His hand shook as he slipped his note and a thumb drive into Mary's lingerie drawer. They were his insurance policy if things went sideways this morning— which was a distinct possibility. A duplicate file was locked up miles away as additional protection. He'd been extremely cautious when he downloaded the video, so Dolan shouldn't suspect a thing, but he was still anxious.

He should've confessed long ago. But his wife thought he was a good man. Everyone did. They were mistaken— he was corrupt, unfaithful, and a coward. He could change that this morning. But first, he wanted one more piece of evidence against Dolan.

The dresser drawer closed with a thud.

The mass of covers shifted, but Mary did not wake. He resisted the urge to brush the lock of blonde hair from her cheek. After all these years, her beautiful face still made his heart skip a beat.

He'd tell her tonight once the kids were in bed. Together they could come up with a plan, whether it was to turn the evidence over to the police, or the mob, or to run and hide. But any plan hinged on him finding the murder weapon while the office was empty.

Under a green-grey sky, he drove along the lonely two-lane road past budding fields of corn rustling in the wind.

Lost in thought, he didn't notice a large snapping turtle creep off the gravel shoulder until the last second. He jerked the steering wheel to the side, narrowly missing it. Shaken, he brought his SUV to a stop twenty yards past the creature. He'd always had a soft spot for turtles, even keeping one as a pet when he was a boy— he'd see it safely across the road.

He walked back down the highway but kept his distance, so he didn't alarm the slow-moving reptile. Long claws scrapped on the asphalt, propelling it forward inch by inch.

Before the turtle could reach the other side of the road, a large V8 engine growled in the distance, its off-road tires hummed loudly. A big black pickup truck crested the rise on the desolate road.

He waved his hands above his head to get the driver's attention.

The vehicle accelerated.

Frantically, he motioned for the truck to move to the far side of the road, but it didn't deviate from its course. The reptile crawled forward, unaware of its impending doom. He jumped out of the way at the last second. The front bumper barely missed him, but a large front tire crushed the turtle.

The cracking of the shell rang in his ear like a bell.

The turtle's long neck lay slumped on the black asphalt. A trickle of blood ran from its pointed beak. A murderous red haze threatened to consume him.

"Motherfucker!"

The driver slammed on the brakes and screeched to a stop before reversing towards him.

A man with long brown hair and a coarse goatee dropped to the ground. "You have a problem, asshole?"

"Me— I'm an asshole? You just ran over that poor turtle!" He pointed to the broken animal.

Sneering, the guy stalked forward, his chest puffed out. A deep jagged scar ran down the left side of his face, and the stench of alcohol and sour sweat hung over him like a cloud. Interesting. If Dolan were on to him, would he have sent this guy to eliminate him?

No. Dolan wouldn't.

The man wore a leather vest with motorcycle club patches across the front. He was a biker, not a professional killer. The thug cocked a fist back to deliver a giant haymaker.

He really shouldn't get pulled into a stupid fight; he didn't have the time. But this idiot needed to be taught a lesson, and he was sick of being a coward. He ducked under the punch and landed a quick jab to the biker's chin. He followed it up with a right to the nose. The man's head rocked back, and blood spilled down his face.

The biker roared in anger and let loose a desperate left hook. He easily sidestepped the punch and slammed his fist into the man's jaw. He fell to the ground hard.

Looming over him, he said, "It's over. Stay down."

"Fuck you!"

The thug tried to get back up, so he punched him in the ear. The man crashed to the asphalt, coughing up blood and mucus. There was no debate, it was over now. Hastily, he walked to his car, but an itch grew between his shoulder blades. He glanced back. The biker stumbled to his feet as he reached inside his vest for something. Shit! That couldn't be good.

He broke into a run.

"Stop, asshole!" the guy shouted.

He continued to run.

A few feet from his vehicle, a bullet whizzed by his head. His insides turned to ice. He wanted to claw open the door but knew he'd never get inside in time.

"Not so tough now, are you?" the man laughed. "Turn around."

He did as he was told, realizing he'd been terribly wrong. This man was a killer. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. He wanted to wipe at it but kept his hands in front of him, the fingers outstretched. A droplet ran down his back and soaked into a fold in his shirt.

"You don't need to do this. I can pay you," he pleaded.

"I've already been paid. Besides, now this is personal." Sneering, the thug stumbled forward, the gun still pointed at him.

Damn it. He prayed he could somehow survive this encounter, gather up his family, and run far away.

The thug stopped in front of him while thunder boomed in the distance, and lightning scarred the sky. Short shallow breaths pushed through his lips as adrenalin poured into his bloodstream. The thug's index finger twitched on the trigger.

Shifting from foot to foot, a desperate plan came to him. He leaned subtlety towards the gun. His hand was ten inches from the barrel.

The thunder crashed again. With exaggeration, he shifted his gaze over to the lightning strike. The thug followed his misdirection. He pushed off his back foot and made a grab for the gun. But he was too slow. The biker squeezed the trigger.

The bullet slammed into his chest.

He remained standing for a second before his body toppled over like a marionette whose strings had been cut. The pain was incredible. It felt like a jackhammer had punched a hole through his heart. He tried to sit up but couldn't. He felt cold. Very cold.

He knew then, he would never see Mary again. He wouldn't see the kids grow up. It was over. The only thing he could hope for now was that his best friend, Jake, would put the puzzle pieces together and protect his family from these murderers.

Putting the gun back in its holster, the man kicked him hard in the ribs with his dirty boot, then in his face. He didn't feel it. His breathing was ragged and weak.

The smell of death and gunpowder hung in the air. The biker knelt down next to him and searched his pockets but didn't take anything— not until the thug's eyes fell on the antique watch strapped to his wrist. The biker tossed his own cheap watch into the nearby field.

The storm drew closer. Lightning ripped across the sky. A drop of rain pelted the road, followed by another and then another. His world grew dim. A low deathly rattle escaped his lips.

Thelast thing he saw before his soul moved on to a better place was the killer admiringthe antique watch on his murderous wrist. Covering the man's arm was a skeletaltattoo— a Devil's Hand.