PROLOGUE

The motorcycle sped through the dark, and nearly deserted streets of Buffalo, weaving around the occasional car. He was pushing the engine as hard as he could, trying to make up for lost time, cursing the circumstances that led him to this meeting. Drugs. It all boiled down to the drugs. He'd often quipped that he'd said no to them, but they hadn't listened. It wasn't far from the painful truth. Bruce McLeod was a slave, and heroin was the current master. That, however, didn't change the fact that he was still one of the best at what he did. He was a bounty hunter: for the right price, and a jerk of the short leash from the right source, he could be had. Born in Glasgow, his family had moved to Hell's Kitchen when he was a boy, looking for a life better than being dirt-poor laborers. Or so he liked to believe, in his romantic moments, when his mind wasn't occupied with other diversions.

He'd travelled throughout most of the world, at one time or another, but he always seemed to end up back here, in this shitty state that he'd spent most of his youth in. Perhaps it was something in the water, more likely something in the herbs. He turned the corner at breakneck speed, leaning low, almost skimming his knee on the pavement, only his skill at riding kept him upright in the chill wind. He couldn't even feel his body, and his breath steamed from his mouth in a white cloud, distracting him for a split second.

"Fuck," he muttered, as he skidded the bike to a stop on the road before a brightly lit building. He turned into the parking lot, easily finding a place for his Sportster next to the other Harleys. His element hung out here— everyone knew his name— but even still, he felt a chill of foreboding creep down his back as he unstrapped his helmet, clamping it down on the seat. He stretched slowly, eyeing the lot, finding the Mack truck easily. It had out of state plates— not abnormal round these parts, but something about the sight of that made him feel uneasy. He resisted the urge to make the evil eye sign, and instead turned his eyes up to the sky, seeing something odd. Stripes and striations… greenish.

"The shyte?" He muttered, and a man standing next to him in the doorway spoke up, talking around the cigar he was puffing on.

"Northern lights, ain't that a sight? We don't usually see them this far north, at least not this bright…"

"South," McLeod corrected him, shaking his head, "we're south." He cast one last look at the sky, and nodded solemnly, not trusting himself to speak around the lump that was forming in his throat. He shouldered past the wannabe hookers and homeless clustered together beneath the buzzing lights of the overhang and pushed his way inside the warmth of the dingy restaurant at Jim's Truck Stop.

His eyes immediately fixed on the blonde girl sitting alone at a table that contained two plates. Next to the half-eaten meal at the empty chair was a battered green John Deere cap. He nodded to himself and made his way over, pulling up a third chair to the table. The girl looked startled, a wide-eyed little waif, her blue eyes cut right through him as she licked her lips.

She offered him a friendly smile. "Hi, can I help you?"

The corners of his mouth curved in a smile that looked somewhat frightening thanks to the old scars that stretched across both cheeks— a Glasgow grin, it was called. To him it was just part of his look, having been a part of his face since he'd been a teenager. "Aye, love," his voice was rough, his Scottish accent thick enough to make his ordinary words sound foreign. "Yeh can tell me when yeh killed off Vicky, an' where yeh stashed his rottin' carcass."

"Excuse me?" She said, mixed with a laugh. "If you mean my dad, he's in the restroom. I didn't do anything to him."

"Ah," the man nodded, taking her hand and lifting it to his lips to place a gentle kiss on the back of it. "I stand corrected. Didnae think a wee wisp o' a lass like yeh could kill the mighty Vicky Donimari." Still holding her hand, he gave it another kiss before lowering it, "an' I'm Bruce."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Charity." She picked up her fork again, digging back into her omelette even as she glanced over his shoulder. "Here comes my dad now."

Bruce turned his head, watching as Vic stopped at the bar counter, ordering himself a beer. Grinning, McLeod got up from the table, nodding to the girl before joining him.

Vic snorted, shaking his head as he took a pull from the bottle. "That's my daughter."

McLeod cast a sidelong look at the man before looking over at the girl, lifting one hand to twiddle his fingers in a wave. "Don't look a thing like yeh, Vicky."

Victor Donimari shrugged, "got her looks from her mother." His voice grew harsh, almost a verbal slap, "Jesus Christ, stop drooling— she's sixteen."

"Legal if there's grass on the field," McLeod replied, picking up the cup of coffee that had been left by the waitress. "Surely that wee bird's not—"

"She isn't. God, what sort of pervert do you take me for? I'd never sell my little girl out… not even for that." Vic reached into the pocket of his beat-up jacket, pulling out a thick envelope. "Jimmy's cut. It's all there. Tell him I'm out, okay? This is the last time I'm going to do a run for him— almost got caught at the border this time."

"Aye," McLeod nodded, "an' I'm sure he's gonna be right tickled t'hear that, Vicky."

"Don't give a shit," Vic snapped, glancing back over at his daughter. "I've got a family to think about. Hannah and Gretchen are almost teenagers now. Hunter's already moved out on his own. I can't just—"

"Between friends, laddie," McLeod leaned in close, "yeh want out? Better disappear."

Vic swallowed hard, picking up his beer. Bruce watched him rejoin his daughter, again making eye contact with the girl for far longer than was comfortable. She smiled back at him, licking her plush lips and then turned her attention to her father, her voice carrying across the deserted restaurant.

"Who's the guy with the scars?" She asked, her voice coming out a tad too loud.

Vic turned around and met McLeod's stare, his expression turning into a glower as some sort of challenge passed between the two men. "Nobody important. Hurry up and finish eating so we can get back on the road. We've gotta make up time tonight."

Charity nodded, tearing her gaze away from McLeod with effort before dutifully finishing her meal.

Nobody important. Those words pretty much defined his existence. He was always there, as a peripheral and somewhat background fixture, but he'd never really been in the limelight. You'd think with the scars on his face, he would have captured more attention. Strangely enough, they'd become some sort of urban camouflage among the degenerates, bikers and criminals that inhabited Hell's Kitchen. And that was largely how he preferred it.