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Zusatztext 45261294 Informationen zum Autor Steve Hamilton is the New York Times -bestselling author of twelve novels! most recently Die a Stranger and Let It Burn . His debut! A Cold Day in Paradise ! won both an Edgar and a Shamus Award for Best First Novel. His standalone novel The Lock Artist was a New York Times Notable Crime Book and won an Alex Award and the Edgar Award for Best Novel. He attended the University of Michigan! where he won the prestigious Hopwood Award for writing! and now lives in Cottekill! NY! with his wife and their two children. -1- Nick Mason’s freedom lasted less than a minute. He didn’t see it then, but he’d look back on that day and mark those first free steps through the gate, after five years and twenty-eight days inside. Nobody was standing over him, nobody was watching him, nobody was telling him where to go and when. He could have walked anywhere in that moment. Pick any direction and go. But the black Escalade was waiting for him, and as soon as he took those thirty steps and opened the passenger’s side door, his freedom was gone again. Mason had effectively signed a contract. When most men do that, they know what’s expected of them. They get to read the terms, understand what the job’s going to be, know exactly what they’ll be expected to do. But Mason didn’t get to read anything, because this contract wasn’t on paper at all, and instead of actually signing anything, he simply gave his word, with no idea what would come next. It was late afternoon, the heart of the day spent on processing and change-out. The daily discharge from USP Terre Haute. Typical prison operations, hurry up and wait, the screws dragging their feet all the way to the end. There were two other inmates with him, both anxious to get outside. One of the men he’d never seen before. Not unusual in a prison with so many separate units. The second man was vaguely familiar. Someone from his original unit, before he made his move. “You’re getting out today,” that man said, looking surprised. You don’t talk about the length of your sentence with most men in this place, but there’s no need to keep it a big secret, either. This man had obviously figured Mason for a long-timer. Or maybe he’d heard it from someone else. Mason didn’t care. He shrugged the man off without another word and went back to his final release forms. When Mason was done with those, the clerk slid a plastic tray across the counter with the clothes he’d been wearing the day he processed in. It felt like a lifetime ago. He’d arrived here in this same room and been told to put his clothes in the tray. The black jeans and the white button- down shirt. Now, it felt strange to be taking off the khaki, like the color was a part of him. But the old clothes still fit. All three men walked out together. The concrete walls, the steel doors, the two rows of chain-link fence topped with razor wire – all left behind as they stepped out onto the hot pavement and waited for the gate to grind open. There were two families waiting there. Two wives, five kids, all of them looking like they’d been standing there for hours. The kids held handmade signs with multicolored letters, welcoming their fathers home. There was no family waiting for Nick Mason. No signs. He stood there blinking for a few seconds, feeling the hot Indiana sun on the back of his neck. He was clean shaven and fair-skinned, a little over six feet tall. His body was taut with muscle, but lean like a middleweight. An old scar ran the length of his right eyebrow. He saw the black Escalade, idling near the sidewalk. The vehicle didn’t move, so he walked down to it. The windows were tinted. He couldn’t see who was inside until he opened the front passenger’s side door. Once he did, he saw that the driver was Hispanic...
