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and we will be honored to publish it as such.

    Jack found a paperback copy on his shelf and read all the glowing praise reviewers had heaped upon it. He felt a swell of pride. This book was him, something he'd poured his heart and soul into and could never be taken away. The book was truth, it was light, and it was everything he could have been.

    Only the book wasn't finished.

    The Fury was out there, Jack was sure of it. He slipped the paperback onto the shelf and placed the hardcover gently back between the other books. He sat down at his desk. It was late.
    Much later than he'd stayed up in a long time, at least, the latest he'd stayed up while also sober.

    It felt good.

    Jack was nervous. Nervous about tomorrow, about seeing Henry, about what they would find.

    He hadn't felt truly nervous in a long, long time.

    Jack O'Donnell sat in that chair, folded his hands behind his head and decided he would try to stay awake to watch the sun rise.

    Chapter 4.

    At three in the morning, the blond man left an apartment building in Chelsea and tucked his shirt back in. His breathing was slightly elevated. He hadn't expected the chemist to fight back.

    Over the years, the man named Malloy had seen many people die. He could usually tell from a glance just how people would react when faced with death, and how readily they would accept it.

    The chemist he had just killed was a scrawny man without an ounce of muscle on him.

    He'd spent his life in a lab, poring over texts and notebooks. He had barely lived a day in his life, and despite that, he had the temerity to attack Malloy when confronted with the gun.

    Malloy had confirmed that the mixture the chemist had made was complete and potent.
    He also made sure that it was easily replicated. Because once the chemist was gone, the operation would be run by people following the chemist's instructions.

    At first, the chemist had begged for his life. He told Malloy that he had a wife and daughter back in Panama, that he needed to take care of them. This was true, Malloy knew, but he also knew that the wife and daughter had received well over a hundred thousand dollars from the chemist. In Panama, that would go a long way.

    Malloy had met the chemist nearly twenty years ago, and when he was brought over to New York, Malloy trusted him implicitly. The man created drugs because that was all he knew how to do. Just like when people were bankers or lawyers or athletes because that's what they were born to do.

    The chemist was not a bad man, and in fact Malloy did not believe he had ever even partaken in his own creations. The drugs paid the bills, so to speak, that was all. Malloy did feel a slight twinge of guilt at taking away the family's only breadwinner, but he knew that the dark-haired woman would make sure the family was taken care of.

    The family was still in Panama. Their battle was not in America.

    Hers was.

    When Malloy rounded the corner, he raised his hand to call a cab only to see the dark-haired woman standing there, staring at him. He did not expect her to be there, but he'd ceased to be surprised by her a long time ago.

    Did he fight? she asked.

    A little, Malloy responded. Nothing that caused too much trouble. .

    That's good. Death hurts more when you fight it. .

    He begged first, Malloy said, for his family. .

    They'll be compensated, the woman responded. The chemist was dead, and three men were on their way to dispose of the body. Three men he trusted, who'd been with them a long time.

    Did he suffer? the woman asked.

    Just for a moment, when he realized what was happening. .

    She seemed disappointed.

    I see no body with you. I assume someone will be taking care of it. .

    There's a butcher on the Upper West Side, done us some favors over the years. Two grand and nobody ever sees a body again. .

    Good price, the woman said.

    We give him good business, Malloy replied. His voice was soft, hesitant.

    You don't think we should have killed him, she