The coffee shop was called "The Grind" and it occupied a corner in northeast Philadelphia, in a neighborhood that had seen better decades. The windows were dirty. The furniture was mismatched. The clientele looked like people who had nowhere else to be.
Blake sat at a table by the window with a lukewarm cup of coffee he'd paid $3.50 for. He'd arrived at 2 PM on his second day of freedom. Tommy had said Vincent liked to meet people here, in the afternoon, when the shop was relatively empty.
Blake had been sitting for forty minutes. Nobody had approached him.
At 2:47 PM, a man in his sixties sat down across from him without asking. He had the kind of face that suggested he'd made bad decisions and learned from them slowly. His suit was expensive but worn. His watch was old money, not new money. He ordered a black coffee from the passing waitress without looking at the menu.
"Tommy send you?" the man asked.
"Yes," Blake said.
"You look like someone with a specific problem," Vincent said.
"I am," Blake replied.
"And you think I can solve it?"
"Tommy said you could."
Vincent smiled. It wasn't a friendly smile. It was the smile of someone who'd been doing this for a long time and had seen every variation of human desperation. "Tommy's an optimist. Let's talk about your specific problem."
Blake had prepared for this. He'd practiced the pitch a hundred times in his cell. But sitting across from Vincent, with Vincent's cold eyes evaluating him, Blake found himself just saying it plainly:
"I need someone killed. I need to hire a professional. I have money."
Vincent didn't blink. He took a sip of his coffee. "How much money?"
"I can get $25,000 to start. Maybe more."
"That's not very much," Vincent said. "Not for what you're describing."
"It's what I have," Blake said.
"Where's it coming from?"
Blake hesitated. He'd decided not to mention the robberies. Those were in the past. But Vincent needed to know he was serious. "I have savings. From before."
"Before what? Before you went inside?" Vincent was smiling again, that same cold smile. "You've got that look. Done time recently?"
"Seven years," Blake said. "Then another three. Just got out."
"And your first instinct is to hire a professional killer," Vincent said. "That's ambitious. Most people, they get out, they want drugs or sex or just to disappear for a while. You want murder."
"Not murder," Blake said carefully. "Justice."
"That's what they always say," Vincent replied. He finished his coffee. "Okay, listen. Here's what I can tell you. What you're describing is illegal, obviously. Conspiracy to commit murder, solicitation of a hit, all of that. If you do this, you will go back inside. Probably for life. You understand that?"
"Yes," Blake said.
"And you're still interested?"
"Yes."
Vincent stood up. "Then you're not my client. You're a federal agent or a cop or someone trying to trap me. Because no rational person, someone who just got out of prison, would be so eager to go back."
He was leaving. Blake realized he was losing him. He'd prepared for interrogation, not for Vincent to simply walk away.
"I'm not a cop," Blake said quickly. "And I'm not irrational. I just have something I need done. And I'll pay for it."
Vincent paused. He looked down at Blake with an expression of something like pity. "What's his name? The guy you want killed?"
"James Patterson," Blake said.
"What'd he do?"
"He destroyed my life," Blake said. "He exposed my research as fraudulent. I went to prison. Lost everything."
Vincent sat back down. "And you blame him entirely? Not yourself?"
"I blame him entirely," Blake said. "He had choices. He chose to humiliate me."
Vincent was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "I don't do hits. That's not what I do. What I do is help people who need to disappear or reappear. I help people get new identities. I help people move money around. I help people hide. But I don't kill people and I don't hire people to kill people."
Blake felt something collapse inside him. Vincent was his only lead. Tommy had said Vincent could help. And now Vincent was saying no.
"Then why are you still sitting here?" Blake asked.
"Because," Vincent said, "I'm curious. Because I've been doing this for thirty years and I like to understand people. And because I think you might be useful to me, even if I can't help you with murder."
"How?" Blake asked.
"I have a project," Vincent said. "It's a long-term thing. I need people who are motivated. People who've lost everything and have nothing left to lose. People who are intelligent and patient. You fit the profile. I offer you work, you make money, and maybe at some point you use that money to figure out if murder is really what you want."
"I know what I want," Blake said.
"No, you don't," Vincent replied. He pulled out a piece of paper and wrote something on it—an address. "Go here tomorrow at ten AM. There's a warehouse. You'll meet my associate, Frank. He'll explain the work."
Vincent stood to leave. Blake grabbed his wrist. "I need to kill James Patterson."
Vincent looked down at Blake's hand on his arm. Then he looked at Blake's face. "Maybe you do. But that's a path that leads only one place—back inside, or into a grave. I'm offering you a different path. One where you can survive. Where you can actually do damage without destroying yourself."
He pulled his arm free and walked out of the coffee shop.
Blake sat alone at the table with two empty coffee cups and a piece of paper with an address.
The warehouse was in West Philadelphia, in an area that had been abandoned to time and poverty. The address was a massive brick building that had probably been a factory in the 1970s. Now it was just a hollow shell.
Blake stood outside at 9:50 AM, trying to decide if this was a trap.
At exactly 10 AM, a man appeared—fifties, scarred, with the kind of face that suggested he'd been in fights and usually won. He didn't introduce himself.
"You're Blake," the man said. "Vincent told me about you. Come on."
The man—Frank—led Blake inside. The interior was cavernous and mostly empty. Concrete floors. Exposed brick. Pipes running across the ceiling like veins. But in the back corner, there was a section that had been set up: tables, computer equipment, filing cabinets.
"This is where we work," Frank said. "Vincent's operation. We handle various things—money transfers, identity creation, asset relocation. Occasionally, we handle acquisitions."
"Acquisitions?" Blake asked.
"We steal things," Frank said plainly. "High-value items. We have clients who need specific objects obtained. We obtain them. We're very good at what we do."
Blake understood then. Vincent wasn't offering him murder. Vincent was offering him a job as a thief. A way to make money that didn't involve conventional employment. A way to stay busy while he figured out what to actually do about James Patterson.
"When do I start?" Blake asked.
"Now," Frank said. He gestured to one of the computer stations. "We've got a job coming up. A pharmaceutical company in New Jersey. They keep cash on-site for emergencies. About $400,000. We're planning to acquire it next month. You'll be part of the team."
Blake sat down at the computer. Frank pulled up a file. Images of a building. Security protocols. Cash flow diagrams. Everything Blake would need to understand the job.
"You'll do surveillance," Frank said. "You'll monitor the security patterns. You'll identify weaknesses. When we move, you'll be part of the crew. You'll get 15% of anything we take."
"Sixty thousand dollars," Blake said.
"Give or take," Frank replied. "Plus, there are other jobs. If you're good, there are always other jobs."
Blake looked at the photographs on the screen. The pharmaceutical company. The security office. The cash room. It was like a puzzle. A challenge. Something to focus on that wasn't revenge.
"How long has Vincent been doing this?" Blake asked.
"Thirty years," Frank said. "He's very good at it. He's never been caught. The people he works with trust him. If you work here, you'll make enough money to do whatever you want to do eventually. You want to hire someone to kill a man? After you pull a few jobs, you'll have the money."
Blake had thought he was desperate when he walked into the warehouse. Now he realized he'd been desperate in an abstract way. Now, looking at actual security protocols and actual money amounts, the desperation became concrete.
This was real. This was possible. Not immediately, but eventually.
"I'm in," Blake said.
Frank smiled. "Good. Welcome to the operation. Vincent will be pleased."
Over the next hour, Frank explained the job. The surveillance schedule. The entry points. The exit routes. The timeline. Everything Blake needed to know to become part of Vincent's crew.
By noon, Blake had a new purpose. He was no longer Ken Blake, the broken man just released from prison. He was now part of an operation. He had a role. He had goals that were achievable in concrete terms.
It wasn't revenge. Not yet. But it was a path toward it. A way to survive on the outside. A way to earn the money he'd need when the moment finally came.
As Blake left the warehouse that afternoon, he felt something he hadn't felt in ten years: hope.
It was a dangerous thing, hope. It could lead to terrible decisions. But Blake had already made his terrible decision. He'd decided to pursue James Patterson, to hunt him, to end him.
Now he just had to stay alive long enough to make it happen.