Three weeks into the surveillance job, Blake had memorized every detail of the pharmaceutical company's security.
He'd spent hours in an empty building across the street, watching through a long lens. He'd documented shift changes. He'd photographed security guards. He'd traced the routes of delivery trucks. He'd mapped blind spots in the camera system.
But that wasn't how he found James.
It was Frank who found him. Frank had mentioned in passing that Vincent sometimes used corporate intelligence for leverage. That they had access to people who could pull data. That if Blake really wanted to find someone, they could probably do it.
Blake had asked if they could find James Patterson.
"Where's he located?" Frank had asked.
"I don't know," Blake had admitted. "Richmond was his last known location. But that was months ago."
Frank had taken the name and done something on his computer. Twenty minutes later, he'd printed out a photograph.
"This him?" Frank had asked.
It was James. Older than Blake remembered. Thinner. But unmistakably James Patterson. The photograph was a screenshot from a security camera somewhere. James was standing in what looked like an apartment building hallway.
"Where was this taken?" Blake had asked.
"New York. Upper West Side. Two months ago," Frank had said. "My source is good, but that's the most recent location I have. After this, he goes dark. No credit card activity. No social media. No employment records."
Blake had stared at the photograph for a long time. James was alive. James was out there. James was hiding.
It took another week, but Frank had found a lead.
Sarah Martinez. Female, age 36, formerly employed by the same consulting firm as James Patterson. She'd taken out her ex-husband's Mercedes SUV in early April. The vehicle's GPS had been pinged multiple times traveling north from New York.
"This Martinez woman," Frank had said, pulling up the data. "She's connected to Patterson. Probably his girlfriend or something. They disappeared together."
"Where to?" Blake had asked.
"Last ping was upstate. Ithaca area. Then nothing. Whoever they are, they ditched the vehicle or destroyed the GPS tracking."
Blake had felt something shift inside him. James had moved. James was running. James was heading west, away from Philadelphia, away from anything Blake could reach.
"I need to find him," Blake had said.
"Why?" Frank had asked. Not out of nosiness—just a practical question.
Blake had considered lying. Instead, he'd told the truth: "He's someone I need to hurt."
Frank had nodded like this made perfect sense. In Vincent's world, probably it did. Everyone had someone they needed to hurt. Everyone had reasons for being here in this warehouse, doing theft instead of getting legitimate jobs.
"Vincent won't help you with that," Frank had said. "But I might be able to point you in a direction."
The break came on a Tuesday night.
Blake was at the warehouse, preparing for the pharmaceutical company job, when Frank called him over to a computer.
"Your target," Frank said. "He's been spotted."
On the screen was a social media post. A photo of three people at a café in upstate New York. The caption was innocuous—something about "good people, good coffee." But one of the people in the photo was James Patterson. He looked happier than he had in the security camera footage. He looked like he'd been sleeping.
"This was posted four days ago," Frank said. "Location tagged as Ithaca, New York. Coffee shop called 'The Brew Collective.'"
"How did you find this?" Blake had asked.
"I have an alert set up for people connected to you," Frank had said. "When Patterson's name came across my search parameters, I started pulling everything. This photo got me interested because it had him in it."
Blake had stared at the photograph. James, Sarah Martinez, and another man—younger, maybe late thirties. All three of them looking momentarily happy.
"What about the other guy?" Blake had asked.
"Marcus Chen. Age 34. Worked at the same consulting firm. Probably part of whatever little group this is."
Blake had felt a strange mixture of relief and urgency. James was in Ithaca. James was alive. James was vulnerable—he was in a small town where he'd stand out, where his routines would be predictable.
But Blake also knew that if James was moving, if Blake didn't act soon, James would disappear again.
The pharmaceutical job was scheduled for the following Tuesday.
Blake had asked Marcus if he could take a leave of absence.
"For what?" Frank had asked.
"Personal business," Blake had replied.
Vincent had agreed to it, which surprised Blake. He'd expected resistance. Instead, Vincent had said, "Take two weeks. Just don't get arrested. We need you for the next job after you get back."
So Blake had rented a car on Monday morning and started driving north.
The drive from Philadelphia to Ithaca took about five hours. Blake drove carefully, stayed within speed limits, paid attention to everything. He was out on parole. A traffic stop could send him back inside.
He arrived in Ithaca at 2 PM on Monday. The town was small, quaint, the kind of place that probably had a college and not much else. The kind of place where a stranger asking questions would be memorable.
Blake didn't ask questions. He simply watched.
The Brew Collective was on the main street, tucked between a bookstore and a clothing boutique. Blake sat in his car across the street and waited. At 4 PM, Sarah Martinez walked in. At 4:15, a younger man who Blake assumed was Marcus Chen walked in. At 4:45, James came through the door.
Blake watched James sit down at a table by the window. James ordered something—coffee, probably—and took out a laptop. He looked thin and sad and completely unaware that the man who'd spent ten years hating him was sitting fifty feet away in a rental car, watching his every move.
Blake could have approached him then. Could have walked in. Could have ended it right there.
But he didn't. He wanted to understand James's patterns first. He wanted to know when James was vulnerable. He wanted to wait for the right moment.
James sat at the coffee shop for three hours. He worked on his laptop, occasionally looking up to watch the street. He ordered refills. He seemed to exist in a kind of fog, not quite present in the world.
At 7 PM, Sarah came back and they left together.
Blake followed them to a house on the outskirts of town. A cottage surrounded by trees. They went inside and the lights came on. Blake watched from the road, parked a quarter-mile away.
He watched until midnight. He watched the lights go out. He watched the house go dark and silent.
Then Blake sat in the car and thought about what to do.
He could break in. Kill them all. Three people in a house far from town—nobody would hear. Nobody would come.
But that wasn't what he'd decided to do back in prison. He'd decided to do this himself. He'd decided to look James in the eye. He'd decided to make James understand exactly why he was dying.
So Blake waited.
For five days, Blake watched James's routine.
Every morning, James woke at 6:30 AM. He made coffee. He sat at the kitchen table with his laptop. He read news, checked emails, looked for jobs that he wasn't going to apply for.
At 9 AM, Sarah left for her job at the bookstore.
At 9:30, a younger man (Marcus Chen, Blake assumed) left on his bicycle, heading toward town.
Then James was alone in the house for six hours.
Blake had six hours. Six hours to approach James in an isolated location. Six hours to explain what he was here for. Six hours to end it.
But on the fifth day of watching, something changed.
A young man showed up at the house in the afternoon. Blake recognized him from town—mid-twenties, attractive in an obvious way, the kind of person who stood out in a small college town. The young man and Marcus Chen talked for a long time. Then Marcus packed a bag.
Then Blake watched David and Marcus drive away in David's car, heading west.
That night, Blake sat outside the house and understood what was happening.
Marcus was leaving. The group was falling apart. James and Sarah were going to be alone soon. Very soon.
Blake pulled out his phone and sent a message to Vincent: "Personal business resolved. Will be back for the job."
Then he settled back in the car and waited.
James was alone now, except for Sarah. James was vulnerable. James was right there, fifty feet away through the trees and the darkness.
Blake had been patient for ten years in prison. He could be patient for a few more days.
He could wait for the perfect moment. He could wait for James to be alone. He could wait for the storm that was building to the west, the one the weather reports said was coming, the one that would make it impossible for anyone to help James when the time came.
Blake started the car and drove back to the motel.
He would wait. In a few days, maybe sooner, James would try to run again. James would get in a car with Sarah and they would head west. And when they did, Blake would follow.
And then, finally, after ten years, Ken Blake would have his revenge.