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crowding.
    Quinn knew very little about elite cars, but he guessed each
pristine model he saw had horsepower that approached infinity and a price tag
to match. His eyes ran over a number of stunning sports cars but slowed when he
came to the three sedans in the garage, a Porsche, a Jaguar, and a Maserati.
This last, a model called the Quattroporte, was of particular interest.
    “Give me the keys to the Maserati!” he demanded.
    The Quattroporte was magnificent, but its beige color and
understated grille made it the least conspicuous choice. The other cars were so
flamboyant that any one of them would have stood out like a siren in a library.
    After Garza gave him the keys, Quinn also demanded the
billionaire hand over the cash in his wallet, which totaled six hundred and
twenty dollars.
    Finally, less than five minutes after his attempt on the
president, Quinn left Garza and his home behind, hurtling forward in a car that
felt more like a rocket ship. He slowed only for the few seconds it took to
destroy his phone and fling it from the window before resuming at a speed that
exceeded reckless by at least twenty miles per hour.    
    As Quinn sped off into the night he forced himself to remain
calm and focused. No room for emotion if he was to have any chance of
accomplishing his mission.
    First he had to find a way to survive. Easier said than
done, even for an hour or two, let alone days and weeks. Then he had to find a
way to gather evidence.
    Quinn would leave the president’s distant past alone—for
now. Instead, he would focus on the prostitutes he had beaten. They might not
remember what had happened, but it would be a start. Davinroy was bound to have
made at least one mistake that Quinn could use to snare him.
    So Coffey didn’t believe a word he said about the great
Matthew Davinroy. Didn’t believe the president could possibly have done what he
had done.
    No matter , thought
Quinn. Soon the world would know what a sick, murderous abomination the
president really was. Coffey’s skepticism would only make him more determined, more single-minded in his goal.
    As if this were even possible.

 
    5

 
 
    Quinn knew if he was still in the
Maserati in twenty minutes, thirty at the very outside, he was a dead man. And
this time frame would be accelerated if he remained a sitting duck among the
farms and open landscape of Princeton. He needed a much better haystack to get
lost within.
    He sorted through a number of
options, reaching a decision in seconds. There may have been better choices but
he didn’t have the time to search for them.
    What he did now have was a destination— Trenton —twelve
miles distant. He hurtled toward this city at speeds that would have launched most
cars into space, but the Quattroporte somehow managed to hug the road like a constricting
python.
    Given the light traffic, had he adhered
to speed limits, stop signs, and red lights, the trip would have taken twenty minutes.
Kevin Quinn did it in nine.
    Trenton, the capital of New
Jersey, was urban and ghettoized, which was ideal for his needs. Although it
was nearing ten o’clock on a Sunday night there were still small pockets of
human activity. He had driven by the occasional group of two or more
gangbangers, young males selling drugs or patrolling streets they felt they
owned. There were almost forty thousand street gangs in the United States with
well over a million active members, not including almost three hundred thousand
in prison.
    Trenton had long been fertile
ground for both the Bloods and the Latin Kings, although a Guatemalan gang,
aptly named GTO, for Guatemalans Taking
Over , had come to challenge the Kings’ dominance.
    Like cockroaches, gangbangers preferred
to come out at night.
    Quinn found an isolated alleyway
only four blocks from the Trenton Transit Center, a fancy name for an un-fancy
train station, and parked. He exited the car and confirmed that, as expected,
the alley was free from any street cameras.
    Keenly