Early in the morning, the day after Reynolds’ call, there was a knock on my apartment door. Luckily I was at least up and moving, if not totally dressed yet. Not being an i***t, I got my gun, holding it at my side while I checked through the peephole to see who was out there. It wasn’t someone I recognized, but I figured it must be Coop. I wasn’t taking any chances, however.
“Step back and hold up your ID so I can see it,” I called out.
The man did. The face matched his—dark hair, a bit too long, light blue eyes, high cheekbones—and the name on the driver’s license was Cooper Steven Frost. I unlocked the door to let him in, keeping my gun at the ready, in case.
“Zane, I presume,” Coop said. “You look like the photo Reynolds showed me—more or less.”
“Meaning?”
“Your hair is different a
