You’re going to hurt yourself.”
Her trembling fingers reached toward the little notebook on the bedside table.
I handed it to her.
She wrote three words.
THEY KNOW YOU.
For nineteen years, I had lived as Daniel Walker, a quiet widower who owned a small import company in Port Mercer, Maryland.
I drove an aging Chevrolet, complained about grocery prices, and embarrassed my daughter by singing along to songs from the eighties.
Nobody looking at me would have imagined that I had once controlled a criminal network stretching from Baltimore to Boston.
Back then, I had been Adrian Vale.
They called me the Ghost.
