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folder. He didn’t have many photos from the past—guys like him weren’t exactly the type to pose for pictures. But he cherished the few he did have. After puffing the cigar to get it going, and taking another sip of whiskey, he scrolled through the pictures, pausing momentarily to look at some photos of Rick Sycheck, Jennifer Wasco, and some other survivors he’d battled alongside during the Clicker siege. The pictures weren’t his. He’d found them on various websites and saved them to his hard drive.
    Tony had read one of Rick’s novels shortly after assuming his new identity, but he wasn’t much for horror fiction, and hadn’t really enjoyed the book. Tony’s reading tastes leaned more toward Elmore Leonard, Ed Gorman, Duane Swierczynski and Ed McBain. He idly wondered where Jennifer was now. She’d been a piece of ass. Not normally his type, but the girl had guts. He’d liked that. Too bad he wasn’t allowed to stay in touch.
    He scrolled through the pictures until he found the one he was looking for. In it, he and Vince were sitting along the bar at the Odessa, a strip club back in York. The joint had been run by the Russians, but the picture had been taken during peacetime, when he and Vince had often frequented it. In the photograph, they had their arms around each other, smiling. Tony held a cigarette. Vince held a shot of mescal. It was the only picture of Vince that he still owned. The few others had been left behind, scattered among the ashes of his old life.
    “Happy Birthday, you fat fuck. Wish you were here.”
    Eyes watering, Tony drained his glass, belched, and then got up to pour another. Before he could, however, there was a knock at the door. He paused, one hand reaching for the bottle of Woodford Reserve. Cigar smoke curled in the air. Could it be the girl—whatever her fucking name was? No, he’d heard her drive away. If she’d returned, he would have heard her car pull up.
    The knock came again, more insistent this time. It seemed to almost hang in the air.
    Tony climbed up on top of the stove, reached above the kitchen cabinets, and pulled down his Taurus CIA .357 snub nose. One of the conditions of his deal with the government was that he wasn’t allowed to own any weapons, but he figured what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. Normally, he’d have kept it somewhere he could get to it easily, but it was better to make it hard for his handlers to find it. He knew deep down inside that he didn’t need the gun, but old habits died hard. The person at the door wasn’t a hitman or assassin. It was probably just a neighbor, or a pizza delivery guy with the wrong address. Still, better safe than sorry. He tucked the gun into the deep pocket of his robe and went to the door. As he was unchaining it, a third knock sounded.
    “Hold the fuck on,” Tony shouted.
    He undid the deadbolt and slowly opened the door.
    The two men and one woman that stood there weren’t neighbors or lost pizza delivery people.
    And they had guns of their own.
    Big guns.
    Bigger than his. He wondered if they knew how to use them, and guessed that they probably did.
    The first man spoke. “Tony Genova.” It wasn’t a question.
    “Sorry.” Tony casually slid his hand into his pocket. His heart rate sped up. “You got the wrong place. My name’s Larry DiMazzio.”
    “No,” said the second man. “Your real name is Tony Genova.”
    “Real names are important,” the woman said. “They give you power.”
    “Listen, you got the wrong guy. Now fuck off. Whatever you’re selling, I ain’t interested.”
    Tony tried to shut the door, but the first man reached out and caught it with his hand. Tony grunted. Suddenly, moving the door was like pushing a boulder. The guy was a few inches taller than Tony, and of medium build, and didn’t look that strong.
    “Motherfucker…”
    Forgetting about the door, Tony’s fingers encircled the pistol. He tried to withdraw it from his robe, but before he could, the