LITMIR.BIZ

       ONE

      The caw of a crow reverberated through the early morning air, scraping already frayed nerves. Senses spiking, Laurel Landry approached Bernice’s—she had never earned the title mother—storage unit. Bernice’s murder a week ago had brought Laurel to this shabby place at this moment.

      Using the key she’d discovered in Bernice’s ancient double-wide trailer, Laurel let herself in and began her search. Sammy, her German shepherd, stood guard.

      Buried beneath a stack of boxes, she found a familiar “go-bag.” From the time Laurel had been a small child, Bernice had kept a suitcase for when the two of them had to leave town in a hurry, usually just before the rent was due.

      Inside the bag were three items: an envelope containing a picture of a lanky boy and a little girl that was labeled Jake and Shelley and dated more than twenty years ago, another photo, this one of Laurel’s mother and bearing the same date, along with a newspaper article about S&J Security/Protection; a ledger with what might have been names and dates written in some kind of code, the word Collective on the front; and packets of hundred dollar bills. A quick estimate put the amount at ten thousand dollars.

      Laurel stuffed the contents into her pack. The shiver that skittered down her spine had nothing to do with the chill of the cold locker and everything to do with the single word Collective.

      What was Bernice doing with a ledger bearing the name of a group of organized crime families that had infiltrated public and private sectors from banking to the US Attorney’s Office? News of the group’s exploits had reached her even during deployment in the Middle East.

       Bernice, what had you gotten yourself into?

      Laurel shook her head, the action one of resignation rather than denial. She’d long ago accepted that Bernice never thought through a decision and that she rarely, if ever, considered the effect her actions might have on others, especially her daughter. Her involvement with the Collective was but one more in an increasingly long string of bad choices. There’d be no more bad choices on Bernice’s part, Laurel reflected.

      Though the Collective was based in Atlanta, its tentacles were everywhere, apparently even here in this speck of a town where Bernice had lived.

      A chuff of noise outside the unit caused Laurel to go still. Had she been followed to the storage lockers? She’d been careful, but she had to admit that she had been more intent on reaching her destination than checking the rearview mirror.

      Awareness feathered her senses. A tingle of apprehension raced through her. Ranger training had taught her to trust her instincts.

      “Sammy,” she whispered to her dog as she pulled on her backpack, “time to go.”

      Something in her voice must have alerted him for he went on point.

      As she exited the unit, a large man swiped at her backpack. Fortunately, she had it secured around her waist as well as her shoulders.

      “Oh, no, you don’t,” she yelled and jerked away from him.

      He broadened his stance,

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