Page 2 of Matched into the Mob

He rambled on about a club, tables set up around the room, participants chatted, and one person moved on to the next table when a buzzer sounded.

“I can’t think of anything I’d enjoy more,” I deadpanned.

“Great!” Josh knew me well enough to pick up on my sarcasm, but he had to be pretending he didn’t. He droned on, saying even if I didn’t match with anyone I might make a new friend.

“It’s what humans do.”

My brother had no clue I had two lives; one in which I slaved away in a building where decades of reporters had transcribed their notes and thumped on typewriter keys as deadlines loomed. The smell of ink still permeated the walls, and theghosts of people with a pencil tucked behind their ears roamed the newsroom.

The other life was shrouded in shadows, my work known only to two people at the newspaper. And that reminded me I hadn’t checked myotherphone, the burner.

The one I used when I wasn’t Matt but Michael.

Josh had tried to hook me up in the past. There was a visiting colleague from out of town, an old college friend, and a neighbor, all of whom were pleasant but not memorable.

“It’s tomorrow evening. I’ll text you the address.” He hung up before I could get another word in.

Why on earth would I participate in speed dating where you spilled details about yourself in a few seconds? It sounded horrible, especially when I had to lie. Nothing I said would be the truth other than my name.

I’ll think about it,I texted.But I wouldn’t.

Lying on the sofa, the remains of dinner on the coffee table and the phone—myphone—on my chest, I questioned my career path.

Working at the other job was similar to walking on a tightrope strung between two cliffs. One misstep and that would be the end of me.

If I succeeded, got the evidence I needed and destroyed the organization, I’d be feted in the media, but could I change the world for the better when some other group would take its place?

This was my time for doubting, sometimes a few fleeting moments, others that lasted hours or days, when I questioned what I was doing and whether I should give it up and take up a career writing thrillers.

I had a couple days off because the boss—not Eric at the newspaper buttheboss, Dane, the head of The Obsidian Circle—had left town. Eric had told me I’d gathered enough dirtand this was the perfect time to stop what I was doing. But I wasalways searching for one more bit of information, and I’d told him, “Soon but not yet.”

The plan was I’d be in the newsroom today and tomorrow, but Eric insisted I stay home. I’d protested, but it was the right decision. Living on the edge had its drawbacks, the most common being that I could be unalived at any second.

Not making it into the bedroom, I slept fitfully on the sofa and was woken in the morning by Josh’s message giving me the speed-dating time, but he forgot the location. Not that it mattered. I turned off the phone and woke again late afternoon.

Don’t think I’ll make it. That was the end of any speed-dating discussion.

After showering and eating the last of the cereal, I peered into the empty fridge and at the bare cupboards. I needed groceries. Ordering online was an option, but I preferred to not have strangers coming to my door. I had the urge to breathe in the city’s polluted air. The closest supermarket was within walking distance, so I put on a nondescript jacket over my T-shirt and jeans and strolled along the sidewalk.

Just a regular guy off to buy food.

But I’d forgotten how to be me, the real me. I kept my eyes on the ground, not wanting to catch anyone’s gaze, always wary that someone from my undercover work would pick me out of the crowd. Not that they were likely to venture into my neighborhood.

When I was undercover as a chauffeur, I donned dark-framed glasses and used colored hair spray to streak my hair. I wore a smart suit and a diamond stud in one ear. But the real me dressed in T-shirts and jeans, and I usually covered my hair with a cap.

But as I ambled toward the grocery store, thinking of ready-made frozen meals and overly processed foods, a car pulled up beside me. Every nerve ending in my body sizzled, and I spranginto flight-or-flight mode, not that I had a weapon, and I wasn’t much good with my fists.

Goosebumps erupted over my skin, and I grew cold while my heartbeats echoed in my head. I tensed, desperation gnawing at my insides and adrenaline surging through my veins.

This was what it had come to. My desire to expose corruption, or a small part of it, was going to result in my death.

Tension clawed my hands, but other than a phone and an empty backpack, I had no weapon. Running was the only option, but unless whoever was in the car was a lousy shot, I didn’t like my chances.

Dropping and rolling under the vehicle would result in me being run over or knocking myself out. I should have worked harder at gymnastics as a kid because I never got past the forward roll stage.

“Gotcha!” a familiar voice yelled.

I clutched my heart, not wanting a bullet to pierce and shatter it. A leg maybe or an arm. I could recover from that. What if I lunged at the guy, but in the movies, there was always a driver and a hitman. Made sense.

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