The day that Tyler Welch learned his real name, he was up before the dawn and on the road as the sun came up. Two-a-day football practices were scheduled to start in three weeks, and he'd been dismayed when he looked down and saw what he was sure was a roll of fat — a small one, to be sure, but still a roll — forming around his belly. A summer job at Quizno's wasn't something that promoted maximum fitness, and he suddenly felt guilty for every Peppercorn Steak sub he'd sucked down on one of his too-brief meal breaks instead of a healthier turkey sandwich, or even a salad. Football practices in late summer North Carolina heat and humidity were going to be unforgiving enough without carrying extra pounds, and Tyler wanted that starting quarterback slot in his senior year of high school more than he wanted oxygen.

He could hear his parents moving about in their bedroom as he slipped out of the house. The morning was still cool, but muggy, foreshadowing the oppressive blanket of heat and moisture that would descend as the sun rose. Tyler performed a few brief stretches, impatient to get on the road, before ascending the brief slope of shady driveway that led to the main road. He paused a moment, looking back at the modest brick house he shared with his parents and younger sister. He took no notice of the faded and dented black Firebird that passed by, slowed, then sped up and accelerated away down the long stretch of country road that ran by the house.

He started at a fast walk, ramping up quickly to a slow jog. He couldn't seem to find the rhythm, that coordination of stride and breath and effort that would eventually lift him up and carry him along as if of its own accord. Every step thudded on the hard-packed earth by the roadside, every breath rasped in his lungs. Gradually, though, he began to fall into the old familiar groove, and he smiled as he picked up the pace. He was so pleased to be back in the swing of things that he didn't notice the black Firebird as it passed him again, going the other way. It was good to be just turned eighteen and alive and rocking along in fine — if not perfect — shape under a hazy pale-blue Carolina morning sky, with nothing but possibilities ahead.

He'd almost completed his second mile by the time he finally noticed the black Firebird, and only then when it passed by, moving slowly. Tyler caught a glimpse of the driver's face, pale under a shock of thick black hair, before the vehicle was past him. It slowed, then pulled over to the side of the road, blocking his path. Tyler pulled up to a stop, his brow furrowed in annoyance. He'd just gotten going, and now this asshole was in his way.

The paint on the old Pontiac was peeling in spots and discolored in others. The golden outline of the mythical bird on the hood had faded to a pale yellow, the left rear quarter panel dented. The driver got out and stood in the open door for a moment, looking at Tyler. He looked to be in his early twenties, painfully thin, dressed in ragged blue jeans and a long-sleeved plaid shirt that was too heavy for summer. The eyes that looked out at him from under the thick fringe of his hair were a brilliant blue that looked disturbingly familiar to Tyler. He didn't know who this guy was, but he gave Tyler the creeps. He'd been well-raised by a good Southern family, however, and his default mode was courtesy.

"Hey," he said. "Do you need help?"

The driver didn't speak for a moment. Finally, he smiled. The lopsided smile looked familiar, too. "Get in the car, Keith," he said. He raised his right arm, and Tyler saw the gun for the first time.

"That ... that's not my name," Tyler answered, his eyes fixed on the barrel of the weapon. Despite the rising sun's heat, he felt cold in the pit of his stomach.

"I know your name, Keith," the driver said. "I know it better than you do. Get in."

Tyler thought of running. He knew he was fast, but no one was really faster than a speeding bullet. He had a brief thought of charging the gunman, taking the gun away, beating his assailant into the ground. But the cold black circle of that gun barrel was enough to crush any illusions Tyler might have had about being a hero. This wasn't a movie. He knew he had to get into the car, but his legs didn't seem to want to work.

"Get in, little brother," the gunman said. "I'm not gonna tell you again."

Tyler felt a sudden stirring of long-repressed memory triggered by the word "brother." He knew where he'd seen those eyes, that smile before. "Mick?"

The gunman smiled. "That's me."

"Holy ... where have you been, man?"

The smile slipped a little. "Here and there."

Tyler was having trouble believing it. Mick had dropped out of his life years ago. Tyler had thought about him for years. Until he'd stopped. He felt a twinge of guilt. "It ... it's good to see you." He gestured toward the gun. "Except for that, I mean."

The man looked down at the gun, then back up. "Yeah. Sorry. Didn't know how you'd react. You bein' an upstanding citizen and all now." The gun never wavered.

Tyler swallowed. "Why don't you put it down?"

"My doctor told me I got trust issues. Now get in the car."

"Where ... where are we going?" Tyler said.

"To find Mama. She needs us."

"I have a ..." Tyler almost said "mother," but the way the gunman's eyes narrowed stopped him.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. I'll come with you. Just be cool, okay?" The gunman gave him that lopsided grin again. "Oh, we're cool, Keith. We're way cool. Now come on. There's not much time."

* * *

"Jesus," the man with the headphones said. "He's really beating the shit out of her."

He glanced over at Chance, who'd put on her own headset. She gritted her teeth at the sound of another blow hitting flesh. "We need to do something," she said.

The woman inside the house was no longer crying out, no longer pleading or cajoling. They couldn't tell if she was unconscious or dead, or if she was just riding it out. The voice of the man administering the beating was raised, but they couldn't make out the words, he was shouting so angrily.

"We need to do something." Chance said again. She whipped off her headphones and started towards the door of the room where they'd set up their surveillance. It was the front parlor of an abandoned house across the street from their target, and Chance's boots echoed on the hardwood floorboards in the empty space.

"Hold it!" the DEA agent with the headphones barked. "We spent weeks getting authorization for this surveillance. I'm not blowing it for some minor domestic disturbance."

"Minor? He's going to kill her!"

"If he does, then we've got him. But right now, Deputy Cahill, you need to remember you are here as a courtesy to local law enforcement. This is a DEA operation, not some country barn dance gone wrong. You fuck this up and I'll charge you with interfering in a federal investigation. So you just stand the fuck down."

Chance stared for a moment, her hand on the front door. She let the hand fall away. "You really are a prick, Winslow," she said.

"Yeah, no shit," Winslow said. "Welcome to the big time, Deputy Cahill." He cocked his head, looking for all the world like a dog who'd just been asked if he wanted to go out. "It's over, anyway."

Chance could hear the bang of the screen door from across the street.

She stole a glance through the ragged curtain and milky glass of the front door. Their target was striding down the walkway of the...