The money ran out on day eighteen.
Blake sat in the motel room with his last forty-two dollars spread on the bed. He'd been careful—eating one meal a day from the 7-Eleven, drinking tap water, spending nothing on entertainment or comfort. But $700 divided by $39 a night for a room still equaled mathematics he couldn't escape.
Eighteen days. That was his runway.
The halfway house in Philadelphia had rejected him. He'd called three times. The director—a woman named Brooke—had been polite but firm. "We're full, Mr. Blake. There's a waiting list. Call back in two months." Two months was a death sentence. He'd be homeless by then.
He'd tried a few temporary labor agencies. They'd asked about his background. What had he done for the past seven years? Prison, he'd said. What for? Harassment and assault, he'd said, trying to follow the advice of his rehabilitation counselor. "Be honest, Mr. Blake. Most employers respect honesty more than they fear your record."
The agencies had thanked him and said they'd call if something came up. They never called.
Blake had applied to work at a grocery store, a fast food restaurant, a car wash. Nobody wanted him. The background check revealed everything. Ken Blake, prisoner #47892, released on parole. Harassment conviction. Seven-year sentence.
He was unemployable.
So eighteen days ago, he'd posted the message on the dark web. "Seeking professional removal. Target in Richmond, VA. Can pay $10,000 to start."
He'd gotten three responses.
The first was clearly a scam: "I can take out your target for $50,000. Send deposit to this Bitcoin address and we'll proceed." Blake had ignored it.
The second was almost certainly a federal agent: "I may be able to help. Tell me more about the target and why you want them removed. Also, how much are you willing to pay?" Blake had not responded.
The third had been from someone calling themselves "Solver": "$10k initial gets target identified and assessed. Another $15k gets the job done. We're professionals. We get results. No feds. All business."
Blake had sent a message back: "How do I know you're legitimate?"
Solver had responded with photographs. Crime scenes, he assumed. A man in a car with a bullet hole in his head. A woman in a bathtub that was clearly no accident. Evidence. "We're thorough," the message said. "We handle it clean. No trace. No questions. First payment is non-refundable."
Blake had asked for time to raise the money.
Now he had eighteen days to find $25,000.
Blake's research on making money had been thorough. He'd spent hours in the prison library looking up options. He could sell plasma—maybe $400 a month if he was healthy. He could deal drugs, but he didn't know any dealers and had no access. He could steal.
Stealing seemed most viable.
He'd never stolen before. He'd been a law-abiding academic until the moment he wasn't. But seven years of incarceration had exposed him to people who had stolen. He'd listened to their methods. He'd learned what worked and what didn't.
The key was not being recognizable. The key was hitting places that didn't have great security. The key was cash-based transactions where no cameras captured the details.
Blake spent three days scouting locations. He rode the bus to different neighborhoods in Pennsylvania. He looked at gas stations, convenience stores, small retail shops. He learned their patterns. When the cameras covered what. When the managers were distracted.
On the fourth day, he found a target: a Shell station on Route 8 outside Pittsburgh. The manager—a tired-looking middle-aged man—took a smoke break around 8 PM every night. The cashier stayed inside, but the office was in the back. The register area was visible, but the surveillance camera's angle didn't cover the area behind the counter where the secondary cash drawer was kept.
Blake had watched this pattern for two days. Every evening. Same timing. Same behavior.
On day twenty-two of his release, Blake took a bus to the Shell station. He wore a baseball cap and sunglasses. He wore gloves. He had a knife from the motel—a cheap steak knife he'd taken from a to-go meal. His hands shook as he got off the bus.
He waited until the manager went for his cigarette break.
Then he walked into the station. The cashier—a kid, maybe nineteen, with acne and a name tag that said "TYLER"—looked up from his phone.
"Fill up?" the kid asked.
"Restroom," Blake said.
His voice didn't sound like his own. It sounded like someone else. Someone dangerous. The kid gestured toward the back without looking up.
Blake walked past the register, his heart hammering against his ribs so hard he thought the kid might hear it. The restroom was empty. He stood in front of the mirror for thirty seconds, just breathing. Trying to calm himself. This was insane. He could still walk out. He could still choose a different path.
But there was no different path. There was only this.
He came out and approached the counter from the side. The manager was still outside—he could see the shape of him through the window, cigarette glowing in the darkness.
Blake pulled out the knife.
"Tyler" didn't notice at first. He was still looking at his phone, scrolling through something. Blake had to say something.
"Hey," Blake said.
Tyler looked up. His eyes went to the knife. For a moment, nothing happened. The kid's brain was trying to process what he was seeing. Was this real? Was this a prank? Was he actually looking at a knife?
"Open the secondary drawer," Blake said.
His voice was steadier now. The panic was crystallizing into something else. Focus. Purpose.
"I don't—" Tyler's voice cracked. He tried again. "I don't have a key. Only the manager—"
"Call him."
"What?"
"Call the manager," Blake repeated. "Tell him you need him inside. Now."
Tyler's hand moved toward the phone on the counter. Blake leaned forward. He put the knife on the counter between them, the blade pointing toward Tyler.
"Do it slowly," Blake said. "Tell him there's a customer issue. You panic, he'll panic. Then everyone gets hurt. You understand?"
Tyler nodded. His whole body was shaking. His finger hovered over the phone button.
Blake heard the manager's voice from outside. "I'm coming back in, Tyler. Just need to grab something from the office."
That wasn't in the plan. The manager wasn't supposed to come back. Blake's mind raced. He glanced at the clock on the wall. 8:07 PM. The manager was early.
The door chimed.
Blake turned, the knife still in his hand. The manager—a man in his fifties with a tired face and a Marlboro habit—stopped dead when he saw Blake.
For one crystalline moment, everything hung in balance. The manager's hand was moving toward something on his hip. A phone? A panic button? A weapon?
Blake moved first.
He vaulted over the counter in a move he didn't know he was capable of. The knife came up. He grabbed the manager by the throat and put the blade against his neck.
"Don't," Blake said.
The manager's hands went up immediately. "Okay, okay. Don't. I'm opening it. I'm opening it."
"The secondary drawer," Blake said. His voice was shaking now. The adrenaline had broken through his control. He sounded like an animal. Like something feral.
The manager's hands went into his pocket. Keys. He walked to the drawer behind the counter, his neck still pressed against the knife. Blake kept the blade there, not cutting but present. A promise of what would happen if the man did anything stupid.
The drawer opened. Cash. Stacks of bills.
"Take it," the manager gasped.
Blake grabbed handfuls with one hand, the knife still in the other. He was shaking so badly the bills kept slipping through his fingers. This wasn't working. He couldn't hold the manager, take the money, and maintain control.
Tyler had run. Blake could hear him in the back of the station, could hear his panicked footsteps, could hear him screaming something unintelligible.
The manager was crying. Actual tears. "Please," he said. "Please don't. I have kids. I have two daughters. Please."
Blake looked at him. Really looked at him. This was a man. A real person. With daughters. With a life that didn't involve Blake's revenge.
For one moment, Blake felt something crack inside him. Guilt. Humanity. The knowledge that what he was doing was wrong.
Then he pushed it away.
"I'm sorry," Blake said, and he meant it. He was sorry. He was sorry for all of it. For his ruined life, for this man's daughters, for James Patterson, for Emily, for himself.
Blake slammed the manager's head against the counter. Not hard enough to do serious damage, but hard enough to make sure he'd stay down for a moment.
Then he ran.