It had been three days since Kyle Wilson received the cryptic text. Three days since his agent whispered the name: Marquis "Red" Valentine. Three days of sleepless nights, twitchy shadows, and a sense that someone—somewhere—was watching him.
Boston no longer felt safe. Too familiar. Too exposed.
So here he was. New York City. Concrete jungle, steel skyline, and millions of strangers who couldn't care less who Kyle Wilson was.
That's exactly what he needed.
Arrival – Penn Station, 1:23 PM
Kyle stepped off the Acela Express wearing a hoodie, cap, and dark shades. Still, a few fans clocked him almost instantly.
"Yo, that's KYLE WILSON!"
He ignored the calls and dipped into a black SUV that was already waiting. The driver didn't speak—just nodded, locked the doors, and drove. It had all been arranged by Rich Foster. Discreet.
The car weaved through Midtown traffic before heading north. Kyle watched the buildings blur past, but his mind was on something else:
