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rush to wipe it off, he couldn’t stop grinning—or fantasizing about where those red-hot kisses could lead, namely to a thorough, head-to-toe exploration of every amazing inch of her.
    So far the only thing about her he wasn’t head-over-heels crazy about was her job. With her cop’s training, she’d been all too quick to pick up on the mismatch between his supposed shyness and his bartending occupation. When, not if, he saw her again, he’d have to be more careful, at least until he testified. The trial was scheduled for January second and afterward he would have his life back. It was too soon to know how a certain lovely lady cop from Baltimore might fit into his future, but he didn’t intend to let her slip away without first exploring the possibilities.
    Coming up on his car, a beat-up Buick he’d named Betsy because it was the automotive equivalent of a swayback mule, a vehicle so antiquated even the lowliest carjacker could be counted on to pass it by, he slipped the key into the door lock. Typically it took at least three failed tries before the engine would start, and with the extreme cold temperature, it would more likely take four. Yanking open the rusted door, he admitted that what he’d done tonight went against the three cardinal rules Walker and his colleague, McKinney, spoke of as The Holy Trinity of witness protection. “Don’t give out personal information, no matter how innocuous, to anyone you meet—and that includes admitting you’re a federally protected witness. Don’t make contact with family or friends or coworkers back home under any circumstances—and that includes your mother calling for you on her deathbed or your childhood dog getting run over by a truck. And above all, don’t get personally involved.”
    He’d settled onto the cracked leather seat and reached up to adjust the rearview mirror to check out his lipstick status when he felt something cold and hard jam into the back of his head.
    “Well, well, Thornton, what’s a nice Boston Brahmin like you doing in a crap blue-collar town like this?”
    The gravelly voice coming from his back seat sent Josh’s heart dropping to Betsy’s rusted floorboards. He looked into the rearview mirror and glimpsed a man’s partial profile, the skin pitted with acne scars. The slicked-back dark hair, deep-set eyes, and craggy features, including an obviously broken nose, fit the Hollywood stereotype of a Mafia hit man.
    Futile as it was, he found himself saying, “Whoever you are, you’ve got the wrong guy.”
    A belly laugh erupted from the vicinity of the back seat. “Oh, I don’t think so. Your hair may be longer and you’re definitely dressing down these days, but it’s you, no doubt about it. Joshua Thornton the Third.”
    Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit…
    “What do you want with me?”
    His life, of course, but the longer Josh kept him talking, the longer he had to go on breathing. And life, every freezing, fearful second of it, had never felt more precious. Ordinarily he might have held on to the hope that someone, anyone, might happen by. But it was after midnight on Christmas and the normally bustling downtown bar district was deserted. Unlike George Bailey in his favorite Christmas movie, It’s a Wonderful Life, there would be no guardian angel sent down to save Josh in the nick of time. This was real life, not reel life.
    And the reality was he was about to die.
    The hit man leaned in, the warmth of his exhaled breath striking the back of Josh’s neck, an eerie contrast to the icy pistol butt prodding his skull. “Put the key in the ignition and drive.”
    “Why should I? Either way, I’m a dead man.”
    “True, but if I do you here, I’ll have to pay a call on your cop girlfriend afterward. By the way, nice lipstick, Romeo.” A beefy hand adorned with several chunky gold rings reached around, slapping his cheek.
    Face stinging, Josh froze. He was going to die, that was a given, but how could he take Mandy down with