Read an Excerpt
READ THE FULL EXCERPT
Providence, Rhode Island
5:50 a.m., September 1
That ain't piss down my pants, thought the old convict. That's blood.
He reached a hand around, fingered the wet tear in his shirttail, stuck a pinkie in the hot, sopping sinkhole in his lower back, gasped at the pain.
He ran on, cradling the package, wrapped in a garbage bag and a newspaper, like a football in his left arm.
I ain't been shot for twenty years.
Garrett had been shot two times before, and shot at two dozen times. None of