur, and as the ever-faithful optimist that he was, Harry knew it could only be a positive one. However, he didn't expect the day to end without any bloodshed.

* * *

For one thing, there was the Rockstars, from uptown. Sure, they mostly specialized in drugs and prostitution and things like that, but that was no reason for the Industry to let its guard down. And when it came to violence and brute-force tactics, the Rockstars were second-to-none. Tales of power and success were often told about the Industry, but when gang members and criminals wanted to scare each other, they'd tell stories about the Rockstars. The Rockstars seemed to be the more fashionable and higher-up members of society, what with their nightclubs and public standing and all, but when the kid gloves were off, the gang was nothing more than a bunch of murderers, rapists, and drug pushers.

Take their boss, who was only known to his enemies as The Vocalist. It was a terrible name, obviously, especially for such a high-profile gang leader, but no one dared to argue with the Vocalist about anything, let alone his choice of a nickname. Despite his moniker, the man was a firm believer in the old proverb, "actions speak louder than words." "Mutilate first, ask questions later" seemed to be the Vocalist's M.O., as recently demonstrated with his dealing with the spy from the Mongrels. Hell, it had been over a month since the guy was killed, and the shark tank at the Walden Zoo was still "down for maintenance."

Then there was Layla, one of the Rockstars' chief lieutenants and the owner of the popular nightclub Grace. She was the gang's "Black Widow" of sorts, using her feminine wiles to keep the gang's enemies at bay and to keep the police off of them. Of course, this usually required that Layla be on the police instead, sometimes even three of them at once.

Finally, there was the other lieutenant, Bruce, who was the gang's muscle. The Vocalist, although good at dealing with most of his enemies, never bit off more than he could chew. That was Bruce's area of expertise. He could take on the Red Army and not even break a sweat. Layla could take multiple guys at once, but Bruce was the one who could take multiple guys at once, snap their limbs in two, and feed the remains to his dog.

* * *

"Get the crates loaded," Thomas Holden ordered. "We've got a strict deadline to meet."

The two men next to the Dodge Explorer nodded. They turned and jogged off to the warehouse, where The Industry had been keeping their latest shipment. Tom shook his head as he watched them go. He didn't think it was the best idea to trust the new guys with this job, but Stan had declared otherwise. Some shit about plausible deniability, he had said. His reasoning was that, if the new guys had been caught, it would be a lot easier to pass off the Industry's uninvolvement than it would have been had the usual guys been running the gig. It had sounded like a good idea to Tom at the time, but when it came time to put the plan into action, any good feeling he had had about his boss' decision quickly disappeared. Sure, it would be easy to pin the blame on the new guys for the arms deal, but it was a hell of a lot harder to actually trust them with it.

There were simply too many ways for this to go wrong. The Industry was the most influential crime syndicate in town, but it certainly wasn't the only one around. Both the Rockstars and the Mongrels had made their opinions of the arms-dealing gang organization very clear in the past, but with the Rockstars now in a truce (albeit an uneasy one) with the Industry, Stan felt that now was the best time to act. Besides, both men knew that it was simply too good of an opportunity to pass up. Getting into the good graces of Diego Montoya, the biggest coke baron on the East Coast, could only be the beginning of a beautiful relationship. It was true that word of The Industry's agreement with Montoya had already made its way to and from most underground sources, but Stan had been counting on this since day one.

However, this wasn't to say that they would be making the deal with their pants down. Quite the contrary, in fact. The Industry had pulled out all the stops for this deal, with Stan and Tom calling in favors from just about anyone they had ever known. 24-hour surveillance had been ordered on the small neighborhood of Granville, where the deal was set to take place. A neutral, white-bread suburb with no gang affiliation whatsoever had been decided as the perfect spot. Anyone else would have thought an arms deal in the middle of town (in broad daylight, no less) to be the workings of a mental patient, but Stan knew otherwise. He and Stinson had this thing planned down to a 'T'.

As Stan and Tom piled into the old four-door, a voice rang out. The trucks were loaded, and the deal was ready to go.