To my characters—I am so damn sorry for the things

I do to you.

But what the hell? I do have to pay the bills.

To my mom, who suggested why not give my old dream of writing a go. Who knew she harbored such inner rage toward her own child? To Shannon, best friend and sister with a black belt in tough love; to my patient editor, Anne Sowards; to the infallible Kat Sherbo; to Brian McKay, ninja of the dark craft of copy writing; to Agent Jeff Thurman of the FBI for the usual weapons advice; to talented artist Aleta Rafton; to Lucienne Diver, who astounds me in the best possible way at every turn; and to great and lasting friends Michael and Sara, as well as Linda and Richard (who give new meaning to “Been there, done that, then went to China and did it again during a total eclipse of the sun”).

On the day a nine-year-old boy killed Stefan, he didn’t see his life flash before his eyes.

It’s what they say you’ll see, but not him. Clichés, who needed them?

That this was the second time in his life he’d thought the same exact thing would’ve been worth mentioning . . . if it hadn’t been for the actual process of dying. That tended to be distracting from pithy observations. He was aware that he was lacking in the last-thoughts, much less last-words, department. He knew . . . but what could a guy do?